Hannibal fell silent. He was not the intellectual of the group.
Arthur spoke up, eager to please, his boyish face a beam of light in the center of his brothers. “You’re right, Herr Listz. I’ll work harder on my languages and try to read the original texts. Mother would like that, don’t you think?”
“Yes, my boy.” Ernst’s face softened.
The pinch-faced head next to Arthur spoke up. Ernst recognized Roland’s whine instantly. “No, no, no! You are the royal translator—do your job! Translate the texts for us and we’ll do the rest. We should begin strategy as soon as possible.”
“Your Highness, you speak ahead of yourself,” Ernst snapped, pricking Roland’s nose with his foil.
Arthur looked ashamed, but Hannibal sprang back to life with a scowl, redoubling their attack.
The rat tutor found himself too hard pressed to chide them any further. Despite his friendship with Arthur, Ernst hoped he’d find a way out of this life soon.
STEFAN EXAMINED his handiwork. He’d taken his time testing different types of pitch. Now he had thinned the solution, painted his bird carefully, and tested the wings three times.
The sun was slipping behind the trees when he wound the bird. His stomach growled. It would be time for dinner soon, but he had to see if it would work this time. He lifted the dove into the air and let it go.
The bird rose, drumming its wings high over the dark river. Stefan watched with the net at his feet, ready to retrieve it from the water. The little dove soared.
“Ha!” Stefan exclaimed. “She’s flying!” he shouted as it flew farther than ever, in a widening circle. It had worked! His idea with the pitch, his patience, his skill had all paid off. And now the bird was coming back toward him for a landing. Stefan held up his hand to catch her.
Whoosh! The air beat against his eardrums and a shadow swooped over the deck. Stefan ducked. He turned just in time to see his beautiful little dove carried off in the talons of a massive barn owl.
“No!” He waved his arms, but the owl had already disappeared into the trees.
“Imagine the bellyache that one will have in the morning,” Samir said. The astrologer doubled over with laughter.
“Did you see that? That owl! It took my bird!”
“That owl thought it took a bird,” Samir replied, still chuckling.
“There is no greater compliment,” Christian agreed. “You fooled nature at her own game.”
Stefan wondered how long they’d been standing there, watching. He broke into a grin. “I guess so.”
“That, right there,” Christian said sharply, stabbing a finger at Stefan’s chest. “That feeling? Remember it, Stefan. It goeth before a fall.”
Stefan stepped back in confusion and rubbed his chest. “Pride,” the Bible said, “goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” But Stefan wasn’t being haughty. He’d worked hard to get that bird perfect; he had a right to be proud of his work, didn’t he? Over Christian’s shoulder, Samir shook his head, cutting off Stefan’s protest. Pride was a touchy subject with his cousin. That much was clear. “I’ll remember,” Stefan said. He lowered his eyes to hide his confusion. Pride might have been his cousin’s downfall. But Stefan wasn’t Christian. He was very sure of that.
• • •
AUSTRIA GAVE WAY to Hungary, its cliffs and hills melting into vineyards, and finally flat farmland. The sailors on board breathed a sigh of relief. Pirates, Stefan learned, had a much harder time hiding in the fields than they did in the craggy heights of the upper Danube.
Then the Western Carpathian Mountains rose up and the river headed sharply south, flowing through the heart of Hungary and on to Romania. Once more, the mountains hemmed them in, until the river became so narrow that Stefan could have easily swum from one bank to the other.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Christian joined him at the rail, his black coat opened to the river breeze. The mountains were like nothing Stefan had ever seen. They made him feel small. He’d just finished saying as much in his latest umailed letter to Clara.
He tucked the notebook into his pocket and leaned against the railing to enjoy the view.
“Gentlemen,” Captain Holige-Schwarzwasser announced, coming up beside them. “Welcome to the Iron Gate.”
Up ahead, the “Gate” stretched out before them, a deep gorge cut into the rock by centuries of flowing water. The river dropped abruptly away from its smooth expanse, churning into a froth of white, choppy waves.
“Rapids?” Stefan involuntarily grabbed hold of the railing.
“Rapids,” the captain confirmed. “Best hold on tight. Better yet, get inside. This is the worst of it.” He broke into a grin. “I’m crazy to say it, but I think it’s fun.”
Stefan didn’t agree. But Christian didn’t seem concerned with going inside, so Stefan tightened his grip on the railing and wrapped a guard rope around his wrist. Now he understood what all of the rope on deck was for.
“Christian, hold on to something. It isn’t safe.”
His cousin seemed lost in thought. “No, it isn’t safe at all, really.” He smiled sheepishly. “Things never are around me.”
With his free hand, Stefan checked to make sure his notebook was secured inside his pocket.
“Don’t forget this,” Christian said, handing him the krakatook in its silver casket.
Stefan snatched it. “Are you mad, bringing that out here?”
The river bucked and heaved beneath them as they passed the Iron Gate. Stefan’s stomach dropped and rose. He sucked in a breath as it dropped again.
“Mad?” Christian asked in a distracted voice. “Perhaps I am. You look so much like your mother, Stefan. She would be proud of you. Now, remember your promise. And I’ll keep mine.” He smiled gently.
It was such an odd thing to say. Stefan opened his mouth to tell him so when the barge dropped, and kept dropping. Stefan was sure he would be sick.
A wave splashed over the hull like a grabbing hand. Water blinded him.
When it receded, Christian was gone.
Silence, but for the wash and spray of the rapids.
Stefan reached out belatedly, but his cousin was beyond help. Then a phrase clicked into place in his head like the winding key of a clock, dredged up from his memory of ships and sails and souls lost at sea.
“Man overboard!” he shouted frantically.
Instantly, the deck was alive with bargemen racing to the rail, towing ropes and nets and guiding poles.
“Where?” bellowed the captain. Stefan pointed to the place where the waves had claimed his cousin. How had it gotten so far behind them? There was the dead tree on the shore, the cluster of submerged rocks that looked like a cow wading in the river. Even as he pointed, the landmarks disappeared from view behind the frothing waves.
They trolled the water.
“He’s light, faster than the Goose. He’ll be ahead of us now, lad,” the captain said, clamping a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. It was hot against the cold weight of his wet shirt.
Stefan raced to the bow of the barge. “Christian! Christian!” He screamed his throat raw, desperate for a glimpse of the white hair, the black coat, any sign of his cousin.
But the rocks were black, the rapids white and gray, blowing back into his face as the river spat at him in contempt.
Samir stormed onto the deck, summoned by one of the sailors, or by the sixth sense that tells all jailers when their prisoner has disappeared. He raced from one end of the barge to the other, calling out each rock or piece of driftwood that might be a coat or an arm or face. But they were not.
The rapids churned, and Christian did not reappear.
Stefan was still screaming his cousin’s name as they passed through the final rapids and the Gray Goose came to rest in a calm, still pool.
Flotsam and lost bits o
f cargo drifted in the silent water, circling as they rejoined the gentler flow of the river downstream.
Stefan gripped the railing with frozen fingers, staring into the water. “No,” he murmured. If he took his eyes off the rail, if he looked away from the glassy surface, it would be true.
Christian would be gone.
Not gone. Dead. That place beyond the veil, where his mother had disappeared. There would be no miracle to bring him back.
“Here’s where we find the bodies,” a sailor muttered to Samir. “Not always,” he quickly added. “It could take weeks if he’s in the rocks.”
Stefan gave the man a hateful glare. “Samir,” he called, but the name turned into a sob. He turned to the astrologer expecting comfort, an embrace, assurances—all the things his father had offered when his mother died. Things Stefan had rejected. Trying instead to be brave, to be unaffected. He had shrugged off the warm hand, the sad smile that would have opened the door to shared loss.
But he wanted it now, all of it. He wanted the black wind blowing through his chest to stop; the cold empty curdling in his gut to cease. Everyone he loved had been taken from him. Was this part of the universe’s design? Even now, another cog was being pulled from the clock in Nuremberg.
Christian Elias Drosselmeyer was dead.
“TWO INCHES, SEVEN EIGHTHS,” Zacharias said aloud to himself. He had risen this morning (or this evening, it was impossible to tell) to discover that the table in his cell now held two candlesticks, a box of matches, and a sheaf of paper with ink and pen.
He lit the candles. His cell was every bit as awful as he had imagined. Even the door—a great solid thing, charred as if from a fire—was exactly as foreboding as he had imagined it would be.
He cleared the straw away from around the table, lest the candles catch it alight. And then he unrolled the paper. Here were his blueprints, drawn aboard the ship that had carried him here. And a note, written in fine cursive hand.
If you wish to see your son again, you will build what you have designed.
The note was unsigned.
Zacharias cleared his throat.
“You expect me to make toys without tools, I suppose!” he said aloud. If they were listening, perhaps he could engage them. If not, it was at least nice to hear a human voice again—even if it was only his own.
“I’ll need an awl, for starters, and good wood . . .” He spoke a list of items required and wrote them on the back of the sheet of paper for good measure. Then, afraid to waste too much of the candles, he snuffed them out, and eventually fell asleep.
A scratching sound woke him. He sat up in his rickety chair and lit the candles once more.
There, by his straw bed, lay an awl, a small carving knife, and several large blocks of cured wood.
Like Beauty and the Beast, he thought to himself. But what unseen monster did he serve?
As there was little else to do, he began to carve.
HIDDEN WITHIN A CRACK in the stones of the castle, Arthur and his brothers pricked up their ears. They were eavesdropping on two mouselings gathering water from the trickling rain gutters above.
This particular rainspout was a vein of gossip the princes could mine without fear of being seen. The mice of Boldavia were chatty about their ruler, the Queen. But when the princes were about, they barely raised their eyes to them, let alone spoke in their presence.
Arthur sighed. He was tired of being a prince. Wouldn’t it be more fun to swap stories with friends in the marketplace?
“They have one!” the first mouse said.
“One what?” asked the second.
The first mouse’s voice trembled with a mixture of glee and awe. “They have a . . . Drosselmeyer!”
A shock ran through Arthur from tip to tail. He knocked heads with his brothers as each recoiled from the news. In silent agreement, Arthur and his brothers crept forward, all ears tuned to the conversation beyond the wall.
“Impossible!” said the second mouse. He was clearly older, his tone one of authority, his voice less squeaky. “There is only one Drosselmeyer and he was cast out of Boldavia.”
“Not true!” the first mouse insisted. “The Drosselmeyer has a family. There are more of them! I heard it from my mother’s cousin in the Queen’s guard. Well . . . my mother heard it from him. They didn’t see me under the table while they were talking, or I’m sure they’d have never let me stay. They’ve got one and they’ve brought him here. Here! In the castle!”
Arthur gasped. A Drosselmeyer! The most dangerous of all things. And to bring him into their home?
“I think you’re lying,” the older mouseling sneered.
“Am not!”
Arthur withdrew into the chamber beyond his listening post, wringing his paws.
“It can’t be true!” Genghis whined.
“Why not?” Charlemagne countered. “It’s a brilliant move. We have a hostage now. Drosselmeyer will stay away or risk his kin’s life.”
“Or he’ll come all the sooner,” Alexander said. “To save him.”
The princes fell silent at this sobering thought.
“Mother will kill the prisoner before Drosselmeyer has the chance,” Roland decided. He looked side to side at his brothers for agreement.
Hannibal growled deep in their belly. “Revenge,” he rumbled. “Then he’ll come back for revenge.”
Arthur felt sick. Their history lessons agreed with Hannibal. Nothing good could come of this. He wanted to sit down and be comforted, but by whom? His mother barely even stroked his ears, and the few times she had, it felt more like she was shopping for apples than showing tenderness. What would she want him to do?
“We need more information,” he surmised.
“Yes, let’s talk to Mother,” Genghis agreed. “Or Herr Listz. He’ll know what to do.”
“If they wanted us to know, they would have told us themselves,” Arthur said. He swallowed the lump of fear threatening to choke him. “No. We’ll go and see the prisoner for ourselves.”
The other princes fell silent. Arthur took a steadying breath and led the way to the damp dungeons.
• • •
THE PRINCE OF MICE peered out from their second hiding place of the day. Charlemagne snorted. He didn’t think it seemly that the future ruler of Boldavia should skulk between walls, and said as much.
There was a general grumble of agreement.
Arthur shushed his brothers. “There’s a spy hole in the wall,” he said. “If you ever listened in our lessons, you would know that.”
One of their mother’s piebald spies had given them a quick education in espionage—spying—in the mouse world. Back when Boldavia was a rougher place, an ancient mouse king had ordered spy holes and hidden doors carved into every dungeon cell. Even then they knew that if they hoped to hold sway in the world above, they would need the help of men.
“Hands,” they were called—humans who did the bidding of mice in the world of Men above. Before they had amassed enough gold to buy human assistance, they’d offered other things—comforts of food and blankets brought in by hidden ways. In exchange, the prisoners performed certain tasks upon being released. More than one wayward Boldavian had complied with their requests—drown a few kittens or unlock a granary door, wedge a window open in the scullery. By these means, cats grew scarce and mice more abundant over the years. King Pirliwig himself had done them a favor when his sneezing led him to banish cats from the kingdom entirely.
It was likely a gang of hands who had brought Drosselmeyer’s kin to this cell, Arthur thought. He rested a paw against the stonework. A small panel slid aside, offering a wide view of the room from halfway up the wall. Pressing his face against the opening, he could see that the small damp chamber held an old table and chair, but little else. He waited for his eyes to adjust.
There. On the floor, strewn wi
th old hay, a shape lay, its broad back to the room. Its shoulders quaked beneath a thin blanket, and it muttered softly to itself like a bedraggled old hen.
This was the Drosselmeyer.
“Let us see,” hissed Roland. Arthur pulled away from the opening to give each brother a turn at the peephole. A sense of dread built in their stomach.
“He looks . . . small,” Genghis said. It was the wrong word, but the brothers knew what he meant. After a lifetime of cautionary tales about the Mousekiller, here was his closest kin, huddled like an old maid. Neither fiery-eyed, nor breathing poison. He reminded Arthur of the aged deaf mouse that guarded the door to his mother’s chambers when he was very young. A sad old creature, not made for the damp beneath the castle.
This Drosselmeyer was no monster to be feared.
Alexander was the first to smile. And then Hannibal. Then Genghis and Roland and Charlemagne. A wave of relief washed over them. They had faced their enemy and survived.
“A dog with no teeth,” Alexander said.
“A cat with no claws,” Roland agreed.
“A victory,” said Charlemagne.
And the Prince of Mice laughed.
Except for Arthur. He had listened well at the spy hole and knew that the Drosselmeyer in the chamber was calling for his son. Had his own mother ever done such a thing? Worried over him, maybe, but wept for him? And his father? He didn’t even know the mouse who had helped give them life. The prince consort had died before they were born. A victim of the Drosselmeyer, some said, or the horrid mechanical cat he’d left behind.
For a moment, he leaned against the damp stone wall, disturbed in a way he could not define.
“What’s the matter with you?” growled Hannibal.
“N-nothing,” Arthur stammered. He knew what he was feeling was dangerous. Pity, for the man in the prison. Something he had only ever felt for himself.
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