The Toymaker's Apprentice (19 page)

THE QUEEN WAS IN BED.
“Come closer,” she said, her voice so worn that it was nearly unrecognizable.

Arthur and his brothers edged closer. Every week, they were brought before Her Majesty, for inspection and a progress report. There was war waiting to be waged on the King Above. When would they be ready?

The Queen of Mice looked her brood up and down through tiny pince-nez glasses, her gaze lingering on Julius. Disappointment creased her face, making Arthur feel self-conscious. Not all of her sons had thrived. She made Arthur feel as if it was somehow his fault.

“Tutor, what dost thee think?” she asked.

Ernst Listz snapped to attention. “They acquit themselves well, Majesty. Languages, history, tactics, philosophy—”

“Yes, yes,” she said, testily cutting off the list of accomplishments. She pounded her small fist on the coverlet. “But will they
fight
?”

Arthur winced. A ripple of fear ran through his brothers, adrenaline pumped by one anxious heart. He had worked so hard to please her. They all had.

Unbidden, the sound of the Drosselmeyer's misery for his own son echoed in Arthur's mind. Was this the difference between mice and men, or mothers and fathers? Or royalty, even? Did his mother simply not know how to love?

“We will fight, Mother,” they said in unison, filled with a brief rush of solidarity. For the first time, Arthur was glad to have brothers around him.

Stuffed in against the cushions, their mother quirked a small smile that quickly faded. She was in such poor health these days, bloated as an overripe plum.

The midwives no longer whispered of unwholesome dark magic. Most mice thought her sorceries had been well worth the cost. But guilt rattled through Arthur's heart over her diminished state. He wanted to stay by her side and hold her paw. But her only comfort was in seeing her mouselings become fierce mice.

“Regard thy mother well, young ones,” the Queen seethed. “All of this is for you. Kingdoms await . . . kingdoms.” Her yellowed eyes rolled in her head, then closed, and she slipped into sleep.

The brothers stood for a moment, unsure if she was still awake. Unwilling to leave if she was. Arthur wondered—not for the first time—how she could make him feel so precious and yet so afraid.

The captive Drosselmeyer had been in the dungeons for weeks, drawing up plans, carrying out the orders of his mother and her generals. Arthur had stayed away, disturbed by the smell of the man, a tang of fear and sorrow. But no longer. He would do something to make her proud.

Fighting Charlemagne's urge to pull back, Arthur leaned over his mother and pressed his cheek to hers, forcing his brothers to do the same. Hannibal whispered warlike promises into her ear. Arthur hummed a little tune—something his mother used to sing when they were young.

The Queen's eyelids fluttered open. She smiled up at them, warming Arthur from nose to tail.

“My beautiful sons,” the Queen said. “My beautiful boys.”

• • •

“SHE'S DYING,” ARTHUR DECLARED
when they reached the study room.

Ernst Listz shrugged eloquently. “We all have our season, I'm afraid.”

The princes were silent for a long moment.

“And the siege engine?” Charlemagne asked. “We must move sooner.”

“Not ready just yet,” Ernst said. “This ‘Drosselmeyer'”—he said the word as if it were a foreign taste on his tongue—“is not motivated by our schedule. He works, and then stops.”

“Stops to do what?” Hannibal asked.

“Nothing, as far as we can tell.”

“Perhaps he is afraid,” Alexander surmised. “He fears for his life.”

“Good
!
” That was Genghis, crowing triumphantly. “Let the man fear us
!
He can spread the word to his kind that we are not to be ignored.”

“Very clever,” Charlemagne snapped. “Set him free to
warn
them. Have you not listened to anything Herr Listz has taught us? The tsars of Russia knew best—blind him, so he may never see to draw these plans again. Cut out his tongue, so he may not speak of it. Maim him so he may not write what he has seen.”

“Why not just kill him?” Hannibal asked. “We can figure the rest out ourselves.”

Each of them knew it was a lie. Mice were experts in plunder, not construction.

Arthur ignored his brothers. He studied a set of copied blueprints, identical to the Drosselmeyer's larger ones. Yes, the man was afraid. But there was something more.

“I think he's lonely,” Arthur ventured.

He had to say it twice before Hannibal and Genghis stopped their bickering.

“He's what?” Hannibal snapped. “That's ridiculous. He's our prisoner
!
What do we care if he is
lonely
?”

Arthur put the paper down and lifted the hand mirror they'd begun wearing on a chain around their neck, so he could look his brothers in the eye. They quieted, as they always did when one of them used the mirror, appalled into silence at the sight of their own deformity. It was easy to imagine themselves normal, if a little crowded, until they saw all those eyes, all those mouths, gaping back at them.

“It matters because the beast that despairs does not work. It dies. It's common among birds—swans and eagles perish when they lose their mates. We've separated him from his young, and intelligence tells us his mate is dead. He's lonely . . .” Arthur faced himself in the mirror, greeted the stares and glares of his brothers straight on. He sighed audibly. As usual, they did not follow his way of thinking. “Which means . . . he will
die
. And
almost
finished is not the same as being done.”

“Yes . . . of course,” Charlemagne acknowledged slowly. “But . . . what can we do about it?”

Their reflection blinked back in bewilderment.

Arthur dropped the mirror and turned to his tutor.

“I imagine none of you has ever felt alone,” Ernst said. He glanced at Arthur and hesitated. “Most of you, that is,” he amended.

Arthur smiled, pleased to be understood, if only a little.

“I'd suggest . . . some reconnaissance,” the tutor continued. “Get to know the toymaker. Learn what he pines for. And then, if we are able, give him what he wants.”

Arthur nodded before his brothers could protest. “Yes.
We
will speak to him. I'll attempt to befriend him. The rest of you can observe,” he quickly added, “and learn his weaknesses. They may be of use in facing his cousin.”

Arthur bit his tongue. He'd almost given away his sympathies for the toymaker, but his brothers were too self-absorbed to notice.

SMOOTH AS THE
clockwork horses were, between riding all day and sleeping on the ground at night, Stefan was so bruised and stiff by the end of the week he was sure his bones would break. And yet, he would not let it stop him. While the sun shone, he rode as if the devil were at his back. At night, he slept the sleep of the dead. That in itself was a blessing, for it kept bad dreams away.

“We'll stop here for the night,” Samir announced early one evening. “Here” was a hilltop above a rolling meadow. The sun was fading behind a crest of trees that gave shelter, if not warmth. Stefan spread out his bedroll, and after a simple supper of hard bread and cheese, quickly fell asleep.

It wasn't until hours later, when nature called, that he woke to find Samir with his telescope out. But this time, instead of having it pointed up at the stars, he was looking out across the landscape.

Stefan's heart somersaulted into his throat. “What's wrong?”

“Come and see for yourself.” The astrologer waved him over.

Stefan put his eye to the glass.

In the meadow below, two armies were locked in battle.

“Is that . . . ?”

“The Prussian army,” Samir confirmed.

Stefan pulled away from the spyglass, tilted by the same
sense of vertigo he'd felt beneath the gears of the City Clock. How had he forgotten the world of men was still at war?

From this distance, they looked like toy soldiers on a felt-top table, laid out in the same geometric formations Stefan and his father used in their mock battles. But this was different.

A soft snapping sound filled the night. “What was that?” Stefan asked, breathless.

“Gunfire. They're using muskets. Rifles. Cannon, too, no doubt. Only those mountains keep the sound from being deafening,” the astrologer said.

Stefan could just make out the shapes of the Prussian soldiers' shakos—tall, black felt hats with short visors. He steadied himself and once again pressed the cold brass to his eye. Through the spyglass he could see the gold braid, the brass buttons on their uniforms, twinkling in the moonlight. Stefan had painted countless such rows down the tin jackets of soldiers in his father's shop.

“And to the south . . .” He turned the spyglass as he spoke. Strange silhouettes resolved into wide pantaloons and a variety of oddly peaked soft caps.

“The Turks,” Samir confirmed.

“The Ottoman Empire?” Stefan could hardly believe it. Such skirmishes had been going on for longer than he'd been alive—the Serbians fought the Turks for independence; the Austro-Hungarian Empire fought for land. The deposed Emperor Napoleon had fought to rule all of Europe and failed.

The coffeehouses and biergartens of Nuremberg were full of talk. About the war, about the Treaty of Vienna. Local
newspapers doggedly followed the latest strife. But it had always been so distant to Stefan, just stories and tin men on the table in the toyshop. Now it was in front of him—screaming horses, shouting men, and the stench of gunpowder in the air. Tiny men fell in puffs of smoke and did not rise again. This was war.

“Will they come close to us?” Stefan's voice was small.

“No. We were wise to keep to the trees.” Samir took back the spyglass. “This is merely a skirmish. With luck, they will be gone by tomorrow, since our path lies on the far side, beyond those hills.”

It was one thing to read about battlefields, quite another to walk through one like a carrion crow sifting through the dead.

Samir grimaced. “Perhaps you should not have seen this. One is never old enough to see war.” He placed the glass back in its case. “The stars will tell me nothing more tonight. We should both get some rest.”

Reluctantly, Stefan agreed. He did not think he would be able to sleep, but his lids grew heavy swiftly and he did.

• • •

IN THE MORNING,
the armies were gone, but their dead remained.

“Will they come back for them?” Stefan asked.

“Yes, with wagons,” Samir replied. They picked their way along the edge of the battleground. “We must make it into the foothills before then.”

The mechanical horses moved steadily along the edge of the battleground, weaving a path through the fallen soldiers and
abandoned guns. High in his saddle, Stefan stared at the carnage on the field. To his left, a boy not much older than him lay faceup beside his bayonet, the red uniform like a second terrible wound on his pale, cold skin.

“Father never gives them wounds,” Stefan said, wiping his eyes. Tin soldiers might break, but they never died.

“We'd best be gone before either side returns,” Samir suggested. They kicked in their heels and did not look back.

“HERR DROSSELMEYER?”
said a tremulous voice.

Zacharias sat up with a start. He reached for his carving knife to defend himself, and strained his ears.

The ridiculous toy he'd been creating sat abandoned in the middle of his cell. Work was no longer a solace. His captors had made no attempt to engage him, and they had told him nothing of Stefan. He'd laid down his tools in protest, but defiance had turned to despair. Now his voice was hoarse and rusty with disuse.

“Who's there?” he croaked.

“Don't be afraid,” the small voice said in perfect German. It was a child's, perhaps, for it was soft and high, and came from somewhere mid-height along the far wall.

“Why shouldn't I be?” Zacharias asked. “I am kept here against my will with no knowledge of my son. I am very much afraid.”

“Then, don't be afraid of me,” the voice said.

“Who are you? Show yourself.”

“I cannot. But you may call me Arthur.”

Zacharias closed his eyes. It was so good to hear a human voice. He'd half feared he'd gone deaf, so profound had been the silence of his cell.

“Hello, Arthur. How do you know my name?”

“That doesn't matter, does it?”

“It does to me,” Zacharias said. He had to keep the boy talking. Maybe he could persuade him to open the door. Suddenly, a horrible thought struck him. “Are you a prisoner here, too?”

The voice hesitated. “Of a sort.”

“You live here, then?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” Zacharias said softly. “Not a very nice place for a child to grow up.”

“What do you know?” the voice spat. Zacharias recoiled. It sounded like the same voice, but not the same tone. Had the boy brought a friend?

“I'm sorry, I meant no offense,” Zacharias said quickly. “Only, I've seen nothing more than this cell.”

There was scuffling and then a long silence.

“Arthur? Are you still there?” Another long silence.

“Yes.”

“It's nice to talk to someone. It's one of the things I miss down here. Work—even work you love—is not enough to keep a person alive,” he said sadly. But there was also something sad about an unfinished toy, even in these circumstances. Like the boy on the other side of this prison wall, a life not given the chance to truly live.

“What are you working on?” Arthur asked.

“I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. A toy soldier, but he's much too large for any child's play.” He pulled himself to his feet, his joints popping as he stretched his limbs; it was the most he'd moved in days.

“I suspect it's by royal request.” In the silence of his cell,
Zacharias had thought a great deal about his captivity. The long trip and the dungeon had at last convinced him. He must be in Boldavia. The king had kidnapped and imprisoned him, perhaps to punish Christian.

“Why?” Arthur asked.

Zacharias shrugged. “I only half understand the circumstances. But normal houses do not have dungeons, Arthur. Who else would live in a castle, but a king?”

“A queen,” Arthur said, but his voice was bigger somehow, as if more than one person had spoken. Zacharias put a finger in his ear and jiggled it. The cold must be getting to him, or the sound was affected by the thickness of the stones.

“Why didn't you finish?” Arthur demanded. Or, perhaps this was no longer Arthur. Zacharias felt his forehead. Did he have a fever? His hands were too cold to tell.

“Because toys should be made out of joy, or there will be no joy in playing with them. I am too sad.”

“Why are you sad?”

Zacharias sat at the desk again. The blueprints looked back at him accusingly, unfulfilled. “Because I have a son, Arthur, a little older than you, by the sound of it. I don't know where he is, and he doesn't know where I am. My wife . . . his mother, she passed away recently. A boy shouldn't have to face that alone.” He fell silent, sinking again into despair. He'd left his son all alone. “I'm sorry, Arthur. I don't feel like talking much anymore. Perhaps you will come again?”

There was some whispering. The boy was definitely not alone.

“Arthur, who's with you? Don't get yourself in trouble by talking to me.”

“I won't,” the boy said. “But . . . Herr Drosselmeyer?”

Zacharias's head was beginning to hurt, and the straw bed was calling to him, telling him to lie down and never get up again. “Yes?” he managed to say.

“I like toys,” Arthur whispered. “I'd very much like to see what you've made.”

The construct was little more than a framework now, the bones of a person, weighted pulleys at the joints, cables running down the spine. It would take a clever puppeteer to manipulate it, but one day the soldier would walk and even hold a sword.

“I confess I'm curious to see it myself,” Zacharias admitted at last. His sorrow receded just a little. Just enough.

“Will you finish it?” Arthur asked. “Please?”

Maybe because the boy reminded him of Stefan, or maybe it was simply that a child was asking, but Zacharias nodded. “Will you come back to visit me? If it is safe?”

Only a slight hesitation, then, “Yes.”

Zacharias smiled, lifted on a strange wave of relief.

“Then I will build it,” he agreed.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered.

In the silence that followed, Zacharias knew he was gone. He rose and pressed his ear against the wall, searching it with both candlelight and fingers for the crevice that allowed the boy to speak to him. He found nothing. Both heartened and disturbed, he returned to his desk. Picking up his carving knife, he went back to work.