The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  He flipped open the trapdoor and scuttled inside, pausing to take a final look at the view.

  “Nuremberg,” Christian said, with a smile.

  This new cousin was undeniably strange, but interesting all the same.

  He caught Stefan’s eye one last time. “I see Elise in you, young man. This is going to be fun.”

  ERNST DID NOT turn around. He sniffed the air, catching the distinct scents of river water and powdered lavender. This was a mouse that had traveled in diverse circles.

  “Please, have a seat,” he told the shadow at his elbow. The slightest movement, and the shadow sat across from him, resolving into a scarred mouse of middle years with an old cloak that did nothing to conceal the fact that he was a piebald.

  Ernst resisted the urge to recoil. Piebalds were the lowest of the low in the rat world. Usually slow to move and slower to think. The Piper’s Children, they were called. But a rat of business could not afford to choose his customers. Even if they were piebalds.

  “Well met, good sir. And how may I assist you this evening?” He twisted his wrist in a circle, prepared to write yet another love note, another map to a hidden wheel of cheese.

  The piebald twitched a whisker and gave Ernst an acknowledging nod. “Well done,” he said in a gruff voice that had seen more than a few winters. “Not many know the full verse of Hameln town.”

  Ernst nodded. “Not many mice, perhaps, but every rat knows the tale through and through.” Once upon a time, rats had ruled Rodentia. Smarter, stronger, and superior to common mice in every way, it was rats who brought the great plagues that laid humans low. Man slipped a few rungs down the ladder of dominance when the rats were on the rise.

  But Hameln . . . Hameln had shown all of Rodentia, down to the smallest shrew, that rats were mere vermin after all. Such a fall leaves a bitter taste, even generations later. Ernst smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and reached for his cup.

  From within his coat, the piebald withdrew two wheat stalks that looked as sweet as the day they were cut.

  Ernst’s mouth watered. Too much time in cities had deprived him of such luxuries.

  The piebald offered him a golden stalk.

  “I hate to chew alone,” he said, placing a crisp shoot comfortably between his back teeth. Chewing slowly, he surveyed the room.

  Ernst accepted with sincere thanks. He slid the stalk between his teeth and nibbled ever so slightly. A sweet rush of nutty sap tickled his tongue and he sighed. “Like country sunshine,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  The two chewed in silence for a moment, warming themselves by the heat of the chimney. And then the piebald spoke.

  “You are a rodent of languages?” he asked.

  Ernst shrugged. “Most. Not Chinese, nor Russian,” he admitted regretfully. “Some things are best left to the squirrels.”

  The piebald laughed. “And the rapier?” He glanced at where the slender blade was concealed beneath Ernst’s coat. This mouse was a soldier, then. Only a trained weapons master would have noticed the gleam of silver in the dim light.

  “Recently used to persuade a cat to turn the other cheek,” Ernst boasted.

  The piebald pulled the wheat stalk from his jaws and grinned. “Very good. We’ve had our eye on you, Herr Listz.”

  “We?” Ernst asked, scanning the room for compatriots.

  The piebald merely smiled. “Suffice it to say you’ve been noticed—here in Vienna, and in Hamburg, Munich, Düsseldorf. A rat from a good, if impoverished, brood. Classical education, etiquette, swordsmanship. You’ve made an impression.”

  Normally, Ernst would have preened at such a compliment. Instead, his fur crawled. Being watched! By piebalds, no less!

  If the mouse in front of him realized how disturbed he was, he gave no sign. Instead, the piebald said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  The rat watched the piebald reach into his coat, fascinated by the way the firelight made the black and white markings on the mouse’s face dance like sunlight and shade.

  “You’ve heard of Boldavia? And the ambitions of our queen?”

  Who hasn’t? Ernst thought with a nod. It had been the talk of the tavern. But what did a suicidal bunch of mice matter to him?

  “Do you know where it is?” the piebald asked, dropping a small sack on the table.

  Distracted by the promise of payment, Ernst had to think a moment. He sifted through the gossip he’d heard. “On the Black Sea. A mighty mousedom, as I understand it.” A provincial backwater was more like it. Remote and stupid, he presumed, if the lesson of the Piper had taught them nothing.

  “We’re soon to have need of a royal tutor,” the piebald explained. “My mice have heard about you.”

  “Good things?” Ernst wondered aloud. Despite his misgivings, a spark fluttered in his chest, like a match sputtering but not yet catching light.

  “The right things,” the piebald said.

  “Thank you.” Ernst inclined his head.

  “Are you interested?”

  The match inside him caught fire. A roaring inferno of relief. Ernst tried to play it calm, but he was already reaching for the sack. A royal commission, life in a palace once again. Music. Refinement. Food, clean clothes, and a warm bed . . .

  Or coddling a brood of royal brats in whatever drafty pile of rocks country mice called a castle. A hopeless uprising against the humans, defeat, embarrassment, and possibly death.

  But he could always leave before it came to that. Let the mice have their revolution. He’d take the commission and run.

  “I accept.”

  “Well, not so fast. The seed in that sack will get you to Boldavia. What’s between your ears will get you past the Queen. Be prepared. She’s a sharp one and wants only the best for her mouselings.”

  Ernst bowed, even though he was still seated at the table. “I shall endeavor to do my best, sir. I shall give her my all.”

  The piebald smiled.

  “Pretty manners. You’ll do very well at court. Just make sure the Queen likes you first. In my experience, compliments never hurt.” At long last, he offered a mottled paw. “They call me Snitter.”

  Ernst accepted, noting the calluses on his benefactor’s paw. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. His eyes were on the piebald, but he was talking to the sack of seed.

  STEFAN’S STOMACH WAS uneasy from Frau Waldbaum’s potato casserole and Frau Kirche’s sour cherry pie. He had eaten twice his fill in order to hide his nerves. They had been downstairs for over an hour now, but it was poor manners to talk business or question guests until they had dined, and Christian had yet to raise the subject of his offer. Now that the meal was over, Stefan’s nerves returned. He drowsed near the fire while his strange cousin and his father pulled their chairs close together at the hearth. The astrologer, Samir, sat in the shadows, keeping his own counsel and an eye on his prisoner.

  “Stefan, you look as though you could use some of this cordial,” his father said. “It does my heart good to see you eat so well, but I fear you are out of practice.”

  Stefan straightened up, embarrassed. He dragged himself out of his chair. “If you think so,” he said. “Would anyone else . . . ?”

  He went to the cupboard to find a mug. If Miss Prue’s potion would do the trick, he was more than willing to try it out.

  A mouse scurried inside the dark reaches of the cabinet, startling him wider awake. He’d have to place traps in the morning. With a sigh, he shut the cupboard and poured himself a draught of elderflower cordial.

  “You have both been very patient,” his cousin said as he regained his chair. “So I will tell you what brings me—us”—he nodded toward Samir—“to Nuremberg.”

  Stefan’s heart jumped into his throat. He forced himself to take a sip of the elderflower concoction. It was herbal, sweet and light. An
d it did absolutely nothing to quell his anxiety.

  “Stefan, stop fidgeting,” his father said. “Your cousin is speaking.”

  Stefan muttered an apology and turned away, his eyes growing damp. His father’s tone was clear—he was upset with Stefan for skipping the funeral. In truth, Stefan was disappointed in himself. Shame heated his cheeks. He turned back to the fire and caught his father’s eye. His heart thudded in his ears. And then his father’s face softened with a look that was almost as good as a hug. He understood.

  The hand that had been squeezing Stefan’s stomach relaxed.

  Christian nodded, as if gathering his thoughts, and began again.

  “The king has sent me on a quest. We’ve ridden a long, hard way these past seven years,” he said wearily. “Finally, I convinced Samir it was time for me to come home, if only for a little while. There are people in the city who might help us. But mostly I’ve been missing Nuremberg.”

  “There’s not another city like her,” Stefan’s father said. “And of course, we’re glad to have you back. I only wish it had been sooner. For Elise’s sake.”

  Stefan was swamped by another swell of grief. His mother was dead. He couldn’t possibly leave his father, not when the house was so newly empty.

  Suddenly, the mouse from the cupboard skittered across the floor. Stefan yanked off a slipper to hurl at it, but Christian’s glove struck first, stunning the little pest and knocking it over.

  “Catch it, quickly!” Christian bellowed.

  Zacharias scrambled up from his chair. Stefan and Christian lunged toward the mouse. The poor creature scurried along the wall, searching for a crack to escape through, squealing the whole while.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Christian cried.

  Stefan grabbed a bowl from the table and dropped to his knees in an attempt to trap the mouse inside. Only now did he have the sense to wonder, why make such a fuss over a mouse?

  “Samir, now!” The clockmaker had the mouse cornered. It began to scream, a horrible shrill sound. Samir slammed a boot on the ground by its head and the mouse fell into a stunned silence. Christian scooped it into his gloved hand.

  “Quickly, a box,” he said calmly. Stefan’s father grabbed an empty cocoa canister and handed it to Christian, who stuffed the mouse inside.

  It started screaming again, the shrill sound taking on form. Stefan realized that it was speaking. In German.

  “You are too late, Clockmaker, too late! The Queen is with child. Our time is at hand!” Still screaming, the mouse struggled from the canister and drove its sharp teeth into Christian’s glove.

  Christian threw the mouse to the floor. Instantly, it hopped up and ran away.

  Stefan stared at the crack in the floorboards through which the mouse had disappeared. “What the devil was that?”

  His father had turned ashen gray. “Stefan, watch your language. Your cousin’s been bitten. Get a bandage.”

  “It’s all right,” Christian said. “The glove took the brunt of it.” He held up the injured hand where his skin showed through the black leather. “I’m no tailor, but I think it will live.”

  “What was that?” Stefan repeated, careful not to swear. His skin still prickled with the sound of those unnaturally high words.

  “A spy,” Christian said darkly.

  “But, it spoke!” Stefan exclaimed. He looked wildly to his father who, though ruffled, seemed less than surprised. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Stefan’s father looked chagrined. “Son, there is more to this world than apprentices know. Even a master toymaker such as myself has mostly only heard of, and rarely seen, these things.” He turned to the scowling clockmaker. “Christian, this has nothing to do with toys.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Christian muttered to himself. “We are no closer to our goal than we were seven years ago.” He scratched his chin. A look passed between him and Samir. “Sit down,” Christian said. “I’ll tell you all I can.”

  With more than one backward glance for more mice, Stefan and his father sat down again at the table. Spreading his fingers wide, Christian began.

  “Several months’ ride from here is the small kingdom of Boldavia. Rich and important by virtue of its location, Boldavia is an island nation at the crossroads between Europe, Asia Minor, and the Ottoman Empire, which leads on into Africa and points south. Seven years ago, the King of Boldavia had not a care in the world, but for his one joy and heartache, his daughter, Pirlipat . . .”

  • • •

  PRINCESS PIRLIPAT WAS CRYING. That was nothing unusual. Pirlipat was always crying. It was a sound that had soaked into the very stones of the castle, shrill, angry, and unending. The queen wrung her hands. She had guests arriving and her famous pudding to oversee, but her darling little Pirly-teeth was screeching to wake the dead.

  “Imebella, isn’t there something we can do?” her husband, the king, asked. They had proven poor parents from the start. Pirlipat was three years old and had spent much of that time screaming her head off.

  “Lovekins, you know I have to be in the kitchen with the chefs. Isn’t there anyone to rock the cradle? She seems to like that.”

  The cradle in question sat on the dais in the main audience chamber, next to the thrones of the king and queen. Usually the castle was quieter if Pirlipat was kept in the nursery (which was really a dungeon, the queen knew, but “nursery” sounded nicer, especially when speaking of a place for one’s child), but with guests arriving, the royal family was expected to make a full presentation of itself.

  “No, there is not anyone to rock the cradle. The musicians are making music, the soldiers are soldiering, and the ladies-in-waiting are . . . waiting, I suspect. Besides, the royal crib is too big for them to rock. And I can’t very well do it. I’m the king!”

  “Of course, dear,” she said, patting his arm. King Pirliwig was a very large man with reddish hair and even redder cheeks. When he got angry, the queen was always afraid he’d be mistaken for a beet and planted in the royal garden. So she did her best to quiet him by reminding him that there’d be some of his favorite pudding soon, if only he’d let her go to the kitchens instead of worrying about rocking Pirlipat into silence.

  Eventually, the violinist gave up violining to rock the child, leaving the rest of the quartet much the poorer for it, although at last their music could be heard.

  The guests arrived and, as long as one of the musicians stopped playing to rock the cradle, the royal banquet went on uninterrupted.

  But eventually even the royal musicians grew weary, their bowing arms cramped and unable to play, what with all of the alternate music-making and cradle-rocking. Once again, much to Queen Imebella’s dismay, Pirlipat began to wail.

  “Somebody, do something!” the king bellowed, at his wits’ end, the queen knew. Otherwise he’d have never admitted to not being able to handle a small child.

  Nobody moved.

  And then a chair pushed back from the table and a remarkable-looking young man rose, tall and thin as a scarecrow with a shock of fair white-blond hair. He looked pallid and mysterious in his black suit. The young man made his way to the royal crib and paced around it three times, deep in thought.

  “Darling, is it safe?” the queen whispered to her husband.

  “Yes, my dear, I’m sure it will be quite all right,” he whispered back, although he couldn’t know for certain.

  After a long moment, the young man gestured to the musicians for their instruments. Smashing a viola on the floor, he proceeded to rig the most amazing system of hoists and pulleys strung together with violin string, at the center of which he put the musicians’ metronome.

  The room was utterly silent (except for Pirlipat’s screaming). Queen Imebella held her breath.

  The young man surveyed his handiwork. And then, with a daintily gloved hand, he pushed the crib, one
gentle rocking motion, and stepped back.

  The crib rocked to. Inside, Pirlipat made a hiccupping noise, as if swallowing the rest of her scream. The crib rocked fro. And to, and fro, and to, with the same steady, reliable motions of the metronome.

  “Perpetual rocking machine,” the young man said with a shrug, and in the utter silence that followed, he returned to his place at the table.

  “But . . . but . . .” Queen Imebella sputtered, tears welling in her eyes. She tugged her husband’s sleeve, too overcome to speak more clearly.

  “What is your name, young man?” her husband bellowed. “How do you come to be here?”

  Queen Imebella was quite taken with the way the young man rose and bowed to the king. “Christian Drosselmeyer, formerly of Nuremberg. I am a clockmaker, and most glad to be of service.”

  The king looked at the queen, then rose to greet him. “Of service you shall be! From now on, Christian Drosselmeyer, most trusted friend of the Kingdom of Boldavia, you shall be Our Clockmaker and forever be held in our highest royal esteem.”

  • • •

  “AND THAT’S HOW I BECAME the Royal Clockmaker of Boldavia,” Christian said.

  “I had become Royal Astrologer in much the same way,” Samir added. “The king and queen are quite practical people and only hire staff when there is a reason to do so.”

  Stefan frowned. “Then why didn’t they hire a royal crib rocker? Or just make a lighter crib?” It seemed so obvious to him. For the first time, he wondered if cleverness was a requirement for being a king.

  “Perhaps the royal family is not as smart as you,” Christian said with an amused smile. “In any event, they suffered until I showed up, and then they hired me. And I lived rather happily in Boldavia for almost three years, until tragedy struck.

  “Mice had been a problem in Boldavia for as long as anyone could remember, which is to say at least since Pirlipat stopped crying and they could begin to notice other nuisances.

  “You see, Boldavia is an island nation that rests in the mouth of a river. The bedrock it sits on is granite riddled with caverns carved by wind coming off the sea. An easy place for rodents to hide, and so there was already mouse trouble in the royal kitchens, but it was tolerable. Cats are illegal in Boldavia due to the king’s allergies. Still, the problem might have been managed with traps and poisons, but toward the end of my third year as Royal Clockmaker, I made a mistake . . .”