Ernst wore a particularly fetching coat of midnight blue. It set off the gray of his fur quite nicely, bringing out the silver highlights. As ludicrous as the circumstances were, he was still a fan of pomp.
Having lingered in front of his mirror, he was among the last of the subjects to crowd into the great chamber, where the Breathless stood poised in awful memoriam. If the Queen had given a speech, he had missed it. Instead, he was greeted by the jubilant roar of the crowd. Alongside the mechanical cat towered a scaffold built around the thing the Drosselmeyer had created. Ernst’s back prickled at the sight. It was easily five feet tall.
A toy soldier. Of the sort he used to see in the shop windows of Vienna in wintertime. Glossy black cap, blue coat, white breeches, a sword sheathed at its side. The flat black eyes stared blindly into space, far above the heads of the mice congregating below. Even so, the face was incredibly human.
“Magnificent!” a noblemouse standing next to Ernst said. He used a monocle—clearly an affectation—to peer up at the towering manikin, and patted his own plump belly in self-congratulation. “We’ll surely rout those devils from over our heads now!”
Ernst doubted that. “Undoubtedly,” he lied.
He waited for a demonstration, a sign of movement, or evidence of martial skill. The toy soldier merely stood, not even at attention. Ernst wondered if the scaffolding was the only thing keeping it from tipping over.
On a grandstand built knee-high to the soldier, the Queen observed her engine of war. What she saw in it, Ernst couldn’t imagine. How a toy—even a very large one—could hope to defeat a living man was beyond him. But the Queen seemed pleased.
Indeed, the sight seemed to invigorate her. She rose from the chair she had been carried in on and bestowed seven kisses on the foreheads of her monstrous sons.
Even from here, Ernst could see Arthur’s nose twitch in delight. The boy deserved to be fêted for his work in persuading the Drosselmeyer to complete the task. Ernst had accepted his share of the accolades (in the form of his new coat, a gift from the Queen) for teaching the boys diplomacy and the art of persuasion. But, in truth, the rat knew he had nothing to do with it. Arthur had a fascination with the captive toymaker that Ernst did not understand.
They were all mad, these Boldavian mice. From the Queen on down. Still, the toy soldier was very large. And that was impressive. Ernst had built a career with that talent alone. Perhaps an impression was all the royal mouse army needed to make.
IN THE EARLY MORNING, they rode into Boldavia across its causeway, jutting out into the Black Sea. The city nation was whimsical, turreted, peaked, and steepled, like a city created by gingerbread bakers. But it was also full of mice. Along the gutters and alleyways, even between the cobblestones, mice scurried, skittered, and ran.
Stefan and Samir reined their horses in to a slow, high-stepping walk, trying their best to avoid the wave of pests. Stefan’s stomach turned. Like ants at a picnic, the mice of Boldavia swarmed throughout the city. He had never imagined it could be this bad. Boldavia was overwhelmed.
They passed a bakery, the display window empty of all food. On view was a large safe with a sign on its door saying Fresh Bread Inside.
“Food is scarce here,” Samir told him. “You will only find fish and preserved vegetables in most places. It’s impossible to maintain a garden, let alone a farm, without seeing it destroyed by morning. Only the wealthy can afford fruit or fresh vegetables, and those must be brought in by sea.”
Stefan observed the Boldavians as they passed. They were all thin and sallow. Even the smallest children wore boots. Infants were carried high on their parents’ shoulders. And the women, to Stefan’s shock, wore their full skirts tied close to the ankle with ribbon, making them look like onion bulbs. They juddered down the streets in tiny steps, struggling to keep their balance. Some had gone so far as to don hats shaped like tall green stalks or, even stranger, like upside-down baskets.
“Bubble skirts,” Samir explained. “Modeled after onions and hot air balloons.”
“Which explains the hats, anyway,” Stefan said.
“Since the princess fell ill, there has been a dreadful fear of mouse bites, but breeches would be immodest. And so—”
“Ridiculous skirts. But, don’t they worry about falling over?” Stefan exclaimed, watching one elderly woman attempt to navigate the curb. From nowhere, an urchin in high sturdy boots rushed forward and offered his arm. The old woman leaned heavily on the child and gave him a coin for his trouble. The boy ran back to a group of bedraggled children who all clutched brooms made from bundled twigs.
“Commerce in the face of adversity,” Samir said. “Remarkably adaptable, the Boldavians. This is an improvement. In the first days . . . well, I shudder to remember how terrible things were. The people underestimated the mice. And, newly risen, the creatures were hungry and dangerous indeed. Babes with milk on their breath were overwhelmed in their cribs. The tiniest tots could not be left unattended for a moment, lest they be bitten. And of course, there is always the fear of plague.”
Stefan shivered at the thought. Europe had seen more than its share of the scourge known as bubonic plague. It had all but destroyed Barvaria a hundred years ago, and torn through Russia when his father was just a child. And everyone knew the harbingers of plague were rodents. “The Four Horsemen,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“In the Bible. The Four Horsemen are the heralds of the Apocalypse. War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death.”
“We have wars,” Samir agreed, “and famine. Let us hope we quell this invasion before the other gentlemen arrive in force.”
They had barely made it to the end of the block when two of the older boys on the corner approached Samir.
“Beat a path through the mice for you, sir?” asked the taller of the two. He was maybe a year younger than Stefan and looked him over with interest. This was what happened to boys without apprenticeships, Stefan knew. Left to make their way in the world with only their wits and their muscles.
“Headed to the castle, are you?” queried the smaller one. They were both lean and rangy as alley cats.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Samir said. “That would be most kind.” He tossed a coin to the taller boy, and the two set about slapping the road in front of the clockwork stallions.
Mice scurried as the cobbles were swept clean, only to flood back again in their wake.
“The little beasts get into every crevice here,” Samir said. “Easier to pay them than clean the hooves off later.”
“But where are the cats? And dogs, for that matter? I knew a baker who used a rat terrier to keep the storeroom free of pests.”
“Remember, cats are illegal—the king is allergic and banned them long ago. As for dogs, they are not native to Boldavia. It has proven hard to import enough of them to make a difference. Now, they would welcome any mousers—cats and dogs alike—but you’ll find both animals steer clear of the city entirely.”
Looking around, Stefan could see why.
The two boys moved as fast as their brooms would allow. They were indeed making better time through the streets with their help. A soaring wall of dark brick rose ahead of them, above which Stefan could just make out the peaks and turrets of Castle Boldavia.
As they approached the castle wall, Stefan saw a line of doleful young men, each with a well-guarded nut to try their hand at curing the princess. Stefan rode grimly past, glad of the silver casket around his krakatook. Given the plague of mice, it was a wonder there were any nuts left in Boldavia at all.
When at last they reached the castle gates, their escort-sweepers accepted another coin and disappeared back into the city. Samir showed his credentials to the surprised guards (who had not seen him in seven years) and they were directed across the courtyard—swept clear of mice by a row of diligent gardeners wielding brooms—and into the royal stable
s.
Samir handed the reins to an attentive groom.
“We will keep the horses standing by, just in case,” the astrologer murmured quietly.
Now that he was here, Stefan was ready. Excited, even. He was in the heart of the enemy’s territory, yet not a single mouse had paid him the least bit of attention. He was invisible to them. No one credited a toymaker’s-apprentice-turned-clockmaker’s-journeyman as a threat. He would show them how wrong they were. For taking his father. For turning Christian into a criminal. “Drosselmeyer is an old name,” Christian had once said. Stefan would make sure it was remembered well.
Speed was of the utmost importance. He would cure the princess in exchange for the king’s help in finding his father. Once he was safe, Stefan would ask for the use of Christian’s old shop. He would build a better mousetrap. He would succeed where his cousin had failed. He would rid Boldavia of its rodents once and for all.
It never occurred to him that this was the sort of arrogance that had gotten Christian into trouble in the first place.
Stefan scraped his boots by the servants’ entrance and followed Samir into the castle.
They moved through back passageways, brushing past servants and tripping over mice. The interior was cold, the sort of chill that settled into masonry and rarely left, even in the heat of summer. They climbed a narrow staircase in tight spirals almost to the top. At the landing, Samir fumbled with a long key.
“These are Christian’s rooms. I lived . . . I live above,” he pointed to where the stone steps became wooden. “A small observatory,” he said with shy pride. He pushed open Christian’s door.
Stefan hadn’t known what to expect. Something miraculous, like a wizard’s laboratory, maybe? Mechanical dolls, tables covered in gears and tools, towering creations, small scuttling apparatuses, whimsical whirligigs. At least a clock.
“It’s like a monk’s cell!” he exclaimed, taking in the pie-shaped room. It held a black-curtained alcove with a partially concealed bed. A long table, a bench. Dust swirled in the sunbeams pouring through high windows at the top of the room. A large rug was the only sign of comfort.
They dropped their bags in the middle of the room.
“It was not always like this,” Samir said apologetically. “But once the princess was stricken, Christian became very single-minded.”
At the moment, Stefan didn’t care. He sat down on the bench, knowing the bed would be too hard a temptation to resist. He removed his boots and recoiled from the smell. “I need a bath,” he said. “And a change of clothes. Then I’ll be ready.”
Samir pointed him to the facilities. “We have running water, hot and cold.”
It was more like running rust. Stefan let it flow until it was clear and filled the claw-foot tub as high as he dared. He stripped off his clothes and sank into the water while Samir headed to his own chambers to do the same.
Every muscle ached, and his hair was full of sand for some reason. He ducked under the water. The krakatook lay sealed in its case, now on a chain around his neck. Waiting to be opened.
• • •
“HOW DO I LOOK?” Stefan asked.
Samir had returned in fresh robes, a newly wrapped turban around his head. His clothes were brilliant peacock, scarlet, and gold. A far cry from the drab things he’d worn on the road. He looked like a prince.
Stefan, on the other hand, looked ridiculous. The pants were at least an inch too short, though his boots covered the gap. His sleeves were another story.
“Perhaps if you undo the cuffs?” Samir suggested.
“I did,” he replied, shrugging. It seemed he’d grown since leaving Nuremberg, and his clothes, unfortunately, had not.
“What about gloves?”
Gloves. Was that why Christian wore them, to hide the fact that his sleeves were too short? Stefan doubted it. A royal clockmaker could afford newly tailored clothes. A masterless journeyman would have to manage without. “No. This will have to do.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair, smoothed his black waistcoat and tan breeches.
Samir arranged his tie. “There,” he said at last.
They looked each other over, the astrologer and the clockmaker. Suddenly, Stefan jumped as a cacophony of chimes, cuckoos, bells, and clacking rose from the castle to strike the hour.
“Ah. Another of your cousin’s legacies,” Samir said wryly.
Stefan allowed himself a small smile. “I guess that means it’s time we got on with it.”
Together, they descended the stairs to the audience chamber. And prayed that it would go well, for all their sakes.
THEY WERE COMING to kill him. Zacharias could hear a mighty roar, even through the walls of his cell. He had finished their diabolical toy, and now his time was up.
He pulled a sheet of half-used parchment from beneath his sleeping pallet. They had left his pen and ink, and half a candle. Zacharias sat at the worktable and scratched out a letter of farewell to his son.
It was not eloquent, but it was all he could do. Even now footsteps were drawing nearer. At the behest of the dreaded “them,” the man in scarlet was returning to finish the job.
Zacharias hefted the pen. He could try to stab the man and escape. But he was no killer.
Instead, he signed the letter and addressed a note to Arthur on the outside of the folded paper. He hoped the boy would find it once he was gone and get it to Stefan, somehow.
Hope. It was laughable that even now he felt it.
The candle guttered out and all went dark.
The moment hung in silence.
Bang! The cell door jounced on its hinges. Another powerful bang, and the door gave way. Bloody red light flooded the room. A monster stood in the open doorway—tall and black with a glowing red eye.
Zacharias jumped up, pen in hand, finding himself more ready to fight than he’d thought.
“Zacharias?”
The pen dropped.
The red lantern flipped up and a human eye looked out from the darkness.
“Christian?”
“Thank the heavens!” Christian said, and reached for his hand. “Quickly. While the mice are away and everyone still thinks I am dead.”
THE THRONE ROOM of Boldavia was massive, with a soaring ceiling that could hold a block of houses stacked three high. The walls were made of stone and were covered in rich red and orange tapestries. A long carpet ran the length of the room to a dais at the far end, where the King of Boldavia sat on his throne like a bored schoolboy. He was just as Stefan imagined he would be. A huge man with an even huger waist, he wore white breeches, buckle shoes, and a white tunic belted with a rope of gold. Over that, he wore a crimson robe trimmed with white fur. A large gold medallion hung from the king’s neck, and a golden crown perched on his fire-red hair. He looked like Father Christmas in the off-season. His scepter dangled idly in one hand, while the other twirled his auburn beard. A row of young pages in livery circled the edges of the room with long-handled brooms, sweeping at the corners and along the walls.
The king sighed audibly over their constant swishing. He didn’t even look up when another page led in his latest guests.
“May I present the Royal Astrologer, Reader of the Stars, Samir abd al-Malik, servant to the king,” the page announced. “And . . . Stefan Drosselmeyer . . . Journeyman,” he added, unimpressed.
The king’s yawn turned into an apoplectic fit of coughing.
“Good gracious! Samir!” he bellowed. “Seven years we’ve waited for you! Pirlipat’s almost a grown woman, or would be, if it weren’t for her condition. What’s taken you so long?”
Samir bowed extravagantly, touching his hand to his forehead in the same waterfall movement he’d exchanged with King Almande. He rose and spread his fingers in a calming gesture. “Forgive me, sire,” he said. “The road has been . . . difficult. But fruitful, at last.”
“We’ll see,” the king sputtered. “Do you know how many fools have been here with haycorns and peanuts, hoping to win my daughter’s hand? You’d better do it right, or I’ll have that clockmaker’s head. Speaking of which, where is the rascal? Too afraid to show his face in my court, eh?”
Samir stepped slightly aside, leaving Stefan in full view of the king.
“Your . . . Your Majesty,” Stefan said, with an awkward bow. This was not like meeting King Almande, a royal who stood on the same ground as he did. King Pirliwig was propped up in a throne on a dais in the largest room Stefan had ever been in outside of a cathedral. The effect was impressive, and humbling.
But I am a Drosselmeyer, he reminded himself. That had to count for something.
“That ‘clockmaker’ was my cousin, and he is dead. As his journeyman, it falls to me to dispatch his last duty to you and the princess.”
“Dead? What deviltry is this? How dare he die in my service? I didn’t order it. Did I? That was a mistake! That scoundrel must see this through to the very end!”
Stefan dropped his eyes, afraid the swell of anger in his chest would show. All around him, the brooms kept time—swish, swish, swish. Like the rush of blood inside him. With every sweep, shadows in the crevices trembled. Stefan’s anger turned to ash and he shivered. Even here, there were mice.
“I’ll have to get a new clockmaker now,” the king said. He sighed. “Well, what are you—who are you again?”
Stefan bowed and repeated the page’s introduction.
“Journeyman? How can a journeyman succeed where the master has failed?”
Stefan took a deep breath. “I’ll show you. But first . . . I need your help.”
The king grumbled. “Of course you do. No one ever just does their job anymore. It’s always ‘What’s in it for me?’ Well, spit it out.”
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