Lampley bit his lip. "How does one get out of here?"
"Hush," cautioned the juggler. "I have a map. It was traced by the seventh son of a seventh son and lent me under the strictest pledge of secrecy, sealed in black goat's blood. Come along with me." He led the way to the back of the store, through a passage papered in bright orange, the sheets curling apart at the edges where the glue had dried. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through sideways.
The room was triangular, with a pile of brass cogwheels in the narrowest corner. A set of bookshelves sagged against one wall. Calf-bound folios leaned on spiral-backed notebooks. In disorder on top was a collection of papers. The juggler reached among them and took out a thick roll tied with withered pink tape. "Here," he whispered. "Read it and memorize it. Never say who showed it to you."
The Governor unrolled the map. It showed an unfamiliar, an unlikely, a visionary coast. Mermaids and dolphins frisked in the seas; the shoreline was blank, labelled Terra incognita inferioris.
"Guess that will fix you up, ay lad?" boomed the juggler. "It's not everybody I'd show it to."
"I'm sure of that," said Lampley. "Thank you."
"Just don't let on to anybody," cautioned the juggler. "Not even if they torture you for it."
"I won't," promised Lampley.
"Think of me," begged the juggler. "Pray for me."