The Toymaker's Apprentice (7 page)

ALL THE GUILDHOUSES
of Nuremberg lined a single street like embassies of foreign lands. The bakers' guild, the carpenters' guild, the silversmiths', ironsmiths', and coopers' guilds, the toymakers', and of course, the clockmakers' guild. Like a box of chocolates, from the outside each building looked the same—a tall, thin, multistoried townhouse that shared thick walls with its neighbors. Only when you became a member could you see the varied treasures and secrets hidden inside.

Stefan and Christian stumped up the stairs of the clockmakers' guild—distinguished from its fellows by a simple clock set in the peak of its roof, black hands on a white face, and the words
Tempus Fugit
carved into the stone lintel over the front door:
Time Flees
.

They entered a high-ceilinged foyer where a clerk looked up from his ledgers. He attempted to stop them with his basilisk gaze. His expression suggested he'd just eaten a lemon while smelling an old boot.

Christian broke into a wide smile, introduced himself as Master Clockmaker to the Royal Court of Boldavia, and demanded the ledger for Stefan to sign.

Stefan Zacharias Drosselmeyer
, he wrote,
journeyman first year in the service of Christian Drosselmeyer
, et cetera, et cetera. His hand shook as he drew the final line with the clerk's ridiculously large quill pen. He was no longer just his father's son.
He was a journeyman now. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He hoped his mother would be proud.

Stefan watched as the clerk peered through narrow pince-nez glasses at his handiwork, rolled a blotter across the ink, and put the ledger away.

“Welcome,” he said finally, and smiled as if he'd been forced to. In truth, he only had eyes for Christian, of whom he seemed to deeply disapprove.

“Now, a quick tour and we'll be on our way,” Christian announced. He saluted the clerk with a little wave and produced a small key from a chain in his vest pocket. “A master key, quite literally. Given only to those who reach the highest order of master,” he told Stefan. It was an unimpressive little key for all that. Christian inserted it into a small hole in the wall, unlocking a door that seemed to be nothing more than wood paneling. And they entered into the guildhouse proper.

“Did you know him?” Stefan asked, once they were out of the clerk's sight.

“Hmm? No, he must be new. But my reputation precedes me. I'm afraid they don't like me much here,” Christian said. “I left in quite a huff years ago and it appears I've not been entirely forgiven.”

They were in a narrow cloakroom with another hidden door in the far wall. Christian inserted his key, then turned and caught Stefan with his single-eyed gaze. “You've heard the phrase ‘too many cooks in the kitchen'? Well, there were too many clockmakers in Nuremberg. I built my masterpiece, but they would not accept it.”

“Was it another Advent clock?”

“No, something far smaller. A wristwatch.”

“I've heard of those. British, aren't they? Wearable clocks for women that look like bracelets.” He had only ever seen pocket watches, himself. In workshops, anything on the wrist could be dangerous if it snagged on a tool.

“Correct. Wristwatches do already exist. So, what do you think would make mine a masterpiece?” Christian asked.

Uh-oh,
Stefan realized. This was a test. They had stopped in the antechamber. Stefan stared at the hanging coats and chewed his bottom lip.

“I suppose it would be easier to see. You wouldn't have to open your coat and jacket to get to it.”

“Yes?”

“But . . . well, wouldn't winding something so tiny be a chore? And all that movement would jostle the mechanism. The gears would shift too much.”

“Unless?”

Stefan bit his lip.

“Use every fault to your advantage,” Christian advised. “That's how the best inventions succeed.”

Stefan pictured a clock strapped to his wrist, the way his arm swung back and forth as he walked. Like a pendulum. Like clockwork. Like—

“A self-winding watch
!
” he exclaimed.

“Excellent
!
” Christian grinned. “You've a good head for visualization.”

“But, that's brilliant
!
” Stefan cried. “A watch like that could keep almost perfect time
!
”

“Yes. Good news for the wearer, but . . .” Again, Christian gave him an expectant look.

“But . . .” Stefan's mind raced. If clocks kept perfect time, they would never need to be set or recalibrated. “Who needs a clockmaker with a perfect watch?”

“Precisely. Clockmakers would lose customers. The guild did not approve—of the work, or the maker.”

But Stefan did. It was an amazing idea. “So what did you do?”

“I took my clockworks, and I left.”

Christian unlocked the second door and led the way into the heart of the guildhouse.

It was a neck-craning, ear-assaulting experience. A thousand clocks lined the walls. Clocks of gold, and clocks run by water that dripped clear liquid into cups shaped like lily pads. There were grandfather clocks set in casings of rare and fragrant wood, small clocks on long shelves like never-ending fireplace mantels, formed of porcelain figurines and rustic cuckoos.

Stefan had never seen so many beautiful timepieces in his life. He passed a glass case of pocket watches, each gleaming in brass, silver, or gold. There were clocks with precious stones encrusted into each numeral. There were some of such odd shapes that they did not appear to be clocks at all—one that was merely a series of lines on the wall, with a narrow window cut into the opposite side of the hall. A small sign declared it some sort of sundial—it marked time by how many of the lines were covered in shadow. Most remarkable of all, each clock kept the exact time so that, when they ticked, it was a resonant sound that vibrated the building.
The striking of the hour must
be deafening,
Stefan thought. His chest expanded with each tick, filling him with the most remarkable sense of rightness. And these were just timepieces. With carpentry and a little ingenuity, imagine what more he could do.

“Welcome to the clockmakers' guild,” Christian said, leading the way through the gallery and up a banistered stair. “Ignore the clocks in this room. They're mostly rubbish. But there is something I want to show you.”

“Rubbish?” Stefan highly doubted that, but he rushed to keep up with his long-legged cousin.

“Not rubbish, I suppose, but nothing you haven't seen before—hands, numbers. The same as you'll find at any street fair or decent shop. But this . . .” Christian said as Stefan gained the top step. “
This
is extraordinary.”

At the back of a long white room, empty of all other timepieces, sat a glass case with a box inside. Stefan peered through the glass.

“It looks like a pile of gears,” he said at last. Indeed, it seemed to be a drawer of spare clock parts arranged in a vaguely circular pattern, piles of golden gears and cogs stacked on top of each other, as if a child had tried to create a sunflower from the discarded pieces.

“Look again,” Christian said. “There is a design to the madness.”

Stefan leaned closer until his breath fogged up the glass. “It's a clock,” he realized.

“Built in 1606 by a Benedictine monk.”

“But . . .” There were no hands or numbers to count off the hours. As Stefan watched the gleaming wheels of gold, some
of the larger gears moved slowly. It was like spying on an ant colony from far above. “What does it do?”

“Nothing. This is just a replica. Would you like to know how it works?”

Stefan tore his eyes away from the remarkable device. “Yes, I would.”

Christian seemed pleased. “Excellent. Now, for your first assignment.” He turned and led the way downstairs again.

Stefan pulled his notebook from his pocket, torn between wanting to sketch the curious clock and needing to take notes for his first duty as journeyman.

“I have people to see,” Christian explained as they clattered through the hidden doors and out past the sour-faced clerk.

“Your foster family?”

“Among others. You'll be on your own for the rest of the day. See what you can find.”

Stefan blinked, once again hurrying to keep up. “Find? Find what?” he asked, gaining the sidewalk once more, pencil at the ready.

Christian turned around and smiled. “The
krakatook
, of course.”

• • •

HE'D STARTED OUT
methodically enough. From morning until noon, he visited the nut sellers themselves, and the warehouses where imports were brought in by the wagonload. From there, he'd eaten his way through a dozen bakeries, ordering hazelnut tortes and walnut pfeffernüsse, always asking to see the baker's store of nutmeats. But he'd had seventeen pieces of cake so far, and no sign of the
krakatook
.

He visited physicians and herbalists, all manner of people who used nuts—stationers who used crushed shells of raw walnuts to make brown ink, apothecaries that ground nut shells into powders fine as ash for polishing faces, boots, and silver. He even climbed a few trees looking for the elusive
krakatook
.

But Christian had hunted for seven years with no success. How was Stefan supposed to do better in a single day? The difficulty was this—no one knew what a
krakatook
looked like. The very nature of the nut was that each one was different. It was said to resemble an almond, a walnut, and occasionally a hazelnut, but never a cashew (which Stefan learned wasn't really a nut at all). That much, at least, Christian and Samir had divined from their research. Yet Samir assured them they would know one when they found it. Stefan hoped that was true, and that he hadn't already eaten it.

At his wits' end, he headed toward the botanical garden.

The entire length and width of Nuremberg was littered with gardens, large and small. Horticulture had been the pride of the city since the 1500s. Stefan could spend his entire journeyship searching in people's courtyards and fields for the nut. But the Nuremberg Botanical Garden had existed for almost two hundred years in one form or another. Surely they would have at least
heard
of the
krakatook
. Maybe the groundskeepers at the garden would have some advice for him.

The botanical garden was a patch of paradise on earth. A vast expanse of greenery, from shrubs to trees to flowers, stretched out in rows as far as the eye could see. Walled in by the city, it seemed a secret place, although it was open to anyone. His mother had taken him here when he was very young. Aside
from a game of hide-and-seek that had been mostly one-sided, the place had not made much of an impression on him. Now, however, it could have been the Amazon, that great jungle in the New World that seemed to laugh at Portuguese explorers and swallow them whole.

He avoided the outdoor planting beds and found the greenhouse, a pretty structure of whitewashed metal and soaring windows that held tropical plants. He stepped inside and was met with humidity and the scent of exotic flowers. Wandering the winding path through the center of the greenhouse, he followed the sound of a spade and rake until he discovered the source—a groundskeeper kneeling in the dirt. The little man looked up as Stefan approached.

“Hoy there, young sir
!
Pleasant day, isn't she?”

“Yes, very pleasant. As are your gardens,” Stefan replied. When asking for help, it never hurt to start with a compliment, particularly one that was true.

The old man grinned. “If you're here to meet with your young lady, I believe you'll find her by the tulips.”

“What? Oh, no, I'm not meeting anyone. I was looking for you, in fact.” The heat rose in Stefan's cheeks at the very thought of a girl waiting for
him
. The only girls Stefan knew were under the age of eight and pining for his father's dolls.

“That's a pity,” the old man said. “She's an easier sight on the eyes than me.” Stefan helped the man rise to his feet and waited while he dusted off his hopelessly stained trousers. “All right, then. What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a nut.”

“Oh, nut trees and bushes are down to the left, the last
corner lot. We had to separate them from the other plants so they wouldn't sprout their seeds all over tarnation.”

The man nodded and turned back to his plants.

“Actually, I'm looking for something rare. It's been impossible to find. It's called a
krakatook
?”

“A
krakatook
!” The man broke into an even wider grin, and his shining white teeth became almost menacing. Stefan took an involuntary step backward.

“You might as well be looking for a mermaid
!
The
krakatook
. I haven't heard that one in years. It's fool's gold, young man.”