Long before our oldest maps were drawn, a tower watched over a nameless harbor— No road reached it— No record named the people who built it. The stones were already old when the oldest citizens were young— At the top of the tower lived a Keeper— That was not a name. It was the work— Each night, the Keeper climbed one hundred and twelve steps to a room without a door— The room held a brass wheel, a bowl of dark water and a narrow opening toward the sea. It also held a

The chart was beautiful. That was the problem. Every coastline had been drawn. Every harbor named. Depths marked. Currents noted. Prevailing winds recorded. Dangerous shoals circled in red. The surveyor's seal sat proudly in the lower corner beside the date of completion. The Captain spread it across the table as though he had just purchased certainty. "Best chart money can buy."