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He collared the nearest passerby and asked him how to get to the Mount。 The fellow pointed over the heads of the crowd； leaving the boss and his boy to burrow their way to the edge of the market； where they had a view not of Vanaeph but of the walled city that stood between them and the Mount of Lipper Bayak。 The grin reappeared on Monday's face； broader than ever； and on his lips the name he'd so often breathed like an enchantment。
〃Patashoqua？〃
〃Yes。〃
〃We painted it on the wall together； d'you remember？〃
〃I remember。〃
〃What's it like inside？〃
Gentle was peering at the bottle in his hand； wondering if the peculiar exhilaration he felt was going to pass with the headache that acpanied it。
〃Boss？〃
〃What？〃
〃I said； what's it like inside？〃
〃I don't know。 I've never been。〃
〃Well； shouldn't we？〃
Gentle thrust the bottle at Monday and sighed； a lazy； easy sigh that ended in a smile。 〃Yes； my friend；〃 he said。 〃I think maybe we should。〃
Thus began the last pilgrimage of the Maestro Sartori… called John Furie Zacharias； or Gentle； the Reconciler of Dominions…across the Imajica。
He hadn't intended it to be a pilgrimage at all； but having promised Monday that they would find the woman of his dreams； he couldn't bring himself to desert the boy and return to the Fifth。 They began their search； of course； in Patashoqua； which was more prosperous than ever these days； with its proximity to the newly reconciled Dominion creating businesses every day。 After almost a year of wondering what the city would be like； Gentle was inevitably somewhat disappointed once he got inside its walls； but Monday's enthusiasm was a sight in itself； and a poignant reminder of his own astonishment when he and Pie had first entered the Fourth。
Unable to trace the women in the city； they went on to Vanaeph； hoping to find Tick。 He was off traveling； they were told； but one sharp…sighted individual claimed to have seen two women who fitted the description of Jude and Hoi…Polloi hitching a ride at the edge of the highway。 An hour later； Gentle and Monday were doing the same thing； and the pursuit that was to take them across the Dominions began in earnest。
For the Maestro the journey was very different from those that had preceded it。 The first time he'd made this trek he'd traveled in ignorance of himself； failing to prehend the significance of the people he'd met and the places he'd seen。 The second time he'd been a phantom； flying at the speed of thought between members of the Synod； his business too urgent to allow him to appreciate the myriad wonders he was passing through。 But now； finally； he had both the time and the prehension to make sense of his pilgrimage； and； having begun the journey reluctantly； he soon had as much taste for it as his panion。
Word of the changes in Yzordderrex had spread even to the tiniest villages； and the demise of the Autarch's Empire was everywhere cause for jubilation。 Rumors of the Imajica's healing had also spread； and when Monday told people where he and his quiet panion came from （which he was wont to do at the vaguest cue） they were plied with drinks and grilled for news of the paradisiacal Fifth。 Many of their questioners； knowing that the door into that mystery finally stood open； were planning to visit the Fifth and wanted to know what gifts they should take with them into a Dominion that was already so full of marvels。 When this question was put； Gentle； who usually let Monday do the talking during these interviews； invariably spoke up。
〃Take your family histories；〃 he'd say。 〃Take your poems。 Take your jokes。 Take your lullabies。 Make them understand in the Fifth what glories there are here。〃
People tended to look at him askance when he answered in this fashion； and told him that their jokes and their family histories didn't seem particularly glorious。 Gentle would simply say； 〃They're you。 And you're the best gift the Fifth could be given。〃
〃You know； we could have made a fortune if we'd brought a few maps of England with us；〃 Monday remarked one day。
〃Do we care about fortunes？〃 Gentle said。
〃You might not； boss；〃 Monday replied。 〃Personally； I'm much in favor。〃
He was right； Gentle thought。 They could have sold a thousand maps already； and they were only just entering the Third： maps which would have been copied； and the copies copied； each transcriber inevitably adding their own felicities to the design。 The thought of such proliferation led Gentle back to his own hand； which had seldom worked for any purpose other than profit； and which for all its labor had never produced anything of lasting value。 But unlike the paintings he'd forged； maps weren't cursed by the notion of a definitive original。 They grew in the copying； as their inaccuracies were corrected； their empty spaces filled； their legends redevised。 And even when all the corrections had been made； to the finest detail； they could still never be cursed with the word finished； because their subject continued to change。 Rivers widened and meandered； or dried up altogether； islands rose and sank again； even mountains moved。 By their very nature； maps were always works in progress； and Gentle…his resolve strengthened by thinking of them that way…decided after many months of delay to turn his hand to making one。
Occasionally along the road they'd meet an individual who； in ignorance of his audience； would boast some association with the Fifth's most celebrated son； the Maestro Sartori； and would proceed to tell Gentle and Monday about the great man。 The accounts varied； especially when it came to talk of his panion。 Some said he'd had a beautiful woman at his side； some his brother； called Pie； others still （these the least numerous） told of a mystif。 At first it was all Monday could do not to blurt the truth； but Gentle had insisted from the outset that he wanted to travel incognito； and having been sworn to secrecy the boy was as good as his word。 He kept his silence while wild tales of the Maestro's doings were told： marriages celebrated on the ceiling； copses springing up overnight where he'd slept； women made pregnant drinking from his cup。 The fact that he'd bee a figment of the popular imagination amused Gentle at first； but after a time it began to weigh on him。 He felt like a ghost among these living versions of himself； invisible among the listeners who gathered to hear tales of his exploits； the details of which were embroidered and embellished with every telling。
There was some fort in the fact that he was not the only character around whom such parables occurred。 There were other fables alive in the air between the ears and tongues of the populace； which the pilgrims were usually told when they asked after Jude and Hoi…Polloi： tales of miraculous women。 A whole new nomadic tribe had appeared in the Dominions since the fall of Yzordderrex。 Women of power were abroad； rising to the occasion of their liberation； and rites they'd only practiced at the hearth and cot were now performed in the open air for all to see。 But unlike the stories of the Maestro Sartori； most of which were pure invention； Gentle and Monday saw ample evidence that the stories concerning these women were rooted in truth。 In the province around Maike； for instance； which had been a dust bowl during Gentle's first pilgrimage； they found fields green with the first crop in six seasons； courtesy of a woman who'd sniffed out the course of an underground river and coaxed it to the surface with sways and supplications。 In the temples of L'Himby a sibyl had carved from a solid slab…using only her finger and her spittle…a representation of the city as she prophesied it would be in a year's time； her prophecy so mesmeric that her audience had gone out of the temple that very hour and had torn down the trash that had disfigured their city。 In the Kwem…where Gentle took Monday in the hope of finding Scopique…they found instead that the once shallow pit where the Pivot had stood was now a lake； its waters crystalline but its bottom hidden by the congregation of life that was forming in it： birds； mostly； which rose in sudden excited flocks； fully feathered and ready for the sky。
Here they had a chance to meet the mir