The gravekeep moved through the cemetery with a measured pace, his notebook under one arm and his surveying chain coiled over his shoulder. The stones had been here three hundred years, some longer, and they still needed the same attention they had always needed. Noting, recording, maintaining the memory of where each body lay. He came to a plot where the marker had begun to settle. He marked it in his book with precise notation, depth and angle and estimated age of the stone. In the spring, the masons would reset it. This cycle. Not the next. The work had to be done in order. An old woman emerged from the path carrying flowers wrapped in cloth. She was looking for a plot from long ago, and he took her to it without consulting his notes, though he could have. Some things were worth remembering for the memory's sake. 'Has anyone visited?' she asked, though she knew the answer. 'No one since last spring,' he said. She laid her flowers and knelt for a moment while he stood respectfully back, and when she rose, he noted the visit in his book, as he always did. Jergal's work was this. Maintaining the knowledge of who had been loved, and by whom, and when. The gravekeep considered this the most important work in all the temples. The dead could not maintain their own memory. Someone had to hold the duty...