The Toymaker's Apprentice (25 page)

IT WOULD HAVE BEEN INSPIRING,
if it hadn't been so misguided. Ernst stood on a rocky ledge overlooking the main cavern beneath the Boldavian capital. For a quarter mile in each direction stretched rank upon rank of mice. Soldiers bred to fight ever since the caverns opened up beneath Boldavia and the old Queen first squeaked of rebellion. So what if their parents had been scrabblers and thieves?
They
would be heroes.

Ernst snorted delicately at the thought. During the Rat Insurrection of Hameln, the soldiers had come from a line of warriors that stretched back to the days of ancient Babylon. They had fought like true rats and died like them. They were nothing like the rabble that stood before him now in poor mimicry of a human army.

“Are we not extraordinary?” It was Hannibal, speaking again in that new, disturbingly diplomatic voice, made even more unnerving by the use of the royal “we.”

Ernst steeled himself and bowed. “Indeed, sire. The siege engines are quite astounding.”

This much, at least, was true. There had been industry in secret. While the captive Drosselmeyer had made the first of the soldiers, the mice had been making copies.

Beyond the mouse army, he could see the engines of war packed, end over end, on low, wheeled platforms. Unfolded and assembled to their full height, they wouldn't fit in this
cavern. And so they were strapped down for the long journey to Nuremberg, where the new King of Mice would confront his mother's killer. If they were looking to make an impression, it would be done.

“Every wounded animal returns to its den,” Hannibal had told Ernst. “You taught us that.”

Hannibal was learning how to take control, Ernst noted. The other boys spoke less and less, while he spoke more. He was a natural tyrant, unlike Arthur, who hadn't spoken for hours. It was as if his brothers had used Arthur to woo the tutor and learn their lessons, and then took over with the knowledge he had brought them. Or perhaps the boy let them take over. If it was war they were waging, Hannibal was the most warlike of the bunch.

The rat tutor frowned. Fond as he was of Arthur, a word came to mind more frequently these days: “abomination.”

If the fiercest rat warriors could not overtake humanity, then certainly the monster beside him would fail. Most likely before they even reached Nuremberg. Ernst had seen the plans laid out in the war room. The army would sail upstream via a series of subterranean rivers. Days without light or fresh air on rafts that could be taken apart, carried through tunnels or over open land as needed. There, the danger was greatest. Hawk and owl attacks had decimated more than one rodent tribe before. This army would be no different.

“Citizens
!
Soldiers
!
” The voice of the Mouse King roared from five mouths at once.

Ernst jumped in his red velvet coat, his lace cuffs trembling.

Arthur remained quiet, a hard stare on the young face. And
of course, Julius merely lolled to the side, dull-eyed and oblivious to his brothers.

“The death of our mother is a wound to us all.” The King indicated the crowd of soldiers and advisers, as well as his other heads. “A wound that will be avenged
!
”

The army roared.

Ernst applauded politely and wondered what the weather would be like in Germany.

“The enemy has a face,” the King crowed. “A human named Stefan Drosselmeyer.”

The name “Drosselmeyer” rippled around the room, whispered by a thousand awed tongues. Drosselmeyer, ever the enemy of mice.

“He murdered our Queen
!
And it's no wonder. He is kin to the Master of Mousetraps, the villain who created the Breathless
!
But now, we will use their tricks against them
!
We will destroy their entire line
!
And then we shall take our rightful place in the world above. No man can stand in our way
!
”

The crowd roared again.

Hannibal nodded at a mouse to his right, a tattered-looking piebald in a worn blue coat. Ernst recognized the mouse's significance—another spy.

The little spy whispered into the King's ears. Hannibal's eyes narrowed. He dismissed the mouse with a flick of his paw and the piebald disappeared down a side corridor. A host of small shadows detached from the wall and followed him into the cave. The King's spies were abroad.

A moment of silence hung in the expectant air. And the King roared with the might of a raging storm. “To Nuremberg
!
”

Throughout the cavern, horns sounded a brassy call to arms, and the entire host of mice snapped to attention. A hoary-furred general in full regalia, his uniform gleaming with gold braid and medals, climbed atop the first siege engine. He bellowed an order and the army surged forward into the deep tunnels, to the river and the first battle of the new insurrection.

STEFAN GRABBED HIS HAT
off the peg by the door.

“Don't forget your coat,” his mother said. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the kitchen and her apron was dusted in sugar.

“I won't,” he promised.

“Sugarplums,” she announced, happily displaying a tray of treats. “It's Christmas again. Your father will be very busy, Stefan. He needs you. Don't forget that.”

He looked out the window. “Who is that?”

His mother turned around. Now there were flowers in her hands instead of sweets. Yellow tulips, Chinese peonies. Her apron was dusted with potting soil from the window box she was filling. “That's your cousin Christian. That rascal. I thought you said he was coming to visit me, not stand in the yard plotting with your father.”

Stefan moved to the window; it was cold and frosted with ice. He pressed his hand against the glass to wipe it clean. Suddenly, the pane was clear, warmed by spring sunshine.

Outside, his father looked worried. Christian hung his head.

“What are they plotting?” he asked. If he listened very hard, he could hear them.

“Join them,” his mother said. But Stefan could not find the door.

AT THE EDGE
of the Iron Gate—where Christian had supposedly drowned—they were forced to go on foot. Christian flagged down a farmer bringing a load of turnips north and, for a few coins, purchased a ride back up the river.

The oxen leaned slowly into the added weight, and soon they were off, the men's boots dangling from the back of the cart. Stefan lay on his coat amidst the turnips. It was early afternoon, but the December sun was already sinking behind the trees. There had been too many sleepless nights, and only Christian seemed unaffected by the constant wakefulness. Within a mile, Zacharias and Samir had nodded off.

The countryside was peaceful—broad-leafed trees and the steady rumble of the cartwheels, as rhythmic as a metronome. The sun to the west was a golden pendulum that swung in time to the gears of the planets and the stars.

A low shadow swooped overhead in a whoosh of wings. Christian ducked. There was a rustle in the trees. An early owl. That was good. The mice could not be far off, he knew, and with the hunters in the sky, they would keep low for now. If only the oxen could be coaxed to move faster. But one thing every clockmaker knew was that things tended to happen in their own good time.

Another rustling in the trees. Christian peered into the hedges lining the road.

Scuffle, scuffle.

His blood froze.

Skitter, scuffle.

There
!
In the ditch a mere ten feet behind him was a solitary black-and-white mouse.

Christian tapped Samir awake. Without moving his lips, he said, “We are being watched.”

Samir stiffened.

“Don't wake Zacharias,” Christian said. “Not yet. We can't outrun them with Stefan in this state. My kingdom for a windup horse, eh?” In the melee, they had left their steeds behind with only one thought in mind: to flee as fast as possible. The fisherman's boat had saved their lives.

“Shall we set fire to the brush?”

“Not a bad idea, but our farmer here might disagree. Especially when the wind rises and the flames sweep across his fields.”

“You're right, sunset is nigh,” Samir agreed. The wind always rose with the setting of the sun, as if a great doorway was sliding open to admit its passage.

“Samir, can you reach Stefan's coat pocket?”

The astrologer shifted and a turnip tumbled to the ground. “I can.”

“Feel around for something the size of your fist. Do you have it?”

Samir rummaged in one pocket, then the other, and emerged triumphant. “A wooden bird?”

“Good lad
!
” Christian proclaimed. “He stuck with it after all.
Don't look so disappointed, Samir. This is not just any wooden bird. It is a decoy, the best one I've seen of late.”

He wound the tail feathers carefully, holding tight so the bird would fly far.

“Now, if you were an army of mice, which direction would you come from?”

Samir watched the road winding along the riverbank. “Away from the water, I'd imagine. The ground here would be too muddy for such short limbs. Across the fields beyond those hedges?”

In the ditch, the little mouse hopped forward, keeping pace with the cart, but never coming too close. It was disturbing to see the small animal moving toward them with such purpose. Christian removed a glove with his teeth. He licked a finger, held it to the wind, and did a calculation in his head.

“Let's see if you're right,” he said, and let the bird go.

Stefan's gray dove rose up into the early evening sky, a pale spot against the purpling clouds. She soared out over the road, past the trees, and over the distant fields out of their sight.

In the road, the piebald mouse paused, inquisitive eyes following the path of the wooden bird.

A shadow swooped overhead. And another. The mouse dove for the ditch, scurrying beneath piles of drifted leaves.

From the trees rose three great owls. On mighty wings, they beat the air and silently sailed after the dove.

“Good hunting,” Christian called softly. With luck, they had bought themselves another night. But they were going to need a better plan.

“Zacharias,” he called. Samir nudged the toymaker awake.

“Yes? Is it safe?” the sleep-befuddled toymaker asked.

“Not as safe as I'd like,” Christian replied. “We're being followed.”

Zacharias stared fearfully down the dwindling road.

“Once we reach the far side of the rapids, there will be boats to hire. We'll do our best to outrun them. But, when we reach Nuremberg, we must be ready. I suggest we give them more than one place to look.”

“What did you have in mind?” Zacharias asked.

“We'll need supplies. We can get them outside of Vienna. And then, get ready to carve, toymaker. This will be your greatest work yet.”

IT BEGAN WITH
a single bird, gliding over the winter fields, a small gray dove with strangeness in its flight, pursued by a silent shadow. Then two. Then many.

Cold dread seized Arthur's chest. His back crawled like a wound infested by maggots. His brothers trembled. Birdsign.

“To ground
!
” came the cry from the infantry.

“Hold fast,” Alexander whispered. “Hold fast
!
” he cried, and Arthur cried with him. The King of Mice pulled themselves together and stood tall while around them their soldiers cowered in fear.

“Sires, to ground
!
” the piebald Snitter begged. The King's guard had already begun digging a trench. Was he expected to lie down in it until the danger had passed? His mother never lay down. She fought. Like ice shattering on the surface of a pond, Arthur came awake. The numbness that had settled over him since their declaration of war had finally melted away. Hannibal was the fighter, but he was only one-seventh of their might. It would take all of them to win this war. Alexander, Charlemagne, Genghis, Roland, even Julius. They were each a part of one whole. The King of Boldavia. The King of Mice. He would not cower any longer.

“They are only birds,” Arthur said as an owl dove toward him. “We are hunters of men.” He pulled his sword. And felt his mother's love.

But the piebald guards knew their duty. Snitter deftly pushed his sovereign leader into the freshly dug trench. He dove in after, covering Arthur and his brothers with his own small body. Over the piebald's shoulder, mice dug in, their spears butted into the earth to form a crown of thorns to protect their King.

The owl screamed, a sound that could flay the fur off an honest mouse. Arthur smelt the chalky stench of owl feathers and droppings, the foul, hot breath of an entrail eater. The great yellow claws stretched down, only to be thwarted by the bristling spears.

One shaft broke. The rest held.

Angered, the owl screamed, and with a thunderous burst of wings, pulled up into the sky.

Around them, more birds came swarming from the north. The sun had set, and the scent of mice had risen in the wind, waking the night raptors. Above them, the enraged owl cut an arc across the heavens and swooped, skimming its claws across the stubbled field.

It was more than some mice could take. Three soldiers broke and ran, chased by the curses of their fellows. The great bird raked the deserters with its talons, tearing them to pieces. With a shrill cry, it rose into the sky again, its sharp gaze on the greatest prize. The largest mouse it had ever seen.

Within the circle, the King of Mice rose to his feet. “Release me
!
” his voices bellowed as one.

The mouse guard trembled and obeyed. They stepped back, spears to the sky, a sparse ring around their leader.

Hannibal hefted their sword. Arthur and his brothers looked into the yellow eyes of death.

And they struck with the force of seven kings.

The owl cried out as the sword pierced its breast. “Attack
!
” Arthur bellowed.

“Attack
!
” his brothers joined in.

The King's guard sucked in their collective breaths. A mouse of Boldavia had stood alone against an owl, and won.

“To the King
!
” they cried, and struck in a rush of pride and fury. The owl fell beneath their weapons, their teeth, and their claws.

Rising above the fray, Arthur and his brothers watched their army attacked and harried from above. Here and there, a mouse was taken, screaming a high shrill death cry.

Arthur wanted to weep from exhaustion and fear, but his pride would not let him. Hannibal and Charlemagne wanted to continue to fight. But the remaining piebald guard was determined to keep their King alive.

“We've found a moleway, sire,” Snitter muttered into Arthur's ear. “We can get Your Majesty underground. Half your soldiers are under way already. We'll lose some, but save more. Come, sire. Let us flee before nightfall. We've no chance against more owls.”

“No
!
” Hannibal snarled. “We have our sword
!
”

A cold stillness surrounded Arthur, despite the flickering shadows from above, despite the owl-darkening skies. They had felled one raptor, it was true. And, following his lead, the rest of the army had brought down three more. But that was not the reason they had left Boldavia.

“Birds are not our quarry,” he reminded them. “We hunt men. Lead on, Snitter. Our mother must be avenged.”

Pressed close to the earth, hidden by dirt and winter wheat, Arthur and his guard made their way across the frost-chilled field. One of his guards was lost in the process, twenty-seven mice in all. But his army counted in the thousands. Nothing could stand in their way for long.