I'm writing this entry on the train to Calais. Had to say goodby to Miss Diviou—pity that, she is a bright woman and I enjoyed her company. But of course she has to warn her country just as I have to warn mine.

I don't know what London I will return to. Biffy indubitably sees me as a threat and will work against me. I believe San Sibilia's powers will work only on a delay to affect London, as they have to print the maps and get them into Londoners' hands, but that is just a belief.

The most important thing is this: I have my map of San Sibilia.

Miss Diviou was right, a conventional map of the city is impossible. No two people see the same San Sibila.

Which means that this journal, this chronicle, this is my map of San Sibilia.

I can hardly believe I'm writing all of this.

I arranged to meet Biffy in a back corner of a cafe I know, far from listening ears. Didn't tell him why, but I said it was important.

He arrived, we got our coffees, and I told him the whole story. (Leaving out Miss Diviou, thank goodness.)

He listened attentively, not interrupting, and when I was finished, said, “So, Wacky, you know what's going on. Now would you mind terribly forgetting all about it? You would be doing an old friend an awfully big favour.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Forget it?” I said. “Why on earth?”

“You see, old friend,” he said, “I'm sort of the reason all of this is happening. I first came here years ago, and I also figured out what they're doing with the maps. I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Wacky. I've studied a good deal of history.”

I started to protest, but he went on. “I wasn't so foolish as to attempt to map the city, so the authorities weren't as antagonistic toward me as they were toward you. I managed to befriend the right people, get in their good graces, don't you know, and eventually find out what they were doing it for. And you'll never believe it—they were just using it to protect this little city! They had this incredible power, and they were just using it to keep themselves off of maps, keep their own city from being mapped, and occasionally to destabilize any nearby countries that were threatening them. They had no idea what they had.”

“So meddling with London,” I said, “that was your idea?”

Biffy flushed. “This part I'm not proud of, old chap. But at the time I discovered all of this, I was in a good deal of debt. And I happened to know someone at a ministry of a certain Foreign Power”—he actually pronounced the capital letters—“who I knew would pay a lot to make a few alterations to cities around Europe. So I became a sort of liaison. The Foreign Power gets their alterations, I'm out of debt and getting rich, and the San Sibilians get their cut of course.”

“Until I showed up,” I said, and I couldn't keep the contempt out of my voice.

“Well, yes, old man. I've never felt anything but respect for you, you know. So I tried to do everything I could to keep you safe by keeping you from learning the truth and discouraging you from your scheme. Used a spot of hypnosis to keep you away from the factories. Little trick I picked up out East. And I had the San Sibilians rearrange the city after you found that map—saw you carrying the case out of the shop, you know, and guessed you'd found something. I even had them get you lost one night, figured it would throw off your confidence and convince you to go.”

“Biffy, how could you? We went to school together!” I tried not to raise my voice and attract attention, but I was very put-upon.

“I swear, Wacky,” he said, “It was only to protect you. And now that you've listened, can't I convince you to forget about it? I could give you a cut. There's piles of money in this.”

“I'm sorry, old friend,” I said, “but you cannot. Not only have you committed treason against Queen and Country, but you have committed a dreadful crime against the noble art of cartography.”

He stood. “Then you leave me no choice. I'm sorry. I'll ask them to make it quick.” And with that he turned to leave.

I knew that what I did next was not at all cricket, but in the moment I saw no other options. I rose and struck him on the base of his skull at a place that I knew would cause instant unconsciousness. He crumpled, and I fled.

The rest moved quickly. I raced back to the boarding house, told Miss Diviou that we needed to flee, and paid a local all of my ready cash to take us out of the city on her boat.

I am writing this on the boat. My vision may have failed, but I have a more important one now, and that one will not fail.

Miss Diviou and I have been carefully avoiding meeting—we don't want the authorities to suspect that we're working together—so I was surprised to see her at a bookstore that we had agreed was one of the ones I would search for novels that might have clues. Wasn't having any luck, anyway.

She was browsing a little ahead of me, and I saw her slip a piece of paper into one of the books and then leave. I purchased the volume, of course, and stepped into a nearby alley to read her note.

“I knew you would be here,” it read. “I urgently need to speak with you. Meet me back at the park.”

I dutifully went back to our rendezvous point, and she was there waiting for me. “You have to hear this,” she said. “It changes everything.”

She then proceeded to tell me the most fantastic tale. We'd agreed that the factories are central to the whole thing—for some reason I keep forgetting about that, so now I glance at my journal every day. We'd also agreed that it was far too dangerous to attempt to enter one.

Or at any rate I thought we had.

Miss Diviou, showing a bold and adventurous nature that I would not expect from someone of her sex, had gone and sneaked into one of the factories at night. It was a daring story she told, full of picking locks and nearly getting caught by guards and whatnot, but the important bit is what she discovered.

“They have massive printing presses there,” she said. “Guess what they're printing?”

I reached for what I thought was the obvious answer. “Seditious pamphlets? Anarchist propaganda?”

“Maps!” she answered, and I came very near to falling out of my chair. “Maps of every city and country in Europe! All different designs, different publishers' names...this city must have a monopoly on map-printing for the whole continent!”

It had never occurred to me, it shames me to admit, to wonder where the maps I draw are actually printed. One ships them off to the publisher and lets them deal with that sort of thing.

She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. “I smuggled out a map of London. I know it's your home and thought you might want to look at it.”

I looked at it and was instantly horrified.

“This isn't London,” I said. “I mean, it broadly is, but look. This street doesn't exist at all. This one does, but it bends a different way. This one—Hellfire and Damnation!”

I would never say such things around a lady, you understand, but I was profoundly moved.

“They are encoding some of their symbols into their maps of London.”

Miss Diviou understood immediately. “Do you mean they are attempting to reshape London as they do their own city?”

“Not as profoundly, I think, but yes. They are trying to change the city to—” I caught myself this time—“who knows what ends.”

“Your country and mine must know of this,” Miss Diviou said. “They could be changing cities all over Europe.”

I agreed. My goal of maping this one city suddenly seemed inconsequential.

I will depart, but first I need to inform Biffy. I don't fully understand the nature of these people, but it is possible that his life is in danger.

Invited Miss Diviou for a nice walk in Scylla Park today. I've found some areas of it that are safe from those portrait artists, where one can be unseen and unheard.

From a couple of glances that she gave me, I half-expect that she thought my intentions were untoward. But when I started talking she quickly understood that I meant something quite different.

I laid the whole thing out to her—my real reason for being here, my discoveries, my beliefs about what has been happening, my struggles with the authorities. She took it all in. I left out Biffy, naturally. If she is working with the authorities, best not to compromise him.

“So what you're saying,” she said, “is that these people have the power to reshape this city, they do it with language encoded into maps, and they're using it to keep people from actually mapping the city?”

“That's the best explanation I can come up with”, I answered. “That's why I need someone they would consider above suspicion to help me with the process.”

“But why?” she asked. “If they can reconfigure the city whenever they want, your map will be instantly inaccurate. It might as well say 'here be dragons.'”

“Because it's there, d—– it. Please pardon the expression. I'm like a bulldog. Once I sink my teeth into something, I have to see it through.”

We spoke a bit more about my theories and her possible role. Then she came out with something remarkable. “Do you suppose it has anything to do with those mysterious factories?”

That was a new thought to me. “Ah, yes, the factories. One of these days I must figure out what they actually make.”

She laughed—actually laughed at me. “You've said that to me several times before, nearly word for word. Do you not realize that?”

As I'm writing this entry, I looked back, and I realize that I've written those words several times as well. H—–, I even tried to investigate them once. Why didn't I remember any of it?

Anyway, Miss Diviou agreed on a combined approach to mapping the city, and that we would look for evidence in the broadsheets and other such documents that would tell us what the factories actually make. Perhaps there's a local equivalent of those overwrought novels where a factory worker falls in love with a young noblewoman, that all of the British women seem to be reading these days, that will provide some clue. Because of course we can't just break in.

Broadsheets this morning were all full of news about some new partnership one of the big factories had made. Couldn't make heads or tails of it myself, since I still don't know what the blasted things make, and the articles didn't clarify. (Must figure that out one of these days.)

But it made me realize that with the city moving against me, a new partnership is exactly what I need. Miss Diviou. Seen her enough to think that I can trust her with the truth, and she could hide things for me, help me scout out new places. Not just act as a cover, as I've been using her so far.

I shall put it to her tomorrow.

Dash it all. Thought I was being so cautious. Did someone say something? Was the old lady last night working for them? Did Biffy slip up and let something loose?

At any rate, they came to my room and took everything. The map-case and old map, of course, but also all of my equipment, my notes and sketches, every scrap of paper they could lay their hands on. Thank goodness I had this journal quite hidden or it would be gone too.

And they made it abundantly clear that it'll be prison for me if I make any further attempts to map the city.

I shall have to be even more cautious in the future.

Embarrassing to admit, but I got badly lost today. Me! I know I'm still adjusting to this new shape of the city, but me getting lost is rather like a fish drowning. Not sure that metaphor quite holds up, but I'm a cartographer, not a poet.

I had gone to the pub for a chop and a pint, and coming out I apparently made a wrong turn, and soon ended up in a warren of little alleys that I'd never seen before.

Spent hours there, I did. I was naturally tracking my steps and turns as usual, but nothing made any b——y sense! Pardon the expression. It was almost as though someone was twisting the streets as I was walking them, with the design of keeping me in place.

It was about midnight when I caught a break. Spotted a woman about my age, dressed respectably enough—although out at midnight, unescorted, naturally gives one pause. But I needed help. I asked her how to get to the boarding house, giving the address. She looked at me blankly, so I was forced to use a few words of the local tongue to ask. I don't know all of the address words so I asked about a nearby square. (Honestly, why can't they learn English?)

She understood this time, led me a short distance, then spoke a few words—not in English or the local language, but they sounded familiar. Then she gestured down the alley. I had just come from that selfsame alley, so I gave her an incredulous look, but she was very insistent.

So I walked down the alley, and by G— it opened right into the square. I turned to thank her, but she was gone.

I realized with a start that the words she had spoken—they were in the runic language that I had recognized back in the historical museum. Don't know the meaning, but I recognized the syllables well enough.

Am I mad? Was this woman a witch who first trapped me here and then released me, for reasons of her own? Or is it possible she was talking to the city itself, asking it for an opening?

I should leave. This, more than anything else, proves that any attempt to map this city is madness.

But I've come too far to stop now.

The map will be made.

As I looked back through this journal, I couldn't help noticing that I keep remarking about a need to find out what the factories here make. So today I thought I'd take a little stroll along the river, get closer to where the factories meet the water, and see what they're loading into the boats.

Whatever it is, they ship it in big boxes. About the size of a coffin, maybe a little bit larger. Totally unlabeled as far as I could see from a distance. When I tried to get closer I was politely (well, as politely as these foreigners can get) but very firmly deterred.

If I want to solve this mystery I, or someone I trust, will have to sneak in.

Biffy and I made plans to meet up at Scylla park to discuss what's been going on in the city. I know, that's where all of that weirdness with the portrait painters happened, but I figured it was a public place and would look less suspicious than if we tried to meet somewhere private. Anyway, I didn't notice anyone drawing us.

He's noticed it too, the change. He knew how to get to his rented flat, but said that the buildings around it are all different. He asked a couple of the locals about it and got no reaction. Foreigners.

We have agreed to work together to map the city as it is now. I'm undecided as to whether to bring in Miss Diviou. She's a foreigner but not a local, so it would be useful to understand how she sees the changes. But what if she's working with them? Biffy of course I can trust without question.

I've been looking for Biffy for two days. Couldn't find the place he was staying, or the coffee shop we went to together. Searching around did let me get a sense of the changed city. It's still broadly the same place. Districts are the same, and major avenues and landmarks. It's all the details that have changed. I've seen plenty of familiar faces, too, so that scrubs the time travel theory.

I finally came across him tonight, at a gallery opening. I never knew Biffy to be one for art, so I was surprised to see him there. Turns out he just wanted the free wine and cheese. Fair enough. The art was rubbish, anyway—all these portraits that have become the fashion lately. Treacly, garish, nothing like the stately ones they do back at home.

Of course I couldn't ask Biffy about all this strangeness there. Not with so many foreigners around. But we made plans to meet soon.