A LONG TIME AGO, when the world was yet unexplored, and every voyage was an adventure, even the most knowledgeable cartographers would write on the edge of their maps the foreboding words, “Here be Dragons.” Sometimes they drew little pictures to go with it. These words and icons marked the boundary of the known world. From beyond these borders were returned only hints of information, in ships’ logs, in explorers’ journals, in the legends and songs of mysterious natives. Except in the case of the Twenty Kingdoms, that cluster of fairy-tale countries that lay in a broad band between the mountains and the sea. Their cartographers also wrote “Here be Dragons” at the edge of their maps, but they were likely to put it in the center as well. And at the bottom. Or the top, and the sides. Wherever it was needed, because the wretched beasts had a nasty way of poking up where they were least wanted. Which was pretty much anywhere.
It produced a certain amount of tension between the cartographers and the town fathers. The town fathers thought it was bad for business to be associated with dragons. When a new map was about to be released they would send a letter to the cartographer. They would point out that their village had excellent restaurants, that the local brews were superb, that the taxes were kept reasonably low and the streets were kept clean. They would say that the nearby forest was lush and green, and the surrounding farmland was rich and fertile. They would mention the fresh air and the friendly people. They would vehemently deny that the brand-new performing arts center, designed and built by an award-winning architectural firm, was sinking at a rate of four inches per year. All in all, they would say, their village was a wonderful place to raise a family or start a new business, and taking into consideration its many superior qualities, surely it was only fair to disregard that teensy bit of unpleasantness with the dragon?
The cartographer would not be persuaded. He would set aside his reference books, take up his quill, and eventually send back a polite, noncommittal letter saying that all sources of information had been carefully checked, and perhaps enclose a coupon for forty percent off the new edition. Then he would publish his map exactly as he intended. Usually that was the end of the matter. Sometimes the debate grew acrimonious. Sometimes letters would fly back and forth, lawsuits would be threatened, and the cartographer would have to play his trump card. He would hint darkly that if he chose to do so, he could mention things that were worse than dragons.
Invariably that was enough to make his critics shut up. For everyone knew that while the Twenty Kingdoms were lands of magic and enchantment, of gallant knights and lovely ladies, of stone and moss and oak and crystal and wild, fierce, beautiful vistas, they did indeed contain some things that were much worse than dragons.