The Toymaker's Apprentice (29 page)

ZACHARIAS HAD BITTEN
his nails to the quick. Sitting on the judging stage beside his giant nutcracker soldier, he watched his neighbors and friends carry on normally while his son hid for his life across the city.

This was lonely work. People swirled around him like colorful snowflakes in the wind. Girls in their winter coats clustered together, laughing and whispering like conspiratorial hens. Young men in new hats strutted by like peacocks. Babies bounced in daddies' arms. Mothers herded their children past the toy display, clucking at naughty little ones who certainly could
not
have yet
another
toy before morning. It was a veritable farmyard of humanity. Wonderful, but utterly alien to him tonight.

Samir had shared Stefan's analogy of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse with Zacharias. Now, all he could see was how many of these good people would fall to the famine and pestilence of mice.

“Come, Zacharias. You act as if this is your first Kindlesmarkt
!
” Tobias Muller said, thumping him on the back. Tobias was a woodmaker like Zacharias, but where they might have been rivals, they were friends.

“Of course, this will be the hardest time of year, with Elise gone now. You always were a nervous one in competition. She knew how to handle you just so,” Tobias said kindly. “This piece of yours, though. It's wonderful. A perfect blend of truth
and whimsy. I thought it was Stefan himself when you first arrived. It's sure to do well tonight. It's one of a kind.”

In fact, it's three of a kind,
Zacharias thought. Smiling, he allowed himself to be cajoled into drinking a cup of hot cider. As the warmth of cinnamon and apples filled his mouth, the taste of fear and the chill of the Boldavian dungeons began to wash away. He was safe for the first time in many weeks.

And then the screaming began.

• • •

SAMIR HAD BARELY REACHED
the street when the enemy appeared. The road before Professor Blume's house was teeming with mice.

Samir turned and ran. Down the walkway, through the rows of carefully tended flowering shrubs, the annuals, the perennials, the evergreens. His boots slapped the flagstones as he bounded up the front steps. He raised his fist and banged on the door.

Professor Blume blinked out into the night air. “Yes?”

Samir broke into a relieved grin. “I'll have that tea after all, if you don't mind.”

The old botanist stepped back and let the Arab inside. He did not appear to notice that the underbrush in his garden was moving.

Samir pulled him away from the door, throwing the bolt.

“I say, it looked a bit breezy out there,” the professor said.

“Indeed, that is what chased me back,” Samir lied. He peered out into the night from behind a heavily draped curtain. “Must be a storm coming,” he murmured less boisterously.

For on the lawn and in the trees, the eyes of a hundred mice looked back at him.

IT WAS MARIE'S IDEA TO
send Kinyata out for more information.

Stefan watched, impressed, as the girl knelt by the cat and whispered the task into her ear.

“Find us another mouseling, Kinyata. But don't hurt it. Bring it to us. Uncle Drosselmeyer wants to talk to it.”

“You speak Catish?” Stefan asked.

Marie shook her head, eyes still on her pet. “I haven't a clue. But Kinyata understands me.”

The cat blinked her yellow eyes slowly. With a soft
mrrowl
, she padded to the window and leapt out onto the open ledge.

“She climbs down the tree next door. Scared me half to death coming home one night, scratching at the window. I must've closed it not knowing she was gone. But now, no matter the weather, I keep it open just enough for her.”

Christian frowned. “If a cat can get out, a mouse can get in. When Kinyata returns, we'll have to find a better way of securing your room. It's not safe here until we do.”

“It will be if I leave,” Stefan said. “I can't stay here if they know where I am. I won't put anyone else in danger.”

“They don't know where you are yet,” Christian said. “And, quite frankly, I don't know where else to go. Let's not make decisions until we have our stool pigeon. And then we'll know where we stand.”

A knock at the door announced the light supper Marie had ordered.

Stefan froze into the perfect likeness of a doll as Marie opened the door.

A gray-haired woman entered with a tray.

“Thank you,
Clara
,” Marie said with emphasis.

Stefan stifled a chuckle.

“Now don't leave a mess, Miss Marie. We don't want to draw any nasty pests,” the maid admonished. Clearly, she had once been Marie's nurse. “Merry Christmas, Miss, Herr Drosselmeyer.” Clara dipped a curtsy and left them to their snack.

Half an hour later, Kinyata returned, her fur damp from prowling the misty night. In her mouth was a motionless gray-and-white mouse.

“She's killed it,” Stefan said.

“No, she hasn't,” Marie replied. She picked the mouse up from Kinyata's delicate grip. “It's fainted.” Her mouth pursed in concern. “How do you revive a mouse?”

Efficient as an army nurse, Marie laid her patient on the dressing table. After a moment's thought, she reached for a small bottle, and waved the stopper beneath the mouse's nose.

“Rose water,” she explained.

It seemed to work. The mouse's nostrils twitched, and then its eyelids fluttered, revealing pink, albino eyes.

• • •

“BE CALM, WE WON'T
hurt you,” the human growled.

Dusker forced himself to squirm the way a mouse would be expected to. But his mind was not clouded by fear. He assessed the situation the way he was trained to.

The smell of the cat that had caught him was fading, but a sniff told him the beast was still in the room.
Stupid
, being caught like that. He'd be demoted if he ever survived this encounter. It would be no less than he deserved.

Dusker had been on reconnaissance for the chief of intelligence himself, having just left the presence of his commander and a glimpse of the wondrous King. It was the sight of the King that had set Dusker's head whirling off the task at hand. He had to concentrate to deal with the situation.
Ponder the wonders of the universe later,
he told himself.
For now, survive.

Dusker squealed incomprehensibly, in a convincing imitation of dumb terror. The human frowned at him. It was a male. From the description Dusker had been given, he supposed it was the clockmaker himself, the one who had thwarted the Queen's curse in Boldavia with that despicable nut.

Dusker scented the air. Perhaps the boy was here, too. The piebald shuddered for real this time, but in pleasure, not fear. To bring the new King this prize would establish him forever in the intelligence branch.

“Don't kill me, don't kill me
!
” Dusker cried in his best country accent. He doubted the human was familiar with mouse dialects, but it was always best to be thorough when undercover.

A second human, the one with the rose water, appeared distressed by his cries.
Good. A sympathizer.

The cat was still in the room. It leapt up onto the table to peer at him with murderous interest.

Dusker cursed himself for a fool. Best to get this scene over with, discover how much the humans knew.

“What do you want?” He spoke more clearly, dropping the country act.

The clockmaker's lips parted in a vicious smile. “Ah,” he said in passable Mouseish, “you know who I am?”

There was no use lying. Honesty brought answers more quickly. He nodded once, yes.

The girl beside the clockmaker seemed anxious, or curious. Dusker wished he had a better grasp of human languages.

“Have you reported our location yet?” the clockmaker asked.

Dusker hesitated. If he said yes, the humans might kill him now, with nothing else to lose. If he said no, they still might kill him, or they might keep him for later.

Dusker shook his head, no.

“When do they expect to hear from you next?” The human seemed to have all the right questions.

“At dawn,” Dusker lied. In for a nibble, in for a bite—dawn was as good a time as any to die, if it came to that. There were too many mice out to even consider a periodic report from each of them. Instead, each scout had been given one command—report when you find the clockmaker and his boy, or do not come back. The King's intelligence had spies out in every quarter, scouring the city for the clockmaker. Dusker had found him only by misfortune.

The clockmaker nodded, and exchanged some words with the girl, who'd been watching with great interest. She produced a small cage and ushered him inside. The lock was simple, a latch he could easily throw with a paw. But, he would not do it. Even when the girl took the extra step of covering the cage with
a thick towel, dampening sounds and blocking his sight, Dusker merely smiled.

It was difficult enough to be a piebald in this day and age, but being albino was worse. Dusker would have been lucky to make sergeant. But, his luck had changed. He had the clockmaker, one way or another, which meant a promotion. He'd be a hero to the crown. Not to mention warm and dry until sunrise. His comrades in the sewers and streets of Nuremberg would not be so lucky tonight.

• • •

“WE'RE SAFE UNTIL DAWN,
at least. That gives us some time,” Christian told them.

“That was Mouseish? Such a painful-sounding language,” Marie said.

“I'm sure German sounds quite clunky to them,” Christian replied.

“Where is my father?” Stefan wanted to know.

“Safe for the moment at the Kindlesmarkt.” Christian pulled a watch from his pocket. “Which lasts for another hour. Time to put on our thinking caps. By then we'll need a plan.”

“What about the cats?” Marie asked. “Can't they do something against an army of mice?”

Christian shrugged. “If they wanted to, I suppose. But, aside from your friendship with Kinyata, diplomacy is difficult in the language of cats. Furthermore, what the politics are between other animal kingdoms, I can't say. Let's not forget our history. In Boldavia, and in Hameln years ago, cats were nowhere to be found. We've no reason to think Nuremberg will be any different.”

“Well, that hardly seems fair.” Marie frowned and flounced down on the edge of her bed. “Let's rouse the mouse again and ask him about his army. Kinyata will make him tell the truth.”

“Marie, my dear, we already know the truth. The King is here. His soldiers are beneath the city—” Christian broke off, thinking.

Stefan's own mind had wandered, flowing beneath Nuremberg, following paths they had walked just weeks ago. “The catacombs of the Brotherhood
!
” he exclaimed. “If the mice are here, wouldn't your friend Gullet know where?”

“Without a doubt.” Christian nodded. “It's time for a little reconnaissance mission of our own. Keep an eye on our guest, you two. Rest, if you can. And Stefan, watch over Marie.”

She gave him a look.

Christian cleared his throat. “I mean . . . look after each
other
. If I'm not back by morning, send for Samir. He and Zacharias are supposed to meet me at the clock tower at midnight. Send for them there. Samir will make sure you are all safe. But then, God help us all.”

THEY CAME FROM UNDERGROUND.
First at the edges of the Kindlesmarkt, then from the drains and sewers that dotted the cobblestone square. From beneath the carts and stands with their fresh gingerbread, their candles and soaps, their trinkets and dolls.

The mice rose.

“Aieeeee
!
” A woman screamed and tried to jump onto the counter of her cart. It toppled under her weight, sending delicate ceramic mugs shattering to the ground.

Around her, women dragged shrieking children into their arms. Men stamped the cobblestones with hobnail boots. Girls fainted, boys laughed, until it became clear that this was no prank. The Kindlesmarkt was under attack.

A brigade of piebalds led the march; swarming through legs that could crush and maim, they ran with the fearlessness that gives rise to legends. Passing the nut vendors, the cake sellers, the sweetmeat men, they ran until they reached the stage of the toymakers' guild, guarded by a figure in red coat and black boots. A nutcracker. The boy that killed their Queen.

A man shouted hoarsely as the figurine was pulled into the vortex of mice. Teeth, eyes, claws flashed, and suddenly, as if sharing an exhalation, the mice stopped and pulled away.

The piebalds conferred and gave out orders. It had been
a ruse, a manikin of the young Drosselmeyer hiding in plain sight. That left the garden villa and the townhouse across the city.

As quickly as they had come, the mice retreated, leaving stunned revelers clinging to the booths and carts of the Kindlesmarkt like driftwood abandoned by the tide.

From the safety of the Christkind's balcony, pulled there by the quick-thinking Tobias, Zacharias Drosselmeyer watched the enemy take a trophy before the last of the army left.

They severed the head of the nutcracker and carried it away.

On the balcony, crushed into the press of hysterical women and men, the golden girl in her Christkind costume took Zacharias's hand and held it as the toymaker stifled a sob.

• • •

“THE DOLL, WHERE IS IT?”
Samir asked.

Professor Blume was barely able to catch his guest's teacup as it toppled from the serving tray. “Goodness, it's right here. In my study.”

Samir looked around him.

“No, no, my study. The greenhouse. It's a sunroom. A wonderful thing for someone used to warmer climates, such as yourself, I would imagine.”

He led the way with a dawning awareness that something was agitating the Arab at his heels.

“Right through—oh . . .” The professor stopped in his tracks, face pressed to the glass door.

Samir swore softly.

A whirlwind had reaped the greenery. Plants lay in shreds,
roots exposed, bulbs eaten away. Mice were everywhere. And destruction followed in their path.

The professor's jaw worked as he tried to speak, and failed.

Samir placed a firm hand on the man's shoulder and pulled him aside. “Oh, Stefan,” he murmured, and his heart fell.

In the middle of the once lush room, spread-eagled like a fallen scarecrow, lay the nutcracker doll. Torn, chewed, and battered. The mice had taken its head. There would be no mercy for Stefan, if he was discovered. The mice would not hesitate to kill. Samir could only hope Christian had hidden him well.

“My beautiful plants,” Professor Blume moaned. “My lovely
Aspidistra campanulata
 . . .” His fingers trailed down the windowpanes in the door. “Wait
!
Where are you going?” he cried.

But Samir was already gone.