From where he stood, the central archive was only a few hundred yards away and he was sure to find its whereabouts. Just how so? One may ask. In Ljóseoree, it was a curious and well-established truth that no matter from which grimy alley or soot-smudged passage one might emerge—one would invariably be confronted, not more than five paces onward, by a signpost. A proud, if overworked, herald of municipal intent, determined to guide every lost soul and visitor alike to the same handful of institutions, whether they wished to go there or not. Always in front of marble-pillared facades or granite-trimmed buildings. Never in the alleys

  The signposts, however, were far too numerous. Cluttered and crammed atop one another like pigeons fighting for a perch. Worse still, they contradicted each other—one arrow pointing left, the next pointing right to the very same place. And yet, they all seemed obsessed with the same five or six destinations: the town hall, the archive, the courtroom, the market, and several well-funded theatres.

  This, in fact, was the result of a civic compromise. Years ago, some citizens had complained of a lack of signage. Others insisted there were too many. Faced with this impossible contradiction, the city’s lesser administrators hatched an ingenious solution: they stacked the signs atop existing signs, then on top of one another and fastened them in place with gluing spells. Or, as the official report proudly put it, “binding enchantments”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  However, their efforts clarified nothing for the masses, only deepening the confusion. Yet, this didn’t trouble the beggar, who already knew the city like the back of his hand. Still, one had to admit that the first time he sought the archive had not been easy. After circling the same building three times, following the left hand signs. Eventually, he resigned to turn right, then left, every new step inversing his previous step. Only then did he spot a lesser presentable door with a faded sign labelled “central archive”, it was piled with litters, old scrolls –presumably where the archive discard wastes.

  With years of experience, it was no longer a challenge for him to make his way to the front door of the archive. Now, only a few meters away, he stood hidden behind a pillar, his hat pulled low to deliberately obscure his face. The guards at the entrance appeared indifferent; one yawned, while another absentmindedly scratched his head, his gaze drifting lazily over the passers-by.

  He slowed his pace deliberately, stepping into a shaded part of the entrance. The guards were still absorbed in their own activities—the first looking more drowsy, the second casting an indifferent glance his way now starting to play with his top button. Then as the beggar pulled out the card from his sleeve, the guards' expressions shifted at its silver gleam. They stared at it for a long moment, astonished, making no move to inspect the card’s holder or casting any comparison spell. The half-asleep guard slapped his face to rouse himself, while the other hastily clasped his hands behind his back. Their bodies stiffened, and they assumed a more formal stance.

  "Enjoy your visit, Mr. Ivanovich," they said in unison, bowing with a sudden, synchronized grace.