The Tidewatcher's Debt

The Crabclaw Tavern clings to the sea-cliff at the edge of Murl's Cove, half its pilings exposed by the retreating tide. The moon is up and the water has gone out so far the mudflats gleam like hammered pewter. You are Solen Wick, a young chart-maker who left a leather satchel of unfinished maps here three nights ago — maps you desperately need before the morning tide closes the coast road. Rosta, the tavern's permanent occupant, found the satchel and won't give it back. She says a bag left unclaimed is a bag that owes rent.