‘Not those books, friend. Iskaral’s own. There are works here whose existence was but the faintest rumour. And some – like this one – that I have never heard of before. A Treatise on Irrigation Planning in the Fifth Millennium of Ararkal, by no fewer than four authors.’

Returning to the library table with a pewter plate piled high with bread and cheese, Mappo leant over his friend’s shoulder to examine the detailed drawings on the book’s vellum pages, then the strange, braided script. The Trell grunted. Mouth suddenly dry, he managed to mutter, ‘What is so astonishing about that?’

Icarium leaned back. ‘The sheer ... frivolity, Mappo. The materials alone for this tome are a craftsman’s annual wage. No scholar in their right mind would waste such resources – never mind their time – on such a pointless, trite subject. And this is not the only example. Look, Seed Dispersal Patterns of the Purille Flower on the Skar Archipelago, and here, Diseases of White’ Rimmed Clams of Lekoor Bay. And I am convinced that these works are thousands of years old. Thousands.’

And in a language I never knew you would recognize, much less understand. He recalled when he’d last seen such a script, beneath a hide canopy on a hill that marked his tribe’s northernmost border. He’d been among a handful of guards escorting the tribe’s elders to what would prove a fateful summons.

Autumn rains drumming overhead, they had squatted in a half-circle, facing north, and watched as seven robed and hooded figures approached. Each held a staff, and as they strode beneath the canopy and stood in silence before the elders, Mappo saw, with a shiver, how those staves seemed to writhe before his eyes, the wood like serpentine roots, or perhaps those parasitic trees that entwined the boles of others, choking the life from them. Then he realized that the twisted madness of the shafts was in fact runic etching, ever changing, as if unseen hands continually carved words anew with every breath’s span.

Then one among them withdrew its hood, and so began the moment that would change Mappo’s future path. His thoughts jerked away from the memory.

Trembling, the Trell sat down, clearing a space for his plate. ‘Is all this important, Icarium?’

‘Significant, Mappo. The civilization that brought forth these works must have been appallingly rich. The language is clearly related to modern Seven Cities dialects, although in some ways more sophisticated. And see this symbol, here in the spine of each such tome? A twisted staff. I have seen that symbol before, friend. I am certain of it.’