The Quartermaster's Weight

The supply hold of the Frostbite is quiet at this hour — ice-rimed timbers, the low creak of the hull, breath misting in the lantern-glow. You are Sable, the ship's quartermaster, and sometime last night someone lifted the captain's personal seal — a carved walrus-ivory disc stamped with the ship's mark — from the locked strongbox. The captain needs it by the time the noon bell rings to stamp the Articles for the new crew. The hold offers no obvious answers, only the careful stillness of cold air and old wood.