The Toymaker's Apprentice (8 page)

“But you
have
heard of it,” Stefan said, relieved. He couldn't stand returning home a complete failure on his first day, even if he had been given an impossible task.

“Sure, I have,” the gardener said. “A mystical nut from the Far East. Marco Polo wrote about it in his diaries.”

Stefan was staggered. The nut was real
!

“But it doesn't exist,” the man continued, “or we'd have one by now. Someone's playing a prank on you, I'm afraid.” The gardener gave him a considering look. “Are you newly apprenticed?”

“No, I'm a journeyman,” Stefan said.
But for how long?
he wondered. The man gave him a dubious look.

“A new master, then. Yep, those fellers are always pulling some new boy's leg. I'm afraid they've firmly yanked yours. Speaking of which, these weeds won't pull themselves, so if you'll excuse me.”

Stefan let the gardener return to his work. “A prank,” he muttered.

It wasn't unheard of. Journeymen played jokes on apprentices all the time. His own father had pulled one or two over on
him—telling Stefan that sea horses were shaped like the letter “C,” leading to an entire mobile of ridiculously shaped creatures that had his father bent over with laughter. Or when he was given a strange piece of wood to carve a cup from, only to discover upon drinking from it that the soft wood had in fact been very hard soap. He'd gotten a foam mustache for his troubles.

“A rare nut,” he said. “And I fell for it.”

Christian's whole fairy tale had been exactly that. So had the journeyship, no doubt. Christian and his father were just putting him in his place. That whole story about the princess and Boldavia—all just to show Stefan he belonged at home with his father and not off on an adventure. His neck flashed hot beneath his collar. He felt a headache coming on. They were probably relaxing in some biergarten having a good laugh. Well, maybe not laughing—he couldn't imagine his father would ever do that. Still, he felt like a fool.

He reached the end of the greenhouse and stopped in front of the doors, resisting the urge to bang his head against them. Through the glass he could see a field of tulips, red-and-white striped flowers nodding sleepily in the breeze.

Tulips had been his mother's favorite. There had been a vase of yellow ones by her bed when she died.

Without warning, tears rolled down his cheeks.

“If it's rare, it won't be here,” said an amused voice. Stefan turned on his heel, wiping furiously at his eyes, but they would not stay dry.

“What makes you think so?” he asked in a gruff voice, addressing the row of plants behind him.
Rubber trees
, the sign said, exotic-looking things with trunks like twisted vines.

A pair of eyes peered at him from behind the large, shining leaves. They belonged to a girl seated on a low bench with a bit of embroidery in her lap.

She held up a piece of linen. “What do you think? I'm meant to be embroidering these in the parlor, but I hate sitting inside on a day like this. Not that this isn't inside, but it's peaceful and green. Will this do?” She handed him the linen. It was a small handkerchief embroidered with a pale blue “S” and small dark blue flowers.

“It's . . . it's very nice,” Stefan said awkwardly.

“Thank you. Have a seat.” She patted the bench beside her. Stefan sat.

“I really think it's rather rough,” she continued. “Feel that on your cheek.” She took the handkerchief from him and wiped his eyes.

“It's . . . fine,” he managed to say. She had taken him by surprise. He couldn't think.

“Maybe for a boy. It's a bit too coarse for my taste. And I've mangled the embroidery at the bottom.”

“It's an ‘S',” Stefan said. “That's my initial.”

“Ah, well, then, it's yours. It was a practice run anyway.” She thrust the handkerchief back into his hand and picked up her embroidery. Stefan took a moment to clean his face and wipe his nose. He should have been embarrassed, caught crying in front of a stranger, and a girl no less. But she didn't seem to care. In fact, she appeared so absorbed in her needlework that she didn't notice him staring at her.

Her lips were wide, and her eyes large and brown. Her hair was braided into two shining chestnut plaits that hung low over
her ears, and she wore a neat day dress of red and white with an apron over it. Skeins of embroidery thread stuffed the apron pockets.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I thought I was alone.”

“As did I,” she replied. “But that's been remedied. Why don't you tell me about this rare nut?”

Stefan had no better plans now that his quest had been disproved, so he settled in beside her and watched her needle dipping in and out of the cloth in her hands.

“I think I've been played for a fool,” he said.

“An apprentice's prank, like Arno said,” she surmised, with a tilt of her head toward the sound of the old groundskeeper's raking.

“I'm a journeyman toymaker, er, clocksmith. My new master's led me on a merry chase.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Which is it, toys, or clocks? They don't let you do both, do they?”

Stefan blushed. “No. I suppose not . . . not in Nuremberg. I'm journeyed out of country, actually. A kingdom far away.” He attempted a rakish grin.

The girl smiled. “Now who's telling fairy tales?”

“It's true
!
I'm leaving town just as soon as I find—”

“The rare and mythical nut,” she concluded, puncturing Stefan's pride.

“Well, yes.”

The girl patted him sympathetically on the leg and gathered her materials. “I have to be getting home. We young ladies must leave all the adventuring to men, or so my mother insists. But look—” She checked the label for the tree beside them. “
Ficus
elastica
. That's an India rubber plant, which means I've got as far as Bombay today.” She quirked a smile. “As for your nut, if it exists and it's truly rare, why not try the Natural History Society. They collect the oddest things.”

“The Natural . . . I've never heard of them.”

“Not many people have,” she said, rising from the bench. “They're eccentrics. They only speak to each other. For vegetation, see Professor Blume. He's the foremost authority on botany in all of Nuremberg. Recently returned from a trip around the globe.”

It was Stefan's turn to be dubious. “How do you know all of this?”

“Because I can read,” she said. “And I read anything I can find. Professor Blume's in all the gardening journals. He's been to Amazonia and Indochina, Oceania, and even the Arctic, where plants only bloom a few days a year. Ask Arno, he collects all of his journals. He can tell you where to go.”

Stefan sighed. “My cousin's been looking for a
krakatook
for seven years. Maybe the joke has been played on all of us.” It was a terrible thought. Maybe Samir had lied, and this goose chase was Christian's punishment for angering the king of Boldavia. The whole story began to unravel until he wondered if any of it had been true.

The girl gave him a mischievous smile as she brushed past. “Even better when you inexplicably show up
with
one. Tell Professor Blume about the prank. He was a boy once. He's sure to play along.”

“That's brilliant. Thank you.” He rose to his feet and gave her a quick bow. “My name is Stefan.” His heart fluttered oddly in his chest, like a moth.

“Pleased to meet you, Stefan,” she said, and dropped a quick curtsy. “I'm sorry, but I must go.”

“Where can I find you?” he asked.

She took a step back.

Stefan blushed. “I mean, to return your handkerchief . . . of course.” He mentally kicked himself. He was being too forward, but he could not stop himself. This girl was someone he wanted to know.

“Oh. No, it's yours. If you truly are going abroad, take it with you. Imagine, my handiwork visiting places I will never see. Maybe you'll take it to India someday
!
Good-bye, Stefan. And good luck
!
”

She exited in a whirl of skirts, the red-and-white pattern of her dress blending into the field of tulips as she hurried out of sight.

Stefan watched her go. Something about the girl reminded him of his mother. They had the same twinkle in their eye. Looking at the gardens, the sight of tulips no longer made him sad. He would like to see her again. Tell her how the prank played out. Maybe take her to a café for cakes.

He smiled to himself, and immediately moaned. He had forgotten to ask her name.

ERNST SIGHED AND SANK
deeper into the bathing bowl, the tips of his claws poking up from the lavender-scented bubbles. He'd been inspired by the piebald Snitter's powdered scent and left the docks for better climes. At the Golden Note, a luxury hotel in the walls of the massive Imperial and Royal Court Theatre, he could bathe in warm water and hear the symphony wafting up through the pipes and cracks in his hidden room. Perhaps the music of Mozart or Beethoven would be played tonight. Ernst wriggled his toes and sighed. For the next three hours, this was the life.

The knot in his shoulder from the skirmish with the alley cat had finally eased in the hot water and he was just beginning to doze off, when there came an awful pounding at the door.

“Open up
!
Open up
!
” a male voice demanded.

“Probably my escort,” Ernst decided, settling back into the tub, preferring the continued pounding over leaving the warmth of the water. Once he answered that door, this little retreat would be over and his duties would begin. Who knew when he'd get another bath like this one?

Just one minute more . . .

He settled a washcloth over his eyes and began humming along with the orchestra tuning below.

A key turned in the lock and the door to Ernst's bedroom burst open.

The rat sighed and pulled himself out of the tub. Wrapping a plush robe around his thin frame, he dried his feet on the mat with a little dancing step.

“I told you he wouldn't be here,” he heard a mouse say disdainfully. “You can't trust a rat.” The speaker was a young piebald with a mottled face and black paws. He was venting his anger on the small gray mouse that served as night manager of the hotel. The manager held his back straight, but his whiskers quivered nervously. “They're all thieves and cheats,” the piebald continued.

“Really?” Ernst asked dryly.

The gray mouse balked and lost his composure, cowering like a meadow mouse in the face of an owl. To his credit, he recovered quickly, preening his short whiskers, and lifted his chin as if he had never doubted the integrity of his guest. “Forgive the intrusion, Herr Listz,” he began, only to be interrupted by the piebald, who refused to quail.

“Yes, they are,” he said. “Only a rat would waste a month's wages on one night of . . .” He took in the opulent suite. “‘When the seed runs out, so does the rat,' as they say. The name is Blackspaw. My commander sent me to guide you.” The way he said “guide” sounded an awful lot like “guard” to Ernst. “We leave at dawn. I'll be outside.”

“Keeping me honest, eh?” Ernst chuckled. He leaned against the doorway nonchalantly. Let the mouse think he was a wastrel. He could use it to his advantage. “I should think a soldier such as yourself would trust the judgment of his commander implicitly.” Ernst sucked his teeth and studied his newly trimmed claws. “We had such a nice rapport, Snitter and I, and he was so
kind to offer Her Majesty's tutor a guide to Boldavia. I suppose he'll be very disappointed when I make my report. What will the Queen think, I wonder.”

At last, the piebald was shaken. He bristled and shrank as the air left his puffed-out chest. “Ah . . . ah . . . apologies, Herr Listz. Clearly you are a gentlerat of . . . uncommon breeding. I was . . . merely concerned for our . . . ah . . .” The piebald realized he was flailing and, with a concerted effort, stopped.

“I shall be in the hallway. We leave at dawn.” He clicked his heels and retreated.

The manager wrung his paws together apologetically. “Herr Listz, is there anything I can bring you?”

“More hot water, please,” the rat said. He sauntered over to his sack of seed and pulled another portion out to tip the night manager. “And a blanket for my guide out there. Or cover him with something pretty so he doesn't frighten the guests.”

The manager smiled and removed himself with a bow.

A few minutes later, three white mice appeared with freshly boiled kettles. They silently reheated Ernst's bath and left. He sank back into the tub with a sigh.

Despite the variety of Rodentia, when it came down to it, there really were only two types of rodents in this world: squirrels and rats. Squirrels were chipper little fools who believed they'd live forever, so they spent all their time gathering nuts, storing them away for that bright future. Anyone with that blithering outlook was a squirrel. Including that impudent little piebald—so certain of tomorrow that he'd rather wait than live today. But rats appreciated the brevity of life. Death was around every corner for rodents without a bushy tail—rat and
mouse, vole, mole, and shrew. But only rats lived for the moment (as did, perhaps, a criminal vole or two). The rest were squirrels by nature, if not form. Even mice were mostly squirrels at heart. Timid and hopeful, diligently thinking of winter even in the spring. But why save for tomorrow what you could spend today? Especially if each day could be your last.

Ernst Listz was a rat. Which was why he had willingly spent more than half his bag of seed on wine, a bath, a second dinner, and a very soft bed. If it meant sneaking on board a barge headed down the river the next day rather than purchasing proper accommodations (carved out in the bulkhead of one of the more luxurious boats), so be it. He would gladly sleep beneath a coil of rope in exchange for this one night of being clean, safe, and well fed.

Ernst wriggled his toes in the steaming water, the last of his aches and pains easing away. He dismissed all thought of the morning to come, and the state of the kingdom at the end of his dangerous journey. For now, it was a hot bath and a full belly. In short, it was heaven.