The Cartographer of Forgotten Roads

Corvin Aldous believed in only one kind of truth: the kind you could measure, draw, and fold into a leather case. He was a cartographer, the finest in three provinces, and he had built his quiet reputation on a single principle — that the world was exactly as large and exactly as connected as careful instruments said it was, and not one inch more. So when the letter came, with its heavy seal and its absurd commission, he very nearly threw it in the fire.

*Come to Ashfen*, it read, *and make us a true map. We will pay you in gold for every road, and double for every road that is not yet there.*

It was the last line that brought him, in the end. Not the gold — though the gold was extravagant — but the offense of it. *Roads that are not yet there.* A road either existed or it did not. A mapmaker who drew roads that were not there was not a mapmaker; he was a liar with good handwriting. Corvin came to Ashfen mostly to prove the place wrong.