Havenstar by Glenda Larke Page B

expanse of
Unstable.
    No one
searched for them anymore, no one went that far south anymore—and
yet here was a map evidently showing an area south of the Eighth
Stability. It did not make sense.
    She put the
maps away with a sigh.
    In the days
that followed she spent a lot of time thinking about the riddle,
but could come up with no answers, nor did she know who to ask. She
did speak about trompleri maps to several of the ley-lit Unstablers
who came into the shop; they all dismissed them as something that
may have existed once, but which were no longer to be found.
    It was not
enough for her. The map she had was not old, at least not so old
that it was in danger of disintegration. Therefore, she reasoned,
someone had indeed rediscovered the secret of making such a map.
Someone called Kereven Deverli. And possibly someone else was so
desperate to obtain it they were willing to kill for it. Because
of what it portrays, or just because it’s a trompleri
chart?
    As the days
passed, the trompleri became an obsession. Its ever-changing beauty
enticed her, intrigued her, fascinated her. She tried to discover
the secret of its creation simply by looking at it, by examining
it, but could reach no conclusions. Her fingers told her that it
was just an ordinary map, her eyes told her it was no such thing.
Touch told her it was flat, sight told her it was contoured and
time told her it changed. The inks and paints used to fashion it
seemed similar to those she made herself from vegetable dyes, gums,
resins, oils, lamp black, earth pigments and mineral salts. What,
then, made it magic? She did not know and could not guess.
    Deep inside,
she knew that above all else she wanted to learn how to fashion
such a map herself. It was the ultimate challenge to a mapmaker,
and equally deep inside her she knew she was indeed a mapmaker, not
a woman destined to be just somebody’s wife. Nor yet a woman
destined to be a holy Knighte. I am a mapmaker.
    She grew more
and more restless and unhappy, knowing herself to be balanced on
the edge of a precipice in her life, yet not knowing what would
happen when she plunged over the edge. The trompleri map with its
continually altering face symbolized the flux of her own existence.
The mystery mirrored the mystery of her father’s death.
    Her pragmatism
told her there was no possibility she could ever be a master
mapmaker. True, she could use a theodolite, take readings and draft
accurate maps. True, she could ride a horse and defend herself with
a bow and arrow. True, she had accompanied her father on surveying
trips within the First Stability and had learnt much of his skills
on such trips. But she had never been into the Unstable and would
not have known how to survive there. However often she heard its
oddities and its dangers discussed, she was unfamiliar with them in
practice. She was doubtful if a woman alone could survive long at
the best of times. When the Wild and the Minions of Chaos were
abroad, surely brute strength could mean the difference between
life and death?
    And finally no
one would buy the maps of a woman, because no one would have faith
in them. Women were midwives and bakers, herbalists and tailors,
barbers and weavers, dairymaids and button-makers, but they were
never blacksmiths or chantists or tavern keepers or carpenters—or
mapmakers. The Rule decided such things, and the Rule must be kept.
A woman who tried a profession denied to her by the Rule would have
been scorned and reviled, her business ignored, and that would be
enough. There would have been no need of other punishment; society
had already devised a perfect one.
    Order must be
kept, and a woman who disobeyed the Rule threatened Order and would
find no sympathy.
    The most she
could hope for was to do what she had done for her father and was
now doing for Thirl: work at the creation of a map and step back to
see a man take the praise. Perhaps she could find someone who would
accept her talent and take her on as a