[tag: fiction]
A novice needed a map of the northern mountain passes. He approached the temple cartographer.
"Draw me the northern passes," he said, "showing the paths, the fords, and the shelters."
The cartographer studied many sources and produced a map. The novice examined it carefully: the mountains were drawn, the paths clearly traced, fords and shelters marked in their proper notation. The distances seemed reasonable. The penmanship was excellent.
"This is good work," said the novice, and he led a merchant caravan into the mountains.
On the third night, they reached the place where the map showed shelter. There was only bare scree. On the fourth day, searching for the ford, they found only rapids. They perished in the cold.
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A master needed a map of the same passes. She approached the same cartographer.
"Draw me the northern passes," she said, "showing the paths, the fords, and the shelters."
The cartographer studied many sources and produced a map. The master examined it carefully: the goat-track above Willow Creek was present, the stone shelter marked two li below the second ridge where she remembered it, the summer ford placed where three white rocks breached the current.
"This is good work," said the master, and she led a merchant caravan into the mountains.
On the third night, they rested beneath the stone shelter. On the fourth day, they crossed at the white rocks.