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. The automatons had cast him
in the cell after leaving the Magus's chamber, and he had
only a low-burning candle for light. Tangled spiderwebs
hung from the ceiling. Listlessly, Tasslehoff tapped his
hand against the floor, and the ring clicked out a lonely
rhythm.
I SHOULD'VE LISTENED TO MOTHER AND GOTTEN
INTO THE SCRIBE BUSINESS, he mused, BUT MAPPING
AND TRAVELING WERE ALWAYS MORE INTERESTING
THAN KEEPING ACCOUNT LEDGERS. As a child, he had
filled his room with dozens of maps and had memorized the
names on each of them. This made it easy to invent unlikely
tales about his travels, which always amused and
entertained his friends.
Tasslehoff had often tried to make his own maps, but he
had no head for the exacting patience it took to draw one
accurately. Instead, he thought of himself as an explorer
who didn't have to make accurate maps, relying on those
who came after him to clear up such details as the direction
in which north lay. Being there first, not drawing it up
afterward, was what counted.
For years now, he'd walked the world and remembered
many sights, great and small. On a high gray mountain, he
had watched a golden chimera fight a bloody-tusked
manticore to the death. The Qualinesti, the elven people of
the high meadows, took him to witness the coronation of a
prince of their wooded realms, dressing Tasslehoff in silver and
silk of rare design. He'd spoken with wayfarers of a dozen nations
and all polite races, and a few races not so polite
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