The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  They had not been yellowed when Ernst first came to Boldavia. Back then the Queen had been a little bland-faced thing, a bit long in the tooth, with a hard glint in her eye and a sharpish tongue, but still, pleasingly plump in a country kind of way. Now she was more than plump—bloated—as if the birth had left her with more inside than she could deliver. She grew with each passing day, and had lost her scent of hay and seeds. The Queen of Mice now smelled of swamps and rot.

  Nursemaids whispered that it had something to do with the magic she was wielding.

  It had been touch-and-go with the princes at first. Although they had arrived fully formed—or malformed—they had failed to rally after their naming day. It seemed as if they would die swiftly, the way so many other misshapen creatures did. But the Queen was determined. That song she had sung over their bassinet became an orchestra, a group of musicians playing night and day over her children’s sickbed, their ears stuffed with beeswax and linen. It was a binding spell, the nursemaids said. Old magic, dark magic. The same that bound the rats of Hameln to the Piper and led them to their watery graves. Only, now it was wielded by a mad Queen intent on keeping the souls of her children firmly attached to their twisted flesh.

  Ernst had visited the children daily, the Queen insisting they begin their education even as they lay possibly dying. Every day, he had descended the stairs to that dank chamber she called her suite and sat by their crib. Ears dulled with stuffing, he’d read to them from books he had procured and memorized, or rewritten in a more manageable size from the great tomes in the human libraries above. He had recounted the histories of their race, the wars, the victories. He told them mythologies of Mice, of the Piper, of gods, of Men. He spoke to them until they knew his voice better than their own mother’s, his words droning loud in his own ears, overpowering the music in the chamber and the beating of his own heart. The boys would lean toward him, eyes staring, then slowly closing, as they fell into sleep.

  One set of eyes never quite opened all the way. Julius, the runt of the litter, squashed to the side like a forgotten fruit at the bottom of a basket. Not dead exactly, but not quite alive, either.

  After long days and nights of hedge witchery, at last, the brothers pulled through, rallied, and thrived. And now they were wrestling with their tail on the floor of the throne room.

  Ernst encouraged this because it taught them coordination and how to each take a turn moving their hands. Arthur, the inquisitive young mouse in the center of his brethren, seemed best at it. As if his strength of will was greater, or perhaps he was the one meant to be born and all these others were simply mistakes.

  The boys tumbled by. Arthur, giggling, waved a paw in greeting, and lost the grip on his tail. Ernst waved back, and pointed out his mistake. A look of determination entered the little face and he lunged once more for his tail.

  Ernst chuckled. He was quite fond of Arthur. The others had their moments, too, but it was a relief to look into one set of eyes and see that his instruction had been understood. And so he had taken a favorite. But their mother, who had once favored them all so highly, no longer did so. She had turned inward, the old cow, and festered there. Perhaps she had used up the wealth of her own spirit buying her sons’ lives.

  The sewing stopped. The words that he had so painstakingly inscribed across the expanse of velvet had been stitched over in golden thread, emblazoning the bottom of the banner.

  The Queen of Mice raised her nose into the air, as if scenting its completion. “Thee dost approve of it, rat?”

  Ernst rose creakily and strode to the table where the three young mouse maids had plied their work. They each grabbed a corner and held the banner up for him to see.

  Nearly a foot long and half again as wide, the bloodred cloth boasted seven golden crowns on seven stylized heads. Beneath them, in his own florid cursive, now raised and glittering in the firelight, read the motto: E Pluribus Unum.

  “Out of many, one,” Ernst translated. He bowed to the seamstresses, who all blushed at the attention. “Beautifully done, my ladies.” He bowed to the Queen. “Beautifully done, indeed.”

  The Queen nodded slightly and ran a claw through her whiskers, preening. Her sons were yet children, but she had made their armies a banner to fly in the face of war. She continued to pace, studying the banner and twitching her skirts away from the boys at her ankles. Impatient for her conquerors to come of age, Ernst realized, to rise up and take the castle by storm.

  IT HAD BEEN days, and still they could not open the krakatook.

  “When I was a boy, my grandfather showed me how to crack two nuts together in my bare hands,” Samir said. So they had scoured the ship and found a sailor willing to share his stash of hazelnuts.

  Samir placed them in his palm and squeezed with all his might. Blood would have come from a stone with that squeeze. Instead, the hazelnut was ground to powder. The krakatook, however, held firm.

  From there, they tried knives. They used an awl and attempted to pry the shell apart. They tried bricks, a vise, and a variety of tools from the barge. They hoisted a crate on the deck and dropped it from as great a height as they dared.

  The nut remained unharmed.

  “Well, the good news is, we have the nut,” Christian said brightly.

  “The bad news is we cannot crack it,” Samir added. “But, I’ve consulted the stars and it appears that one of us will figure it out. Eventually.”

  “But, will it be in time?” Stefan asked. Their whole plan to save his father hinged on opening the krakatook. Only then would King Pirliwig agree to use his army to help find his father.

  Christian looked glum. “I’m working on it.” He spread open his sketchbook, where he had drawn a plethora of new plans.

  Stefan looked at them over his shoulder. “Waterwheels? Diamonds! Where are we going to get diamonds?”

  “In Boldavia, of course,” Christian said. “This is a kingdom, after all. I’m sure they can spare one or two medium-sized diamonds. We’ll cut them to a thirty-five-degree angle and attach them to a dremel powered by a waterwheel. I’ll need to make a few calculations, of course, and a model or two for a few practice runs—perhaps on test nuts made of granite or marble.”

  Stefan looked dubiously from the blueprints to his cousin’s optimistic face. Granite could be crushed. Marble could be carved, as every Roman statue could attest. But nothing had cracked the krakatook.

  “Maybe we can use the nut as more of a bargaining tool,” Stefan suggested. “Ask for the king’s help in exchange for it. Like you said, he’s a king, with an entire kingdom at his command. Let them figure it out.”

  “Stefan,” Christian said solemnly. “Samir did not lie when he said he was my jailer. There is a price on my head in Boldavia if I can’t cure the princess. The king won’t lift a finger until she’s restored. But I swear to you, I’ll do it. For you. For Zacharias. On my honor as a clockmaker, I will find a way to bring your father home again.”

  Stefan pushed away from the table and the sketchbook with its far-fetched plans. “Whatever it takes,” he said. “I want my father back.”

  He walked away before any tears could escape, before he had to look at Christian’s face clouding over with shame or Samir shifting uncomfortably beside him. A master clockmaker and a royal astrologer. They were the best the king had, and they had failed. And here he was, just a toymaker’s apprentice . . . or rather, a clockmaker’s journeyman in his very first week—what did he have to offer? They had no choice but to try Christian’s fanciful plans, or the nut would remain uncracked forever.

  Stefan slumped against the barge railing. Thoughts of his father threatened like rain clouds. Nuremberg had slipped away behind them, and with it, all sense of normalcy.

  Everything was wrong.

  Trees on the far shore dipped toward the water, heads heavy with leaves. The sky was blue and the weather mild. Sailors were napping on dec
k. There were no sails to trim, no booms to lower, or whatever things were done on ships. The river simply carried them on her wide back. The world didn’t share Stefan’s sense of urgency. Even barge travel was slow. And boring.

  He drummed his fingers on the railing. He shifted and something in his pocket dug into his hip. He pulled out the little dove from his mother’s funeral.

  At last, this was something he could fix. Even if it was only a little thing. He set off in search of his tools and a piece of wood, determined to build a better bird.

  • • •

  HOURS LATER, STEFAN dropped his knife on the deck and wiggled his fingers, attempting to undo the curl they’d developed from wrapping too much rope.

  He picked up the dove. This one was much more detailed than the one he’d released at his mother’s funeral—it had a defined beak and individual feathers. There were plenty of birds on the Danube, swooping down for fish, insects, and handouts from the crew. Stefan watched them while he worked, pausing now and then to sketch the arch of a wing or the motion of a wingbeat.

  This is what being a journeyman is all about, he told himself. Just him and his creation. He was literally carving a future for himself. As the bird took shape beneath his knife, he lost himself in the rhythm of the work. When he finished the second wing, he inserted it into the body of the bird. Inside, there was a tight coil of metal, salvaged from the first dove.

  Being on the barge had served him better than he had hoped. He had a solution for the waterlogged wings now—pitch. The entire barge hull was painted with it, black pitch that kept the river from seeping into its planks. He used a thinned version to paint the joints of the bird. It wouldn’t fare well underwater, but it would do for a rainy day. Or so he hoped.

  Twisting the tail feather key of the dove, he held it aloft in his free hand and let go.

  The wooden bird fluttered and hopped into the air, wings beating so fast they were a blur. It made a wide arc off the port bow of the barge, then circled back. Several sailors paused to see what this odd creature might be. Too late, Stefan realized it would not make it all the way back to him. He raced down the deck, dodging sailors and cargo, and leapt into the air to retrieve it. But he missed and the bird crashed into the river.

  A second later, a net appeared over the water. Stefan turned to see his cousin retrieve the bird.

  “Not bad,” Christian said, pulling it from the braided netting. He held the dove up in his gloved hand. Gone was the solemn criminal—Christian was once again a dashing master clocksmith, in full control.

  Stefan snapped to attention.

  “A charming representation of a mourning dove,” Christian said, wiggling the tail feather key and pumping the wings. “A straightforward spring design . . . taken from a mantel clock?” he asked.

  Stefan cleared his throat. “A grandfather clock, trimmed to size. The mantel clock spring was too short to complete a full circle of flight.”

  “Very good,” Christian muttered, peering between the joints. He held the bird up in the sunlight. “And what’s this, pitch?”

  “The wings of my last bird swelled in the rain, which meant shorter wingbeats, and a shorter arc. I thought maybe . . . But the pitch must have damaged the mechanism. Or else it would have . . . should have come back to me directly.” His face was hot and his stomach fluttered like the wings of the wooden dove. This was the first time he’d displayed work in front of his new master, intentionally or not. He had no idea what Christian would think.

  “I see,” Christian said. He handed the bird back to Stefan.

  Stefan waited for a response.

  Light sparkled blindingly off the water. Around them, oak and ash trees slid by. The occasional oxcart ambled along on the shore. Stefan was sweating, even though the day was not overly warm.

  Christian seemed to count every leaf and limb before he turned to Stefan again. “Promise me something,” he said. “Promise me you won’t quit.”

  Stefan had made progress on the bird—more than expected. He saw no reason to give up now.

  “I promise,” he said, befuddled.

  “Well then, carry on,” his master said, and wandered off across the deck.

  Stefan released a breath. Carry on . . . ? Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

  The pitch he’d used had been too thick and scraped against the bird’s wings. Peering inside at the mechanism, he saw that pitch shavings had wound themselves into the spring. Carry on. It was a good thing, he decided.

  It was strange, given all that had happened. But here on this barge with his tools and his little dove, he felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

  He’d found his father in their workshop the day after his mother died, sanding smooth the long sides of her coffin. How could he stand to build the casket that would take her away? It was too terrible for him to even consider. His father had been so absorbed in his work, he’d been unaware that his son was watching and getting angrier with every moment. Only now did Stefan realize that it hadn’t been cold practicality he’d seen, but grief. His father was always happiest working with his hands. Maybe, alongside the sorrow, it had brought him a little peace.

  Stefan hoped so. With a sigh, he went in search of oil to clean out the wings and start again.

  “WHEN DO WE BEGIN strategy?” Hannibal demanded.

  They were halfway through their history lesson for the day: the discovery of the New World and the reunion of mousekind with their cousins across the sea.

  “Quiet, Hannibal,” Arthur whispered. He was hard at work writing down answers to Ernst’s questions. “Sorry, Herr Listz.”

  “It’s all right,” Ernst said. He patted the princes encouragingly on the back and stifled a sigh. It was a challenge, handling six personalities at once. Vacant Julius lolled to the side, while the others clustered around the central head, like petals on a furry flower—each with their own demands. In the end, he had found it best to focus on that center head, Arthur.

  In Ernst’s mind, Arthur alone was the prince. He was a sweet child, almost normal-looking, if one squinted. He had a head for books (and six others that weren’t) and might have been quite the scholar one day, if his mother and brothers didn’t have other ideas. Ernst liked Arthur, and perhaps the feeling was mutual.

  It was the other boys who were problematic. Hannibal was the belligerent one, excellent at swordplay; Charlemagne had the qualities of a leader—insightful, decisive—but he lacked patience; Genghis could be a brute, but a careful one; Roland was demanding and had a tendency to whine, which grated on the nerves; and Alexander had a keen mind for chess . . . But perhaps that was Arthur, too.

  In truth, Ernst suspected that most of the young mouse princes’ skills belonged to Arthur alone. The other heads merely clamored to take credit for the boy’s hard work.

  Arthur put down his quill and sighed. “I think he’s right, Herr Listz. I’m getting stiff with sitting. A little exercise might help clear our heads.” Arthur smiled wryly at his joke.

  Ernst returned the smile. It was hard to believe Arthur would one day lead armies into the castle above. But that was the Queen’s wish, and Arthur was the kind of boy who obeyed, even feared, his mother.

  “Fair enough,” Ernst said aloud, dropping his quill to the desk. “Grab your foil and gear.”

  The Queen had been very clear on the schedule of instruction for her boys. Equal time was to be given to learning history, languages, strategy, and warfare. In the area of warfare, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat were taught. While Ernst was no genius in a fistfight, he did have a flair for fencing, and so those duties, in addition to history and human tongues, fell to him. The rest were handled by the piebald spies.

  Strolling to the wall of the large royal classroom, Ernst selected a foil from the rack. Unlike the rapier blade he used in street fighting, the foil was longer, and needle-thin. Both were design
ed for thrusts and jabbing, but the foil had a protective tip for practicing. He watched with a morbid fascination as Arthur struggled to enclose his brothers in a specially made helmet—it wouldn’t do for the tutor to accidentally blind one of the royal heirs. No such gear had been provided for Ernst.

  “Ready?” Arthur asked, voice slightly muffled by the screen of their helmet. Ernst could hear Hannibal’s low chuckle from inside the hood.

  Taking a deep breath, the rat nodded. “En garde!”

  Arthur—or was it Hannibal now?—pressed the attack, rather than taking the defensive, as Ernst had taught them. Ernst leapt back, annoyed at the boy’s persistent assault. Riposte, parry . . . the young prince handled each maneuver with skill. And Ernst the rat was no longer so eager, or so young.

  Ernst swished his tail to distract his charge. He had no wish to be nicked yet again by the royal sword. But the young princes were not swayed. They lunged with their foil and gave a sharp slap to the base of the rat’s long pink tail.

  Ernst dropped the tip of his sword and bowed. “Touché, my prince.” A smile spread dutifully across his lips and he did not recoil when one of the other heads—not Arthur, but the fighter, Hannibal, sat straighter on the great stem of their neck and grinned slyly.

  “We learn quickly, Herr Listz, do we not?”

  Listz noted the appropriateness of the royal “we.” He nodded and pressed his foil to his forehead again. “En garde!”

  Ernst allowed the princes to attack again. He had learned that each personality merited a very different approach. Hannibal liked to win.

  Ernst dodged for his life as the protective tip flew off his charge’s foil. The prince, however did not stop. If Ernst wasn’t careful, the little menace would draw blood. Again. Alas, Arthur was never the one in control when there was real fighting to be done.

  “Mother says we should learn strategy next,” Hannibal announced, lunging toward his tutor.

  Barbarian, Ernst thought. Out loud he said, “Your mother has mentioned that, yes. But first you must master languages. There are several texts on strategy that you should read for yourself—human books. Not that rubbish they teach mouselings in school.”