The old man climbed the stairs slowly, stopping sometimes to let his heartrecover and the teapot settle on the tray, while the dormouse would pop out ofhis sleeve or his beard and steal a nibble at the teacakes he brought up fromthe kitchen. It was an old tower on the edge of faery, on the edge of theEmpire of Man. Between. Uncertain who had built it — men or elves. It was longbefore the old man’s time, at least, and before the empire in the east. Therewas magic in its making… so they used to say. Now there was only the old manand the dormouse and a sleepy hedgehog, and a bird or two or three, which camefor the grain at the windows. That was his real talent, the wild things, thegentle things. A real magician now, would not be making tea himself, in thekitchen, and wasting his breath on stairs. A real magician would have been more —  awesome. Kept some state. Inspired some fear.

He stopped at the halfway turning. Pushed his sliding spectacles up his noseand balanced tray, tea, cakes and dormouse against the window-ledge. The landwas black in the east. Black all about the tower. Burned. On some days he couldsee the glitter of arms in the distance where men fought. He could see theflutter of banners on the horizon as they rode. Could hear the sound of thehorses and the horns.

Now the dust and soot of a group of riders showed against the darkening east.He waited there, not to have the weary stairs again — waited while thedormouse nibbled a cake, and in his pocket the hedgehog squirmed about,comfortable in the stillness.

The riders came. The prince — it was he — sent the herald forward to ring atthe gate. “Open in the king’s name,” the herald cried, and spying him in thewindow: “Old man — open your gates. Surrender the tower. No more warnings.”

“Tell him no,” the old man said. “Just tell him — no.”

“Tomorrow,” the herald said, “we come with siege.”

The old man pushed his spectacles up again. Blinked sadly, his old heartbeating hard. “Why?” he asked. “What importance, to have so much bother?”