From The City of Lost Intentions: The Temple of Fo-Elpmet-Eht.
Parchment formed the second door.

A brass being with a glass sphere head sat at a desk

in the corner, lit by a gas lamp.

Before it, a map bristled with mountains.

The figure traced the topography carefully with a quill of light.

“The Sunmiler counts sun-miles,” the Guide said pleasantly.

“What are—” began Plume.

“Land that the sun touches, obviously. Use that fanciful thing

you call your brain.”

The Sunmiler’s caliper legs scraped gently on the floor as it

drew them under itself.

“Mountainous landscapes have more sun-miles than deserts,

apparently. It has to do with surface area.”

“Is there any need for such observations?”

“Of course not.”