Fiddler crouched down and studied the floor. ‘If that’s a track or something, it’s a crooked one.’

‘A track?’ The fisherman looked up. ‘No, here, along this side. That’s the Kanese coastline.’

‘What?’

The man ran one blunt fingertip down the ragged line. ‘Starts on the Quon coast, down to Kan, then up to Cawn Vor – and there, that’s Kartool Island, and southeast, there, in the tile’s centre, that’s Malaz Island.’

‘You’re trying to tell me that here, on this one tile at our feet, is mapped most of the Quon Tali continent?’ Yet even as he asked, the pattern resolved itself, and before him was indeed what Apsalar’s father had claimed. ‘Then what,’ he asked softly, ‘is on the rest of them?’

‘Well, they ain’t consistent, if that’s what you’re wondering. There’s breaks – other maps of other places, I guess. It’s all jumbled, but I’d say the scale was the same on all of them.’

Fiddler slowly straightened. ‘But that means ...’ His voice trailed into silence, as he looked out upon this endless floor, stretching for leagues in every direction. Every god in the Abyss! Are these all the realms? Every world – every place home to a House of the Azath? Queen of Dreams, what power is this?

‘Within the warren of the Azath,’ Mappo said, his tone one of awe, ‘you could go ... anywhere.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ Crokus asked. ‘Here are the maps, yes, but –’ he pointed down at the tile displaying the continent of Quon Tali – ‘where’s the gate? The way in?’

No-one spoke for a long moment, then Fiddler cleared his throat. ‘You got an idea, lad?’

The Daru shrugged. ‘Maps are maps – this one could be sitting on a tabletop, if you see my point.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Ignore it. The only thing these tiles signify is that every House, in every place, is part of a pattern, a grand design. But even knowing that doesn’t mean we can actually make sense of it. The Azath is beyond even the gods. We can end up getting lost in suppositions, in a mental game that takes us nowhere.’

‘That’s true enough,’ the sapper grunted. ‘And we’re nowhere closer to figuring out which direction to walk in.’

‘Perhaps Iskaral Pust has the right idea,’ Apsalar said. Her boots grated on the tiles as she turned. ‘Alas, he seems to have disappeared.’

Crokus spun around. ‘Damn that bastard!’

The High Priest of Shadow, who had been ceaselessly circling them, was indeed nowhere to be seen. Fiddler grimaced. ‘So he figured it out and didn’t bother explaining before taking his leave—’

‘Wait!’ Mappo said. He set Icarium down, then took a dozen paces. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Hard to make out at first but now I see it clearly.’

The Trell seemed to be staring at something at his feet. ‘What have you found?’ Fiddler asked.