Dedication

To us, the dreamers.

Our castles in the clouds are a good thing; that is where castles should be.

Now all we have to do is put foundations between them and the ground.

So, get out your stone-hauling gloves… the world awaits.

A spire twisted its way into the evening sky above a castle, on the side of a dusty mountain in the far southern lands. Though small, it was nearly impregnable, carefully perched atop the mountain’s knee.

A north window in the very top of the spire was thrown open. The last radiant colors of sunset splashed the horizon towards the western sea.

A dwarf leaned with craggy hands on the windowsill and heaved a sigh, staring out to the north with eyes that seemed to pierce a thousand leagues to pinpoint his objective. But that was harder to pinpoint than he’d expected, and the constant delays were wearing on him.

“Where is it?” He gnashed his teeth together. “Blast the mountains and drain the lakes! Why can’t anybody do what they’re supposed to these days?”

A timid knock tapped the bell far below in the base of the tower, and the faint, clear notes rose up to the room. His dark lip twitched in ill-humor and he turned away from the window with a growl.

With a rolling gait he stumped to the middle of the room and leaned over the fenced opening that fell straight through the tower levels to the bottom.

“What is it?” he bellowed down the shaft.

“Just a message, sir!” the half-starved boy at the bottom replied with a quavering voice. “Shall I send it up?”

“Of course send it up, dimwit!” the dwarf howled. “What are you there for, but to send things up? Get a move on!”

He pulled back, his eyes lighting up. Perhaps this was it! The one that would tell him his dreams were at last within his grasp. He ground his hands together and stomped around to the side of the fence where the dumbwaiter would appear.

The chain rattled as the boy worked the pulley system, and the master worked his hands in impatience. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he grasped the upper end of the chain and pulled it hand over hand with a grunt of anger. He was not supposed to be reduced to pulling pulley chains, but his strength brought the dumbwaiter sailing upwards to him.

It halted with a sharp jerk as the box hit the top rail of the fence, but he cared not. He snatched up the sealed scroll and tore off the string that bound it. Then he turned towards the southern window for better light to read by. As he hurried past a crowded worktable he flicked the circle of red wax onto the floor, where it landed face up, showing its imprint of a rearing horse surrounded by six stars.

The dwarf snapped the scroll open and hurriedly scanned the elegant script. His brow knotted tighter and tighter, and then he threw the scroll to the floor, his eyes staring at the sunset sky with hatred burning in them.

“Imbecile!” he shrieked, his face dark. “Nincompoop! How dare you, how dare you…!” He half strangled on his temper for several minutes, then he fought it back.

“More money!” He spun to accuse the paper. “More money, and no results!”

His breathing came in labored grunts, and any living thing would have been fleeing by now.

“No more money!” He slashed his hand through the air at waist height. “No more! I will let you all fry!”

He ground his heel and turned on the space of a pinhead. There he stood, staring at his tower room, high in the sky where he could look out at everything and see so very, very little. The worktable, crowded with the tools that fit his hands like no others, the supplies he needed… he loved. The golden prongs of the setting, carefully crafted according to the legendary measurements. The only thing missing was the fabled gem.

The one thing he needed, and all his doing, planning, and plotting had not yet produced it.

All of this. For nothing.

He stared at it with blind eyes as slowly the heated blood came out of his face and his mouth stopped twitching beneath its short black beard.

At last he breathed softly and swallowed, then walked over and reached down to the paper. He held it gingerly, as if it might burn him, and carried it to a desk against the wall. Propping it up there, he took a seat on the three-legged stool in front of it. He lifted a pen and took out a sheet of paper, then stared at the message for a moment.

Then he sighed again, and put the tip of the pen to the paper.

“My dear friend, it grieves me sorely to hear your unhappy news. It is a sad state when fine men and strong horses cannot hold what fate has given to them. I see I shall have to travel up to you, but the help you seek is not unlimited; you must know that it dwindles every day. If total success is not achieved soon, we shall both be forced to cut our losses, and my good friend, I think that I shall be in rather a better position than you, should that occur. I would not look to see you again if this venture should fail; even the blindest of mice have sharp teeth…”

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