The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  Within the circle, the King of Mice rose to his feet. “Release me!” his voices bellowed as one.

  The mouse guard trembled and obeyed. They stepped back, spears to the sky, a sparse ring around their leader.

  Hannibal hefted their sword. Arthur and his brothers looked into the yellow eyes of death.

  And they struck with the force of seven kings.

  The owl cried out as the sword pierced its breast. “Attack!” Arthur bellowed.

  “Attack!” his brothers joined in.

  The King’s guard sucked in their collective breaths. A mouse of Boldavia had stood alone against an owl, and won.

  “To the King!” they cried, and struck in a rush of pride and fury. The owl fell beneath their weapons, their teeth, and their claws.

  Rising above the fray, Arthur and his brothers watched their army attacked and harried from above. Here and there, a mouse was taken, screaming a high shrill death cry.

  Arthur wanted to weep from exhaustion and fear, but his pride would not let him. Hannibal and Charlemagne wanted to continue to fight. But the remaining piebald guard was determined to keep their King alive.

  “We’ve found a moleway, sire,” Snitter muttered into Arthur’s ear. “We can get Your Majesty underground. Half your soldiers are under way already. We’ll lose some, but save more. Come, sire. Let us flee before nightfall. We’ve no chance against more owls.”

  “No!” Hannibal snarled. “We have our sword!”

  A cold stillness surrounded Arthur, despite the flickering shadows from above, despite the owl-darkening skies. They had felled one raptor, it was true. And, following his lead, the rest of the army had brought down three more. But that was not the reason they had left Boldavia.

  “Birds are not our quarry,” he reminded them. “We hunt men. Lead on, Snitter. Our mother must be avenged.”

  Pressed close to the earth, hidden by dirt and winter wheat, Arthur and his guard made their way across the frost-chilled field. One of his guards was lost in the process, twenty-seven mice in all. But his army counted in the thousands. Nothing could stand in their way for long.

  “WHAT A RACKET THEY MAKE!” Stefan’s mother said.

  They sat perched on the roof of their townhome. Her apron pockets were full of broken gingerbread that she hurled into the air.

  Stefan laughed as seagulls swooped down to snatch the pieces out of the sky. “And so far inland!” he exclaimed.

  “They come in whenever there’s a storm, dear.” His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’s getting cold. Come inside and we can have some cocoa.”

  “Look how they catch the air,” Stefan said, pointing at the arc of a gull wing, cupped on a gust of wind.

  “Yes, amazing,” his mother said. “A pity your father doesn’t make birds. What child wouldn’t want a toy that could fly?”

  “I would,” Stefan agreed.

  His mother was in the kitchen, pouring cocoa. “You would what, dear?”

  “Like to make birds,” he said. “Like on the roof.”

  She smiled her brilliant smile—the one that pulled smiles from all other lips—and handed him a tray with four mugs. “That’s a wonderful thought, Stefan. When you figure it out, I’d love to have a little gray dove.”

  Hadn’t he made her one already? Stefan accepted the heavy tray. The warm, sweet steam of chocolate and milk curled about his face.

  His mother patted his cheek. “Go, beautiful boy. Don’t keep your papa waiting.”

  Through the window, he could see his father and two other men. “Look! It’s Cousin Christian,” Stefan said. “And . . . Samir.”

  Their heads were together, discussing . . . something. He heard them say his name. Christian drew plans in the air. Stefan listened closely. He wanted to join them, but could not find the door.

  THEY ARRIVED IN NUREMBERG on Christmas Eve, like three premature wise men—Christian, Zacharias, and Samir. On each of their backs was an identical bundle, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. They joined the latecomers to the Nuremberg Kindlesmarkt, no more unusual than the other traveling peddlers toting their wares. Once through the gates of the old city, Christian went right, Samir turned left, and Zacharias went straight ahead with the crowd into the heart of the Christmas Market.

  “Mein Gott,” Zacharias muttered as he entered the main square. The sun had gone down and the sky had turned deep blue. In the glow of lamp- and torchlight, the pride of Nuremberg spread out before him—music, people, and market stalls.

  The Kindlesmarkt—a three-hundred-year-old Christmas tradition to which the entire city flocked in the days leading up to Christmas. This year was no different. Every toymaker, clockmaker, craftsman, and baker for miles around had set up shop in neat little rows beneath the central clock tower.

  Above it all, from the clock’s cloth-of-gold-draped balcony, ruled the benevolent golden-ringleted Christkind, or Christ Child. Usually a young girl chosen for her father’s standing in the town government, the Christkind wore white robes, a long blond wig, and a golden crown. She also carried a scepter with which she blessed the proceedings each year.

  The rich scents of gingerbread and roasted nuts wafted through the air, making Zacharias’s mouth water. Cold wind bit the tip of his nose and melting snow sloshed over his boots as he made his way through the jostling crowd. A group of children sang carols at the intersection of two rows of booths. A little boy dressed as an elf laughed, a bell-like sound that almost brought tears to the toymaker’s eyes.

  He continued on, running through Christian’s plan in his mind. It was mad, of course. Life had offered nothing but madness since the day he buried Elise. All he could do was press on.

  Zacharias shifted his grip on the bundle and pushed through the crowd to the judging stage. Here, the toymakers’ guild accepted the finest craftwork of every eligible master toymaker in Nuremberg and the surrounding area.

  “Zacharias Drosselmeyer, of Kleinestrasse,” he presented himself at the small sign-in table. A platform had been built, as it was every year, with tables that showcased the prize pieces of the market.

  “Zacharias, you’re here!” the guildmaster cried. Herr Grüel tugged at his red hair where it peeked out from beneath his hat. “Are you all right? We’ve not heard from you since the day that boy of yours feared you’d been kidnapped! By mice, was it? I should have known you were merely working in secret on your Kindlesmarkt toy. And thank heavens for that! It was a bit frightening, but all our guildsmen are accounted for since that day. You make the last.” He tittered with relief. “Now, what great work have you brought for the judging?”

  Zacharias slid the bundle gingerly to the ground and bent to peel away the loosely wrapped paper.

  “Wonderful! Rather a portrait of the original, eh?” the guildmaster exclaimed. “The limbs are moveable?”

  “Most lifelike, indeed,” Zacharias said, mopping his damp brow.

  “Table twelve, to the left,” the guildmaster directed him, making a note in his ledger.

  Zacharias lifted the bundle into place and removed the rest of the wrappings.

  It was a wooden soldier. Not so different from the one he’d made in Boldavia, it was nearly life-size, standing four and a half feet tall. This one had red coattails, white breeches, black boots, and brass buttons, a shiny black cap, and startlingly lifelike gray eyes that were exactly like Stefan’s.

  Zacharias sat the doll in place more tenderly than one might have expected. He adjusted the soldier’s cap and made sure the coat was secure on the body.

  “There we are, in plain sight,” he muttered. The mice had spies in the crowded marketplace, he knew, but none could reach him up on the platform here.

  Overhead, the Christkind stood on the balcony of the cathedral with her entourage of angels, smiling down at the crowd. Zacharias said a short prayer for his son and sett
led in to wait.

  • • •

  “HOLD YOUR horrible horses!” Professor Blume shouted.

  Someone was pounding at the door hard enough to bring the house down. He’d given the staff the night off to visit the Kindlesmarkt. He preferred to stay home and soak up the warmth of his greenhouse over a nice book rather than brave the cold for roasted chestnuts and gewgaws. He clapped a hand over his fez to keep it from flying off as he sped down the stairs, jamming his feet into his slippers every third step. Out of breath and nearly as red as his velvet housecoat, he threw open the door.

  “Yes, what is—?” The rest of his exhortation fell away. Perhaps he was dreaming after too much roast beef and potatoes. Nothing else could explain why one of the three wise men was standing on his doorstep the night before Christmas.

  “Professor Blume?” the Arab asked rather unexpectedly.

  “Uh . . . yes?” The professor was very aware that his fez was remarkably out of place in front of such an awe-inspiring turban. The little gold tassel on his hat jostled belatedly to a stop in front of his right eye. He brushed it out of the way.

  “Samir abd al-Malik at your service. Might I come in?”

  Blume stammered for a proper response to the florid bow the Arab presented. He stepped aside before any words came to mind.

  Shutting the door, he tried to gather his composure while his unexpected visitor lowered a bundled package to the ground and paused to rub the warmth back into his hands.

  “Is that for me?” Blume asked, eyeing the package.

  Samir followed the man’s gaze. “If you like. Perhaps we can effect a trade. The nutcracker in exchange for a nut.”

  The professor’s eyes glided across Samir’s whole being, before settling on his face. “Would you . . . fancy a cup of tea?”

  Samir grinned, white teeth startlingly bright against his dark face. “Very much so, but I’m afraid my business is pressing. I seek the krakatook. Have you another?”

  Blume, who had rather begun to enjoy the idea of such a bizarre Christmas Eve, blinked twice, reeling to catch up. “The krakatook? My dear fellow, why would I want two of the useless things?”

  The Arab’s face fell into a thunderous scowl. “So you only had the one?” he asked.

  The despair in his visitor’s voice was deeply affecting. He patted the big man’s shoulder. “I am afraid so. And unfortunately I can’t tell you where to find another.” He shrugged. “There was a boy here some weeks ago, but I haven’t heard from him since. Had the loveliest ideas for my bonsai trees—”

  “I come on his behalf,” Samir said. “These are bad tidings, indeed.”

  Professor Blume hovered for a moment, twiddling his fingers anxiously. “Bad tidings? Hardly. He was playing a prank of some sort. Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”

  The Arab took a deep breath and seemed to regain some of his height and strength. “Another time, perhaps. For now, lock your doors and sleep soundly. This is not a night for being abroad.”

  He threw open the door and left just as quickly as he had come.

  “You forgot your—” Professor Blume let yet another sentence hang unfinished in the cold air.

  The Arab had left his package, the paper torn across the top. Staring out from the brown wrapping was a beautifully polished wooden nutcracker with the face of the boy to whom he’d given the krakatook.

  “Will wonders never cease?” he asked the empty foyer, and carried his sole Christmas present into the greenhouse to study it someplace warm.

  THE BROWN-AND-GRAY PIEBALD twitched his whiskers in an effort to look less suspicious. Of course, his target hadn’t seen him—he was too well trained a spy for that. But other humans passing by might notice him, and a scurrying mouse drew less attention than one that was standing still.

  The clockmaker and the boy assassin had arrived in the city, just as intelligence suspected. But they had been clever and divided their party. Each man carried a bundle. One of them, undoubtedly, concealed the Queenkiller, but which one?

  Tailitch had been forced to split up his band of scouts to follow the astrologer and the boy’s father as they fled into the city. He chose to follow the clockmaker himself. At this time of year, it would be difficult to follow them through the wide avenues and rolling cart wheels, but not impossible. Tailitch had been chosen for his ability to move about this city, his hometown.

  He would not fail like the last Nuremberg spy. Caught by the enemy! Tailitch twitched his tail in indignation. No, he would not fail.

  His only real concern was not being able to send word back to his superiors, if he chose to follow his subject now. But humans were foolish. Now that they had reached the city, they likely thought themselves safe, and would no longer be moving at night. Confident in this realization, Tailitch sent one last missive down the tunnels. There it would be picked up by the hourly courier, carried through the massive network of tunnels beneath the city to the paws of his superior, and eventually to the ears of the Mouse King himself.

  Tailitch twitched with pride. He had seen the King in action at the Battle of Owl Run. Four owls had been felled that day! And the King had taken one single-handedly! Aye, the Mouse King was a force to inspire awe even in a soldier as weathered as he.

  Taking a final bead on his target, Tailitch gathered himself and leapt forward into the whirling street after his prey.

  NUREMBERG, ERNST LISTZ said to himself.

  It sounded rich. Not as rich as Austria or Paris, but it would do. Anything was better than the terrors of the open countryside with its death strikes from above, and the moldy stench of damp tunnels. They had marched hard all the way from Boldavia, using log barges on underground streams when possible. They kept up their speed, even racing through tunnels and under mountains, knowing their enemy must travel the longer way.

  A mouse could run twice as fast as a man could walk, if necessary. For this journey, the King of Mice had deemed it very necessary indeed. And so they had run and sailed, to the point of exhaustion.

  For Ernst, anyway. These Boldavian mice never seemed to tire. Fanatics rarely did. Ernst had hoped Arthur and his brothers would eventually forget him, caught up in the tides of war. He was beginning to fear he would never be free.

  A paw clutched him from behind. The paw of the Mouse King.

  Ernst used every ounce of self-control he possessed to not jump out of his skin. “Sire.”

  As the army approached Nuremberg, Arthur’s brothers had grown more agitated. The owl attack outside Vienna had only made matters worse. The rodent army had been forced to flee underground. For the first time in this ridiculous campaign, the mice had been frightened. What’s more, their spies in the city had lost sight of the clockmaker’s boy, which had only served to feed the anger of their King. The bloodlust in Hannibal’s eyes had become more apparent with each step as he gnashed his teeth, drunk on power and the promise of vengeance.

  And now, per Arthur’s orders, each head wore its own golden crown.

  When Ernst turned to face his King this time—not his king, he had to remind himself, merely an upstart rabble-rouser of lesser Rodentia—it was not Hannibal he saw, but Arthur. One of those odd eclipse-like times when the other heads were asleep and the boy seemed like himself again.

  “Ernst, may I speak with you?” Arthur’s voice sounded hollow and young even though his body had grown to adulthood.

  Pity wrapped around Ernst’s jangled nerves. Why did he stay, if not for this boy? Perhaps because Arthur was the only creature to treat him with real respect in all of the years since Ernst’s family’s decline.

  “Of course, dear boy,” Ernst replied softly, not wanting to wake the other brothers. It seemed to be Arthur’s gift, to stay awake while the others slept. But it made the boy seem even lonelier than usual.

  Ernst kept his voice soft and light, but he was afraid. For
Arthur and for himself.

  “Ernst, I’ve been having dreams again.” Arthur tucked his arm around his tutor’s elbow and they began to stroll. They were camped beneath the roots of a great oak tree in one of the parks outside Nuremberg. Intelligence had scouted it as the perfect headquarters. In fact, the chamber here was so large, it had allowed them to begin the curious work of assembling the siege machines.

  “What kind of dreams, Majesty?” Ernst asked in real concern. Nightmares had begun to wrack all of the Mouse King’s heads in the past few weeks, but Arthur was the only one willing to talk about it.

  “I see him in my dreams,” Arthur confided. The young face paled beneath the silvery fur. “Mother’s killer. I can’t face him, Ernst. I could barely stand up to my own mother. She was a sorceress, she had such power. What on earth could snuff her out?”

  “You haven’t actually seen the assassin, then?” Ernst asked. Even he had caught a glimpse of the human boy, through a chink in the wall as he fled the Boldavian throne room. Ernst had been attempting to escape.

  “I have. On that terrible day, and every night, in my dreams,” Arthur said softly. “He’s a monster. My brothers think we are invincible, that we will triumph by divine right. Not even the hawks have swayed them. But Mother reaped what she sowed, don’t you think? What hope have we against one man, let alone an entire race of them? I fear we will all perish.”

  Ernst gripped the younger mouse by his shoulders. At last, a lick of sense in the entire escapade! “Then stop it, Arthur. You are the King—you are! If you can see your mother’s legacy as the idiocy it is, then call an end to it!”

  “I can’t,” Arthur cried forlornly.

  “Why not? Your brothers? Will you let them bully you into the grave?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  Ernst’s heart skipped a beat. The voice was not Arthur’s. Hannibal was awake, leering at the rat through slitted yellow eyes. Ernst let go of the King’s jacket and stepped back. The other heads were awake, as well.