The Toymaker's Apprentice (10 page)

BLACKSPAW DEPOSITED ERNST
at the foot of the quay.

The rat was exhausted. It had been an exhilarating trip down the River Danube, but he could have done without the underground route they'd taken. Their haste had deprived him of long days lounging on deck in the sun. But now he was here.

The Kingdom of Boldavia was an impressive sight—seven long docks jutting out from a series of porous caves at the base of the island. The castle itself towered atop the sheer mass of rock, a thousand feet above. In between, a second row of caves ringed the island, larger and squared off in a way that suggested Man, rather than nature, had shaped them. The view from there must be magnificent.

Ernst could hear the teeming kingdom of mice, weaving their way through the rock cells above. So the rumors about the uprising were true. The question was, were the men fighting back?

Ernst shivered. The quay was impressive, but it would have been more so if the Mouse Queen had bothered with a dinghy, or even a raft—some way of conveying guests from ship to shore without them having to swim.

Once safely back on land, Ernst gathered himself and shook for all he was worth, nose to tail. A splatter of water hit the gray stones around him and left his fur reasonably dry. With a sigh, he unbundled his clothes from their oilcloth wrapping and
dressed himself with all the dignity a damp, travel-worn rat of middle years could muster.

Blackspaw watched from the rocks below. “This is the servants' entrance,” the mouse said. “I must report to my sergeant. I trust you can find your way the last few yards?” Blackspaw sneered. He'd made his opinion clear every step of the trip downriver—he did not approve of a rat teaching the royal heir any more than he'd approve of an alley cat brought in to serve as a wet nurse.

What a rat had ever done to him (other than be taller, better looking, and much better educated), Ernst could not guess. He was glad to be rid of the little nuisance, and hoped that the other Boldavians would prove more agreeable.

“Young sir, I may be a stranger to Boldavia, but I know my way around a royal court.” Fully clothed in his best blue silks, Ernst hoisted the last of his bundled wardrobe and bowed to the piebald. “Would that I could say it's been a pleasure,” he added.

Blackspaw snorted. “Likewise,” he said, and scurried away.

The trip, of course, had been anything but pleasant. From that first early morning departure, with the angry little mouse pacing in front of his hotel room, to the wet dash aboard a southbound barge. The meager fare. The dull company—really, who wants to hear about the dreams of a mouse soldier who has traveled much but seen little beyond his own ego? True, there had been a particularly good sausage procured in Romania. Aside from that, the travel had been like cold oatmeal—lumpy, bland, and best thrown out. Still, Ernst had arrived, alive and relatively well. A hot bath, a decent meal, and some minor
repairs to his clothes were all that was needed. And then, once he secured the Queen's approval, he'd look forward to as royal a feast as Boldavia could muster and a new wardrobe befitting a royal tutor.

He glanced around the rocks, taking in the dark water and pale, distant sky. Boldavia smelled of pork fat and flowers. A promising perfume, he decided as he entered the servants' tunnel.

Halfway up the curving stone corridor, he heard someone scurrying toward him. Ernst took a moment to straighten his whiskers, crack his spine, and relax.

A young mouse, this one gray as a winter morning, came skidding up to him.

“Sir
!
Do I have the pleasure of addressing Ernst Listz the rat?”

“Certainly. Good afternoon.”

“Wonderful, wonderful
!
” the mouse squeaked. “I am Fleetfoot. I'm to convey you to the Queen.”

“Perhaps I could have a moment to refresh myself?” Ernst ventured.

The little mouse had already taken his bag and was scurrying away. “She don't like to be kept waiting, sir. Please. This way. She's in the audience chamber already. Blackspaw was meant to get you here this morning.”

Ernst spat a curse at his nasty piebald escort. Trying to ruin his chances at getting the job, eh? Not likely. With a snap of his tail, Ernst picked up the pace and made all haste to meet his new Queen.

STEFAN CAME HOME
to a house in disarray. The furniture had been overturned, the shop had been ransacked, and Christian was standing in the middle of the living room, his head in his hands. The astrologer Samir was nowhere to be seen.

For a brief moment, he thought perhaps Christian had proven himself a thief after all. Then his cousin turned and the look on his face told a different story.

“What's happened? Where is my father?”

Christian shook his head. “Gone. Taken.”

“Taken? What is this? One of your jokes?”

“Would that it were,” Christian said. “We found the place like this. Samir went to search for him. I wanted to wait for you. I'm so sorry, Stefan. The mice have him.”

Stefan stared. “The mice? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You're not just a criminal, you're a liar. I can't believe anything you say. The
krakatook
? Seven years? Princesses, talking mice? You're either wicked or mad. What have you done with my father?”

In answer, Christian pointed to a scrap of paper on the table.

In very small, precise writing, there was a note:

To the criminal Drosselmeyer,

Stay away, or the Toymaker dies.

The accusation and the smudged paw print at the edge of the paper gave proof to Christian's story. He was a criminal to both mice and men. “What did you do to make them hate you this much?” Stefan asked.

“Only my duty. When the mice first emerged from the tunnels under Boldavia, I tried to send them back into their caves—with traps and other means—to chase them out of the kingdom. And it worked, at first. We killed . . .
I
killed mice by the hundreds. But, for every one we saw, there were a dozen more in the walls. They rallied and . . . I've told you the rest.”

Stefan collapsed onto the bench beside the table, stung with a hundred needle points of fear. “Mice did this?”

His cousin picked up an overturned chair. “More likely men working for mice. An anonymous sack of gold will buy much in this world.”

He grasped Stefan by the wrist. “We will find him,” he promised.

Stefan nodded. His father, taken, his mother, dead. What was left for him now?

His free hand drifted to his coat pocket and brushed against the embroidered handkerchief there. It brought him a small bit of comfort. This piece of linen came from a world where mice were just dumb animals, and parents didn't disappear.

He felt the casket in his pocket and pulled it out with a sigh. “I almost forgot. This is for you,” he said, and opened the box.

Christian froze, as if seeing the face of Medusa.

“Mein Gott
!
” he breathed.

“I—” Stefan began.

His cousin swiftly pressed a finger to his lips and eyed the
upended room. Christian gripped Stefan's shoulder and looked him in the eye. He did not speak, but mouthed the words:
No. One. Must. Know.

Releasing Stefan, he swiftly flipped his eye patch up and secreted the
krakatook
in the void left by his missing eye. Stefan blanched but, given the circumstances, it was a better hiding place than his pocket.

Christian smiled as he readjusted the patch. “Samir
!
” he bellowed. “We have work to do
!
”

There was a scraping sound overhead, and the Arab appeared in Stefan's sleeping loft. “What in the seven hells do you think I'm doing?” the astrologer said.

“I thought you were out looking for my father,” Stefan exclaimed angrily.

Samir raised the small brass telescope in his hand. “There is more than one way to seek a man.”

“The stars? That's ridiculous. You should be out on the streets looking for him. We all should
!
”

“This is a spyglass, Stefan, for streets, not stars,” the astrologer said calmly. “We can cover more area from high ground than wandering these mazes you call roads.” He turned to Christian, ignoring Stefan's outburst. “No disturbances, no ripples to indicate a wave of rodents. If he is with them, they are underground or they have already left the city.”

“If I hadn't been running around like a fool eating cakes all day trying to
help
you, I could have stopped this from happening
!
” Stefan cried, his shock replaced by panic.

An expression flickered across Christian's face. Was it guilt?

“Perhaps,” he said. “Or maybe both of you would have been taken. What matters is what we do next.”

Stefan deflated. He was yelling at Samir and Christian when he wanted to yell at himself. He was good at losing parents, it seemed.

“Will he be okay?”

“Dear boy, he's worth more to them alive than dead.”

“As what—a hostage? Why? As far as they know, you're further away from finding the nut than ever.”

Christian gave him a warning glance.

Samir quirked an eyebrow, and a look passed between the astrologer and the clockmaker.

Christian nodded slightly. “Time to pack, Samir,” he said.

Samir broke into a grin. And then he began to sing. It wasn't a song Stefan knew, but Samir belted it with gusto as he moved about the shop, straightening the mess.

If only Stefan's life could be tidied so easily. “I'm going to the city guard,” he announced. They had men at the gates around Nuremberg. They should be able to tell him if his father had left the city. He reached for the front door; Christian's gloved hand held it firmly shut.

“You will do no such thing.”

“I will do
something
. Something more than singing and cleaning house. He's my father. Maybe that means nothing to you, but—” He broke off, unable to continue. He couldn't stand to think of this place as home without his mother. With his father gone, too . . . There'd be time for guilt and blame later. For now, he had to act.

“What will you tell them?” Christian asked, easing off the door. “‘My father has gone missing'? Not a rarity after the death of a spouse. They'll assume he'll turn up in a biergarten somewhere. ‘He's not at home and the place is a wreck.' No woman has been here to keep it tidy, they'll tell you, and give you their condolences for your loss. Say, ‘He's been taken by mice
!
' and they'll lock you up, Stefan. They'll think you're mad.”

Every word Christian said was true. The city guard would not,
could not
believe his story. His whole life had gone topsy-turvy since his cousin came to town. No, even earlier, since his mother got sick. The world no longer made sense. In a way, Christian and his crazy stories fit perfectly into this new scheme of things.

“Well then,” Stefan asked. “Am I? Mad?”

His cousin placed a hand on his shoulder. “No. You are a journeyman clockmaker. And now you will learn what that means.

“Come, Stefan. It's time to introduce you to the true power behind our guild. The Brotherhood of Prometheus.”