The Toymaker's Apprentice (14 page)

THE CREAKING OF WOOD
and the sound of lapping water woke him, along with a faint, persistent scratching. Zacharias Drosselmeyer stretched and yawned. He'd been having such a pleasant dream. He was being rocked like a baby in a cradle, as that little princess, what was her name? Pirlipat. Funny name. Christian had told such a curious story about the little girl. Something about mice—

He came awake, as if a bucket of cold water had splashed him in the face. “Stefan
!
” he shouted, but the name came out as a croak.

“You're awake
!
That fool shouldn't have given you a second cup,” a small voice said. A child's voice would have had more resonance than the one that addressed him now—but this was clearly an adult male. And not the man in scarlet.

“Where is my son?” Zacharias demanded. He tried to sit up, only to find that he was tied down to planks like a real-life Gulliver.

The voice came closer. “Safe in Nuremberg. For now. As long as you cooperate.” There was that scratching again. The voice passed back and forth along his right ear. If it weren't pitch-black, Zacharias would have sworn the speaker was pacing close to the floor.

“Cooperate? This is preposterous. I'm your prisoner
!
”

“Regrettable,” the little voice said. It had a strange accent he could not place. “But there is a remedy. You will answer a few questions.”

“Where am I?” Zacharias demanded. His anger was the only thing keeping despair at bay. He clung to it like a shield.

“Far away from home. Where you are needed most.”

For a wild moment, Zacharias imagined himself in the satchel of Krampus, the Christmas demon that took away bad boys and girls. Or, perhaps he was being delivered to Father Christmas, forced into service in his toy workshop . . .

Zacharias groaned. Whatever he'd consumed in those two thimblefuls of liquid, it was affecting his mind. He was in a boat, that much he was sure of. He could smell the river and hear the slap of water against the hull.

He slumped back against the ropes holding him to the floor. He would cooperate. He'd do anything to keep his son safe. “Tell me, what is it you want?”

A door opened. The scarlet man, now dressed in black, appeared and untied him. Zacharias stumbled on weak legs as the deck pitched gently beneath him. He was in a windowless ship's cabin, crowded with a large writing desk and stool. Sheaves of clean paper lay stacked beside an inkwell. The scarlet man hung a lantern above the desk without saying a word, then left, locking the door behind him.

Zacharias sat at the desk, unsure of what to do next.

From nowhere and everywhere, the small voice spoke to him. “Describe the following apparatus. Blueprints, please,” it said.

Zacharias waited, listened to the description, pen poised
over the page. The words made no sense at first, and he asked the voice to repeat them.

“But what is this—”

“No questions
!
” the voice snapped. “Consider it an exercise.”

“An exercise?” Zacharias muttered, flexing his fingers around the pen. With a sigh, he put nib to paper and began to draw.

THE WHEELS OF THE WAGON
drummed against the cobblestones as the weatherworn carriage made its way out of the black forests and into the riverside streets of Regensberg. Stefan huddled in the corner of the backseat, using his coat as a blanket. He dozed in and out of sleep. His whole body was numb. He told himself it was from the jouncing of the coach, but that was a lie. His parents were gone. Better to be numb than afraid.

Their plan was simple. Samir and Christian had explained it to him as they hurried to meet the last coach of the night.

“If the mice have him, they will bring him to Boldavia,” Christian said. “Under the castle . . . in the dark.” A haunted look had crossed his face.

“But Herr Grüel said every toymaker that's disappeared has turned up a few days later. We should wait here,” Stefan had insisted. Christian and Samir had not agreed.

“Believe me, Stefan, if I thought waiting was the best course of action, we would stay. But Zacharias is family—a Drosselmeyer. Whatever it is they wanted a toymaker for, they now have someone far more valuable. The Queen of Mice will want him brought to her.”

“Is it a trap?” Stefan had asked. Was his father merely bait to lure Christian back to Boldavia? “Don't they know you'd return anyway, with the—”

Christian pressed a finger to his lips to stop him from speaking. “Please,” he said in a hushed voice. “We are far from safe here. Seven years is a very long time to a mouse. The queen is ready for this to be over, as am I. It's time to pay the piper, as they say.” He tapped his eye patch, beneath which lay the
krakatook
. “At least now we have the fee. When we cure the princess, the king will owe us a boon. What's more, he'll do anything to stop the mice from hurting his family again. With his soldiers beside us, we will sweep Boldavia clean. Your father will be found, Stefan, and the mice will be routed at last.”

And so they had stolen to the edge of town by cover of darkness, and boarded the carriage to Regensberg.

“End of the line
!
” the coachman bellowed, and he jumped down from his perch, rocking the carriage. Stefan startled awake. They had come to a stop in front of an old, bedraggled alehouse.

“Quickly now,” Christian urged. He rose, stretching like a cat beneath his coat, and ushered them toward the alehouse. “We can find a boat here. Most of the sailors take their leave inside.”

Stefan shivered in anticipation. He had never been this far from home before. Now, he hoped every step away brought him closer to his father.

The river winds had weathered the alehouse to a sad brownish gray. Above the door was a sign showing a lady with a blue river for hair.
Die Donau
, the sign read.
The Danube
.

“I'll do the talking,” Christian told them.

Inside, Die Donau was everything Stefan had imagined a wharfside tavern to be—dark, smoky, full of disreputable, rough men and harried barmaids. Their entrance brought a few stares—though far fewer than Stefan would have expected, for
an Arab, a boy, and a one-eyed man. Stefan followed Samir to a table near the fireplace while Christian sauntered up to the bar, nodding a few hellos to people as he passed.

Stefan blinked in surprise. “He knows these people?”

Samir returned a wave from the barmaid. “Of course. We were here but a few days ago. And we have crossed paths with many sailors in our long years abroad. Perhaps you thought we'd only find cutthroats and thieves?”

“These are the wharves
!
” Stefan exclaimed. “They're notoriously dangerous, day or night.”

“Yes,” Samir agreed. “For some people. Look around you, Stefan. Look with both eyes, and tell me what you see.”

Stefan scanned the room, trying not to make eye contact. “I see rough men with thick hands and scars.” Stranglers and knife-wielding murderers, he imagined.

“Sailors,” Samir said simply. “Their hands are rough from work, and the scars are from battling the rapids of the Danube, not tavern brawls. Well, not many.”

Stefan took a third look. The man at the table closest to them was practicing knots. At another table, a man was making fishing lures.

The barmaid whisked by with a wink, depositing three large mugs of steaming broth on their table. “Take your order in a minute, Herr Samir,” she said breezily.

Stefan sighed. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm seeing menace everywhere now.”

“It's understandable,” Samir said. “And at least you were being honest. But trust me, there are far worse places than Die Donau.”

Stefan wrapped his cold hands gratefully around the mug, inhaling the scent of mutton and onions. He was starving.

“Little sips, it's hot,” Christian said, coming over to them. He patted Stefan on the shoulder and sat down. “Georg knows of two barges headed south in the morning. One stops in Budapest, the other goes all the way to Silistra. With any luck, we can catch the Silistra-bound boat the rest of the way to Bulgaria.”

“Not until morning?” Stefan asked. Worry fluttered in his belly.

“It's better than going by land,” Samir replied, stretching his arms against the table. “No matter how smooth the horse or sturdy the boot.”

“Provided we avoid the pirates,” Christian agreed.

“Pirates?” Stefan said. “You're joking.”

“I'm afraid not. Of course, there are bandits on horseback, too, and wandering soldiers, the war, et cetera. So one path's just as good as another.”

Stefan almost dropped his mug. “You think
mice
can navigate my father safely through all of that?”

Christian frowned. “Not mice, Stefan. Men. You've taken commissions in your shop based solely on a letter, haven't you? More than one highwayman or pirate has done the dirty work for the kingdoms of Man and Animal alike.”

Stefan had lost his appetite. He excused himself quickly from the table and strode out to the alehouse yard.

Outside, the air was fresh and damp. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and watched a speckled flock of hens scratch in the dirt. At his feet, a small purple flower struggled in the worn wagon treads and boot marks of passersby. Its delicate
petals trembled in the wind. He was moved by a sudden urge to protect the little blossom, even if it meant plucking it. His mother would press it into a book, the way she had placed her wedding nosegay in the family Bible.

Stefan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the sudden tears that overcame him. The cloth scraped his cheek and he laughed involuntarily. It was Clara's handkerchief, complete with the crooked “S.” Brown-eyed Clara, the embroiderer in the gardens. She was right; the linen was not so delicate after all.

Stefan rose. This was no time to daydream about clever girls with wry smiles and extra handkerchiefs. He was on a mission. Two missions, really, if you counted his father and the princess (a real princess
!
). He should force himself to eat something and get to bed. They'd be sailing with the dawn.

He returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket. He would wash it tonight and dry it by the fire. Maybe when all of this was over, he could return it to her, along with tales of all the places it had been. Regensburg was only the first.