A meal, interrupted

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions have discovered that the shattered ship—found upside-down and in the middle of a forest—was once captained by Harfirgorn the Merciless, a pirate of some repute that had vanished long ago. Following clues in a log book they find in the pirate’s quarters, they hope to discover his final resting place. On the way, they meet up with a lady of the wood, whose husband has succumbed to the vile magic of the pirate's witch. Together, they search for the source of her vile magic. They approach a small village in hopes of news, information or, at least, a hot meal.


"You seem unsettled," I said to Tane, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else in Korin, even if it meant having his ears chewed off by rats.


"It is...nothing," he responded with a quick half bow. "I will be strong."


"Strong? The only strong thing you'll need down below is your appetite," I said. "I, for one, am looking forward to a meal we don't have to catch."


"We can hope."


I glanced at Merrick, who looked as anxious as Tane. I caught up to him at the base of the hill as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. Slightly winded, he leaned on his staff.


"Is there something you should be telling me?"


He gave me a tight, false smile and shook his head. "No need to fear," he said, his words clipped.


There were three structures huddled around the base of the hill. The Inn or blacksmith shop to our left, a rather large home to our right--both square buildings with stout roofs made of straight logs covered with entwined branches. A small flat road of sorts separated them; it curled around a large barn and disappeared into the forest. The sound of an axe biting into wood came from beyond the barn.


"A strange place for a public house of any sort," I muttered, wondering if that was the cause for my companions' nervousness. The only one who seemed oblivious to the tension in the air was Seymuhr, who stood idly by, sniffing his armpit.


"Perhaps there is a larger settlement beyond that bend," Merrick said.


I was not overly familiar with the area and did not know for certain. I shrugged and headed for the door of the larger building. My stomach led me. I was so hungry I didn't know if I had enough coin to fill my belly.


Inside, we found a large open room filled with rectangular tables bordered by sturdy benches. There must have been a large number of people nearby, for the room could comfortably sit several dozen. A staircase to our left led to an upper level. Near that sat an empty counter  with several stools in front of it. A door was on the other side and I could hear someone working behind it, whistling as he did so. There was another door to our right and it looked like a type of good store beyond. This structure was apparently the center of commerce.


"Pick a seat," Seymuhr growled, "and I'll pick mine."


I ignored the implication, but reminded myself not to shake his hand. I chose a table near the far wall and Merrick followed, clapping his hands once. He called out and I heard a muffled response from beyond the counter.


Seymuhr slapped the table as he sat down. It wobbled and dust filtered down from the ceiling under the force of his blow.


"I'm coming!" A short bald man emerged, scowling. "Early AND impatient today, eh...?" He stopped short when he saw our odd company. He had evidently been expecting a crew of regulars, fresh in from the fields or wherever else they toiled. "My apologies, good sirs," he muttered as he hurried toward us. "I meant no offense. Travelers are rare this time of year."


"No offense given," Merrick bellowed, a broad grin on his face. A sheen of sweat on his forehead was the only thing to betray any nervousness he felt. I glanced around, still wondering at the source of his and Tane's anxiety. "My companion here is indeed impatient--and with an empty belly besides. It is he who should be offering apologies."


Seymuhr did not take the hint.


"Alas, he's a bit simple," I put in. "I offer mine in his place. We are indeed quite hungry and the thought of a well-cooked meal has dulled our sense of decorum. What do you have to offer?"


The barkeep's brow wrinkled, as if he puzzled over my words. "We've some piping hot spider stew that will chase that hunger, right enough," he said. "'Tis a creamy mixture with hunks of potatoes and plenty of meat. No need to skimp on that, hereabouts!"


"Indeed not," I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "I was hoping for something a little..."


"Bigger? Oh, a man-sized appetite is it then?" He chuckled and winked at Merrick. "I should've guessed that, so I should. It would be no trouble at all to stoke up the fire and cook up a couple of flank steaks, then. Perhaps with some turnips and mushrooms?"


I nodded. "That sounds wonderful. I am a bit surprised; I didn't see or hear any cattle on the way here."


The barkeep made a funny noise through his loose lips. "Cattle? Why in Allon's Mallet would you think we'd have cattle? There's no point--the spiders would just eat them all. No, no no. I caught some huge, fresh beasties--plucked them first, of course--and sliced only the best part of the carapace. Very juicy."


"Oh. Spider flanks. I see."


"I thought you'd be impressed. Would you like one or two?"


"My good man," I said instead, "would you have anything for a more, er, discerning tongue?"


He stiffened a bit and color rose to his cheeks. "Of course. My manners and my brains must having a tryst in the shade. You are obviously city-folk, and accustomed to more than simple fare. This will cost you a bit more coin and take a little longer--I've not yet started to prepare it yet--but I can offer you a fine plate of Sarf d'broule."


"We are fortunate to have such a creative and thoughtful host. I'm not familiar with the dish, however. How is it prepared?"


He leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. He even looked to either side, as if unsure if he should offer the details to us. "I start with fine, aged spider legs, smoked for a full fortnight over..."


"Actually, I'm not that hungry after all." I sat back, crestfallen, and let Merrick order four bowls of spider stew.


The tavern keeper turned, but Seymuhr put a hand on his arm. "Bring the rest of that slop, too," he said.


"Mira," Merrick said sympathetically. "It's better than eating them raw, or burned over a fire."


"Meh."


"One man's delica...cy is another...man's vomit," Tane whispered, his expression still grave.


"That's not helping," I said and was about to say more when the door opened and Merrick cursed under his breath.


Three men stood in the shadows of the door frame. They looked surprised to see four strangers sitting in their tavern. Then the first man gave the other two a sly smile, pointed directly at Tane and said:


"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"


They closed the door behind them and headed our way.








 

The silent tribute

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions have discovered that the shattered ship—found upside-down and in the middle of a forest—was once captained by Harfirgorn the Merciless, a pirate of some repute that had vanished long ago. Following clues in a log book they find in the pirate’s quarters, they hope to discover clues to his final resting place. On the way, they meet up with a lady of the wood whose husband has succumbed to the vile magic of the pirate's witch.


Baram watched the fire smolder in silence. She may have wished for immediate revenge, but none came to investigate the source of the black smoke that curled up into the bright blue sky. None that we saw, at any rate. The forest was never quiet; creatures stalked at the edge of our clearing making small but innocent sounds. Now and again a bird soared overhear, some of them quite large and black, but whether they were spies of the Mountain Witch or not, we had no way to determine.


None of my companions wanted to disturb the Daughter of the Wolf as she watched her husband burn. I took note of the single trail of tears that flowed unabated and undisturbed. I was reminded of a day, long ago, when I saw similar smoke, smelled the same stench of scorched flesh and mourned one who had meant the world to me. I was just a young girl, then, clinging terrified to my wailing father's shirt. My mother had been all I had known. I saw no way forward without her kindness to ease the sting of my father's hand or harsh words. I understood Baram's grief--I suppose, in a way, we all did--but did not think that gave me the right to intrude on it.


Instead I flipped through the pages of Harfigorn's log, seeking clues to our destination or, at the very least, our foes. the idea that the pirate himself was the lesser evil was still growing in my mind. I thought it possible now, that he was merely a puppet for a stronger, blacker power. Perhaps even the witch Athelane did not know what she trifled with.


I found troubling accounts of battles against gigantic creatures, ambushes on hapless merchant vessels and the blood-soaked rituals that followed. It was a circle of horror; the fluids and pieces of those doomed traders called the dark things that lay wait below the surface of the Big Seas to the surface. Some fought and died, others were allowed to return to their gloomy domain. I could see no pattern in it.


Merrick appeared beside me, tugging his sparse beard. "Anything?"


I shook my head. "The tales are wild, but not too informative. They detail the witch's power and depravity, but not her purpose."


A grunt. "I suspected. Those who crave this dark knowledge rarely let us know why. For us, it is enough to know they exist and must be stopped."


"Do you think we'll be able to? If she has found a way to harness Ewl's power, or gain his favor, all the weapons we have might not be enough." I stared at Seymuhr as I spoke. He sat warming his feet by the pyre and munching on a dried spider leg as long as his arm.


"My--our--companions are stout fighters, and I've a few tricks up my sleeve," he said. "But there is no way to guarantee success in any battle. We can only prepare ourselves, bolster our own spirits, and do our best."


I nodded. Sound philosophy, of course. I had always followed it--and that was how I found myself bereft of coin and home and at the mercy Merrick and his agents of the Ministry of Human Preservation.


"That, and hope my luck changes," I said.


Baram bowed her head. I heard a few murmured words and then a deep sigh. She stood, brushing the grass from her backside and the tear trail from her cheeks.


"Enough," she said. "Let's be on our way. My sword is still dry and my soul hungers for vengeance."

Ranfryd's last Sojourn

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions have discovered that the shattered ship—found upside-down and in the middle of a forest—was once captained by Harfirgorn the Merciless, a pirate of some repute that vanished long ago. On a quest to find his final resting place and the treasure that he is most likely buried with, they are accosted by a shambling, undead thing and draw the attention of a mysterious woman...
 

I felt a pang of sympathy for her. It was bad enough to see such an unnatural thing done to a man; how much worse would it be to know the poor wretch, to have loved him, to have seen him in better days?
 
"I'm sorry."
 
She dismissed the gesture. "It is none of your concern. Thank you for releasing him."
 
"An..yt...ime," Broo Fang said. "Had I known...that...you were.........near....I would not...have...kicked him...so hard."

Baram grunted. Seymuhr slapped his forehead. I gave the Daughter of the Wolf a tight apologetic smile. I had already apologized for the manners of my companions and didn't see the need to do it again.

"What I think my companion meant to say is that he would have been more gentle with his release," I said. "How did he come to this sorry state, if you'll pardon the question?"

She glared at me, but Seymuhr stepped in, standing in front of me in what could have been a protective gesture. That was odd. I thought it was unnecessary and wished he could have stood downwind.

"We are searching for this mountain witch, as you call her," Merrick said. "We know her name, which is Athelane, and seek to destroy her if, in fact, she still lives."

"She exists. What you see is proof. There is more further north, closer to the mountains. It is there that my husband went, seeking the source of an evil that is permeating our land. He left in the night, while I was asleep, under the misguided impression that he was protecting me from danger."

I glanced at Seymuhr, who still stood in front of me. I stepped aside and waved some fresh air toward my nostrils. "How did he know where to go? Can you take us?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He might have just ventured north, with no clear direction in mind. Her evil—you will see it soon enough, if you continue your course—should not be too difficult to follow."

"You...followed your hus...band this far. Could....you..."

"Yes, I can," Baram said. "If you truly seek to confront this evil, then I will accompany you. I would have done so long ago, and I urged my husband to be patient, as well. For the mountain witch has found great power in her hidden domain and ending her reign will be difficult."

"More than your husband could handle," Seymuhr said. I winced, and wondered at the lack of compassion in the man. I started to protest, but Baram stopped me.

"Indeed, more than he could handle, as you said." She looked down at his shriveled body and paused. For a moment, her eyes gleamed, but then she blinked the wetness away. "He was a stout man, strong of heart and limb, with the fierce blood of a warrior in him. It was not enough."

"We are four, where he was one," Seymurh said. He cocked his head from side to side, stretching the muscles there and his fingers crackled as he tightened them into fists. "And I've not met a foe that I could not send to Ewl's dark domain."

"We are five, not four," I snapped. "Even you've enough fingers to count that high..."

"Save your strength," Merrick broke in. "And you as well, Seymuhr. For if this Athelane still lives after all this time, it may be that she has already visited—or been sent—to the dark god's realm and found the power to escape death's embrace."

From an ancient book, I took a clue

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions have discovered that the shattered ship--found upside-down and in the middle of a forest—was once captained by Harfirgorn the Merciless, a pirate of some repute that had vanished long ago. Following clues in a log book they find in the pirate’s quarters, they hope to discover clues to his final resting place—and the treasure that he is most likely buried with...




Later, I looked down at Seymuhr's inert body. A swollen, purple knot showed where he had knocked himself cold in a vain attempt to kill a  persistent insect. Even so, he wore a peaceful smile and I wondered if he dreamt and what those visions were. A land without insects, probably.


I sat on a fallen tree and ignored the rumbling in my stomach. Nearby, Broo Fang practiced what looked like a form of structured dance, moving his legs and arms in slow, graceful arcs that simulated punches, kicks and blocks. Occasionally, those steady, fluid movements would end in a sudden, violent snap and sharp exhalation of breath that would have made me chuckle if not for the power evident behind them. How could anything sound so silly and look so dangerous at the same time? That thought summed up our little band, I suddenly realized.


I pulled out the log book and propped it open.


"Do you think we'll find more clues to our destination?" Merrick stopped in front of me and rested a boot on the fallen trunk. He chewed absently on a dried spider leg.


"It's doubtful," I admitted. "This tome was left behind. There is no reason to believe that its author knew where Harfigorn and Adelane were heading." I was more interested in the history contained in the pages than anything else. As a historian myself, I wanted to compare the accounts within the book to the tales I had heard of the time. Besides, if some of them could be taken out, verified and sold into the Queen's Record, I would gain some coin as well as notoriety. Take that, Connell Malak.


"True," Merrick agreed. "The pirate or witch who made their plans known would be a strange one, indeed."


"And not as successful as Harigorn, most like. Still, I find the account of their voyage fascinating."


"Oh? You found something?" He leaned in and I could smell his musk mingling with the leather of his breastplate, a not entirely unpleasant scent.


"Look here," I said, turning the book around. "If I read this right, Harfigorn..."


But a peculiar feeling took hold of me and froze the words on my tongue. It felt as if the land was suddenly dipped in shadow, although the sun remained bright overhead. The wind stilled, the forest grew silent. Merrick gasped. Broo Fang stood as rigid as a statue, then a sneer formed on his lips.


"You seek me?" He said in a voice that was not his own. "Fools...."

The journey, continued

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions have discovered that the shattered ship--found upside-down and in the middle of a forest—was once captained by Harfirgorn the Merciless, a pirate of some repute that had long ago vanished. They find an old log book in the captain's quarters and decide to take it into the light, where they hope to discover more clues to his final resting place—and the treasure that he is most likely buried with...


Later, much later, we paused to rest and take stock of our situation. Seymuhr pulled a pair of dried spider legs out of his pouch and offered me  one. I declined as politely as I could, struggling to keep the contents of my stomach where they were. He shrugged and bit noisily into one of the scorched appendages, making that internal struggle that much more difficult.


Merrick stopped beside me, resting both hands on his thick staff. "What are you thinking?"


I was caught momentarily unaware. It was strange for me to be asked such a blunt question. I was a Falcuhn, a historian, known for recording thoughts and actions, places and things. It was mildly flattering to be asked what I thought of them. I glanced again at my companions, Broo-Fang Tane, the Optimist Monk; Seymuhr: short, squat and smelly, but a warrior of fearsome ability and Merrick, whose service to the crown was secondary to his service to the human race.


"I wonder if we're heading in the right direction," I said honestly. The wrecked ship was far behind us. Ahead, I saw only trees and, beyond them, the white-capped peaks of the Mountains of Vemt.


He nodded. "As do I. It only stands to reason, however, that our quarry headed toward a more remote location. In any other direction, they may have encountered towns, villages or the like--and the people that inhabit them would likely have taken notice of such a strange group so laden with treasure."


"Hmm." Most of what he said was true. But if people were to notice odd groups, we might as well have been carrying a wooden target on our backs.


"I don't know what you're so worried about," Seymuhr said. He wiped the last traces of spider juice off his grizzled chin and flung it to the ground, where it slapped against a clump of grass. "It matters not where we walk. 'Tis a good day for it, anyway. Most likely we will find nothing but a moldy corpse in a deep cave--if that."


"And if we find more?"


He gave me a hungry smile and tapped the maces that hung on either side of his hip. "Fear not."


I nodded. I had seen him wield those weapons before, and was comforted--of a bit sickened--by his ability.


"Let's hope they will be as useful against this enemy as they were against the Hunan," I muttered. With that, I signaled toward the mountains and we started off once more.

The wet god's bastard

Previously: Esmiralda and her companions (the brutish Seymuhr, the quiet and slow speaking Broo Fang Tane and the intellectual Merrick) have stumbled upon a decaying shipwreck in the heart of a forest far from any major source of water. After investigating the shattered hull, they believe they have discovered the identity of its captain: Harfigorn the Merciless, a pirate who terrorized the seas in a near-forgotten age….

 

“The name means something to you?” Merrick asked.

“Aye, it does.” I was surprised it did not strike any chords with him. Harfigorn was no simple fisherman or petty plunderer. He was a savage who, at the height of his reign over the low seas, commanded a bounty that would have bought a kingdom. “You are unfamiliar with his tale?”

Merrick’s silence answered that question for me. Seymuhr was still poking around in the debris so I spoke loud enough for both to hear. My heart was tingling with excitement. Harfigorn’s misfortune might well lead to my own good fortune: Queen Phedera would pay any falcuhn his or her weight in gold to learn the final chapter in that vicious bastard’s tale. There was the possibility of other treasure involved, too, for the pirate had been a successful and wealthy one.

“It is not surprising,” I said to ease his discomfort. “He lived at a time before even your own grandfather was born and his exploits—though vast and legendary—were hardly the type that would come to the attention of your…agency.” Merrick was a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation, charged with stamping out threats and evils brought about by the otherworldly forces that continually sought to reclaim control of the world.

“His real name was Harvey and little is known of his origins. Some said he was a northman who tired of the plow and soil and sought adventure and riches. Others said he hailed from a land beyond even the Middle Seas. A few thought he was a demon, loosed—or birthed—by the Wet God Sluth to wreak vengeance on the little men who dared tickle his waters.

“He and his crew terrorized the Low Seas for decades, killing all who crossed their path and stealing everything they could. Navies sought him and kings and duke alike hired mercenary after mercenary to track him down and bring them his head. None were successful; I always thought those who were recruited to find him found more in common with Harfigorn than their benefactors and merely stayed on with his ship. There was also rumors, of course, that he was protected by black magic. There might have been truth to that. Accounts from those who encountered him are few, but those that exist agree that he held among his companions a witch of sorts, a vile thing named Athelane whose beauty and knowledge of the dark arts were enough to make even the most powerful of the Maedrum tremble.”

“Harvey?” Seymuhr interrupted. He was sucking on the old coins he had discovered, apparently trying to determine what they were made of.

“Indeed.”

“Is there no guess as to what became of him?” Merrick wanted to know.

“Not until now,” I said. “It was always thought that he had grown tired of the waves and simply gone off somewhere to enjoy his wealth—or he returned to the lands on the far side of the Middle Sea. It was not uncommon then, nor is it now, for a pirate to simply turn over his vessel, or sink it on his own.”

Merrick looked at the gathered parchment in my hands and nodded, a hand stroking his beard. “Athelane,” he mused. “A witch? Not a member of the Maedrum?”

I shrugged. “A ship witch, at the least.”

“Do you think this log was written by this Harfigorn, himself?”

I shook my head. “It is possible, I guess, but unlikely. I would think he employed a mate, or a bard of some type to record his thoughts. Perhaps even this Athelane performed that task. She must have been educated.”

“This deserves more study,” Merrick said. “Come, let us leave this dank chamber and look through this document in the full light of day. I would feel the sun on my shoulders if I have to read about these dark deeds. But, if this contains even a hint of his final destination…”

I nodded in agreement. “…we should take up the trail and follow it to its end, or as near to it as we can.”

Next: In the footsteps of the marauder

An errant course

Previously: Esmiralda, a freelance historian, has recently been recruited to the Ministry of Human Preservation. She and her new companions have stumbled upon a new mystery...

A ship decaying in the middle of the forest with no bodies nearby and no recognizable insignia to point toward its port of origin. I considered this.

"If they had met some misfortune, there would still be signs nearby," I said. "Bones, weapons, something of the like. I think we can assume that whoever helmed this craft survived this bizarre landing and wandered off—or perhaps they had some destination in mind and fell short."

"They could have been abducted by the giants," Merrick guessed, referencing our recent encounter.

"I don't think so. This ship has been here for some years. We can assume that that evil plot did not have that much history."

"Course," Seymuhr grunted. "Because you would have known of it."

I glared at him, but nodded. I feared he would pounce on every occasion to attack my knowledge of the land and its history—knowledge forged by walking throughout the countries for decades and reading about their histories for just as long.

"Is there a task that you might find more productive than goading me into a shouting match?" I asked him. "If so, you don't need my permission to start it."

He chuckled, probing the space between his teeth with his tongue. "I'm going to find something to eat."

"Perfect."

Merrick had approached me. He hiked his trousers up around his thick middle and watched Seymuhr's broad form disappear into the forest. "Don't worry. He can take care of himself."

"Oh. I'm not worried."

"If this craft indeed belongs to the Free Sailors, might you know any tales of ships they lost?"

Free Sailors. An interesting word choice. It meant Merrick was mostly like from Gole, a southern land that had coined the phrase because their duke, Surval Gruddun, had flat out denied that there was a problem with pirates raiding the shores of his land. He was an idiot, of course, like many rulers, and preferred to keep his treasuries filled with trinkets rather than empty it on a navy.

"The word is 'pirates'," I reminded him, "and yes we agree on that. There are many tales of pirates lost at sea—tis the nature of the life they choose—but few of them are recorded. Pirates aren't known for their written histories. Those that I have seen are difficult to read."

"Why is...that?" Broo Fang Tane had been listening to the conversation.

"Too many 'Arrrrs'," I answered, smiling at my own joke.

Merrick didn't even smile. "Perhaps. It would be unlikely to find one that referenced this vessel in particular, anyway. It is doubtful that any of its crew—or prisoners, I would add—would return to a Temple of Knowledge to record the voyage. Still, would the captain not keep a log for his own reference? Or, perhaps some other document, like a..."

"...a map," I finished with him. It was entirely possible. We all, in some form or another, wanted to be remembered. Pirate captains were as prideful as they were merciless and historians—or bards, or whatever label you put on someone who liked to tell stories—were always in need of coin. A map would not only provide detail to some of the voyages, but could also lead the way to a lair, where the spoils of their victories could be hidden. I was suddenly certain of it. "Indeed, it is likely. Let's take a closer look."
 

Mind the little things

I turned quickly, but Malak saw me and recognized me at once. A broad grin on his face, he headed in my direction.

"Why, Esmirrrrrrrrrelda," he called, loud enough to quiet some conversations and direct attention toward me. He had an annoying habit of drawing out rolling the 'r' in my name, making him sound like someone with a bad stutter calling for help while rolling down the side of a mountain. "Whatever are you doing in a place like this?"

"Correcting your mistakes, as usual," I replied.

Malak was all that most women would look for in a man. Tall and not overly slim, he was capped by a tousled shock of blond hair that occasionally obscured his bright blue eyes. His clothes fit so well they appeared tailored to him and they were always clean. Always. His jaw was well-defined, his teeth all present and relatively straight and his face was unblemished by scar or pox. A gold chain clung tightly to his neck and blue gems sparkled at his ears. A silver ring shaped like a serpent coiled around the middle finger of his right hand. His only other accessories were the black pouch slung over his shoulder, rectangular in shape and sturdy of material that held his assorted writing quills, inks and most likely an expensive spyglass and perhaps a compass or other tools. He wore a long knife on his left hip tucked into a scabbard of rich leather that looked fresh from its maker's hand.

"You wit is as quick as a snake, as always," he responded.

"Only to some." Another form filled the doorway, but the boy I had noticed earlier was still disappointed. I frowned, then turned back to Malak. "I should thank you. If it weren't for your traipsing about and misinterpreting basic history or your staggering inability to remember basic geography, I'd find little enough work."

"You can buy me an ale, then," he said with a broad smile.

I protested, but he already had his hand in the air. My night was going sour in a hurry.

Later, he waved off my complaint.

"What do you mean, who cares?" I felt warm and my head was buzzing slightly. The noise of the crowd had increased, too. Laughter drowned out even the sound of the minstrel—a blessing, because the man wasn't all that good to begin with. All seemed content to regale each other with stories of their day and spend whatever coin they had to forget their toils at the same time. All save the boy who stared intently at the door, his growing nervousness evident, and another man who I hadn't noticed before. He sat alone in the far corner, his back to the room. He was short, bald and thick and drank with a serious purpose. When had he come in? I hadn't noticed. But he was either a stranger to this town or not liked by anyone, for no one paid him any heed.

"I mean just what I said," Malak said. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look intended, I think, to disarm me. "A river here, hills there. It is all close enough."

"It's a map."

"It's still a map."

"People use maps to find their way."

"And they will! Think of the surprised they wouldn't otherwise find."

"It's irresponsible," I said. ""Doubly so if you don't even attempt to get things correct. This is why we're here; this is why we took the commission to begin with. Didn't you take the oath? Does it mean nothing to you?"

My questioning must have started to annoy him—either that or he sensed he would get no more drinks from my purse—because he sighed and looked around, trying to catch the attention of an unoccupied lass, or at least a willing one.

"It means something to me," I muttered. I thought of a scorched clearing that had once been a small village, the only remnants a child's toy I had pulled from the rubble. "These are important things."

He scoffed. "Important? That I got a few trees out of place on a map in the archives of a temple in a town nobody will even bother visit? How is that important?"

"Your name is on it, Malak. OUR order. If people cannot trust us on the little things, they won't trust us with the bigger things, their stories, their customs. If we can't be bothered to do the little things right, we might as well not do any of it right. It won't be true."

"Every story is true, depending on who writes it," he said.

I was about to say something else, but the door opened again and this time, the conversation did stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy stand slowly, his knees wobbling, as a man staggered into the tavern. He was a mess. His clothing was torn in several places and each rent in the fabric or split in the leather showed an angry red welt of blooming purple bruise. Blood was caked around his mouth and matted in his hair. He lurched forward, clutching the boy in a one-armed embrace—the other did not look like it worked properly.

"Papa?"

"I'm sorry lad, I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Several people broke away from their tables and approached the man concern and fear in their eyes. "Where are the others?" One of them asked. "What happened?"

"We were lost; misdirected," he managed. A mug was offered to him and he smiled, took his arm from the boy's shoulders and lifted it with a grimace. "Nothing was where it was supposed to be and then we were ambushed. The others...they are all dead, or soon will be."

The boy started to sob, then, and one of the tavern wenches pulled him close and patted his back. Connell Malak looked decidedly uncomfortable. I think he would have sprinted to the exit then, if the door was not blocked by the large crowd. I reached for my mug and eased myself closer to the group, so that I could overhear some more details.

My respite, as brief as it had been, was over. I smelled a story.

Intro, or a canoe and a swift pair of boots

The colossus outside of the Port of Feeno towers above the bay like a green mountain. Its prominent jaw juts out over the crashing waves in a permanent snarl, revealing jagged teeth that are chipped with age, with edges worn smooth by the eternal winds. Stubborn slime clings to its cheeks, which are taller than the largest spire in the great castle in Veral Ski. Hundreds of feet above the sloshing waves and sneering stone grimace, the brow of the Bay Guardian is furrowed in constant displeasure at those who sought to plunder the rich trading town, the anger and power of the stone still evident despite hundreds of years of exposure to the slashing winds and thunderous sea. Its eyes were pits of despair where fires taller than any two men once burned. Its fearsome countenance was modeled after Bloorn, the irritable god of the undersea, and designed to strike fear among the pirates and villains who patrolled the coast of Knorr as well as respect among the sailors who made their living on the tempestuous waters. It was frightening and majestic.

The clerk in the Temple of Yaner in the town of Alt, far removed from both the coast and its age-old guardians--the man who reminded me of that grand sculpture--was not. He was merely hideous. He probed his few remaining teeth with his tongue as he hunched over the parchments in front of him. Hair curled from his misshapen ears like burnt grass, and one thick strand stuck out from a rumpled mole on his temple like a flagpole.

"Is that all you have, then," he asked. "A map?"

It was amazing he could see anything through eyes so rheumy I could not distinguish their original color. I hoped, then, that he could only see my smile, and not detect the irritation behind it.

"It's a very detailed map," I told him, "better than anything you have in your archives."

"Hmmm." The tongue went back to probing his teeth. I was reminded of a mole searching for grubs under loose soil. He spun the paper around and bent closer to it. I was afraid the bubble of snot hanging precariously from his nose would fall, smear all of my delicate ink work and rob me of the few coins this effort would bring me.

"See, here? Your map shows the village near the Green River, while the river itself is a league away. 'Tis only a tributary that passes that close," I pointed out. "And the hills? They are much closer. Why, someone could follow your map to the river and find themselves surrounded by hill giants, instead. Imagine that. Pack a canoe and need a sword, instead--or a pair of swift boots."

I craned my neck to catch the signature, wondering if the Falcuhn who created the document had even been to that area—and how he or she had earned the quill in the first place. Ah. Connell Malak. No wonder. He was to facts what dwarves were to ocean fishing. Yet Malak managed to connect with the right heroes, tell the right legends and earn much more coin. Even now, he was probably resting on some well-padded divan, drunk on fine wine, while I was left chasing ghosts and quibbling over the position of trees and creek beds. And correcting his mistakes.

"You do show much attention to detail," he allowed. "And your strokes are sure; your lines clean. Have you ever considered scribery?"

I blinked and took a half step away from the counter before I recovered and give him a sweet smile. "You are kind to offer, but I fear my backside was not meant for a desk." A scribe? A...a copier? There was no appeal in that. Not for me.

He peered over the counter and grunted in agreement. I felt offense, but could not show it. I had to show nothing but patience while he poured over my map; my immediate future was in this abhorrent man's hands. My stomach rumbled, my legs were tired. My head itched and the gray hair that resisted most attempts to contain it probably looked like a wind-tossed nest. I wanted a bath, some food and a room and I had coin enough for none of it.

Finally, he favored me with something like a smile and pulled a heavy box from behind the counter. "The good queen's efforts to document the land are noteworthy, and the crown is usually quick to reimburse. I am happy to offer you some payment for your work, paltry though it may be."

I had hoped for the musical jingle of silver or the solid weight of gold and felt dismay when the pouch he pulled out rattled with the dull clamor of copper. The bath, needed as it was, might have to wait.