The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  “I told you the rat was not loyal to us,” Genghis said.

  “And you were right.” Hannibal frowned. “Herr Listz, you disappoint us.”

  “Treachery!” Charlemagne hissed.

  The other heads echoed the word. “Treachery.”

  Ernst was bewildered. Arthur would not look him in the eye.

  “Seize the rat. Lock him up!” Hannibal called out.

  Two armed guards stepped from the shadows to follow their King’s command.

  “Arthur?” Ernst’s voice cracked.

  “I’m sorry, Ernst. We had to know if you were with us or against us,” he said in a voice Ernst hardly recognized. “You must understand. She was our mother. My mother.”

  With a start, Ernst realized Arthur had truly loved her. She who had only ever seen him as a means to an end. Who had made him into this unnatural form. In spite of all that, Arthur loved her fiercely, and would follow her into the grave. Ernst’s last slivers of hope began to fade.

  “Enough, Arthur,” Charlemagne snapped. “Visit him in the dungeon if you must.”

  “The enemy has been spotted in Nuremberg,” Hannibal said. “We have work to do.”

  So the Drosselmeyer was here. The war would begin by nightfall, if Hannibal had his way. All Ernst could hope to do was save himself.

  “You can’t imprison me! You need me!” the rat called out as his escort dragged him from the chamber. Hannibal snorted. The little upstart would suffer for that, one day, Ernst swore.

  His last sight was of the Mouse King laughing from all of his mouths but two. Ernst closed his eyes. Julius had been blank as ever, but the look on Arthur’s face was all too clear. Nothing would stop him from having his revenge.

  CHRISTIAN HURRIED UP the steps, the cloth-wrapped figure solid and unyielding, but distressingly light in his arms. They didn’t have much time. Once they reached the city, the mice could move quickly through the sewers and catacombs. They could be everywhere, anywhere, at once.

  Behind him, the expanse of Englestrasse Square made his back itch. But much worse was the grinding ache in his bones. Something was out of step. The City Clock of Nuremberg was losing time. He could feel it with each stuttered beat of his heart, as if he, and not the city, had somehow slipped out of rhythm.

  He paused at the top of the stairs and swallowed a wave of nausea. Unlike the neglected university clock, very few things could knock a City Clock off-kilter—an act of sabotage (unheard of in his lifetime), an immense natural disaster, or a shift in the balance of the world. Without seeing the movement himself, he knew it was the latter of the three. The mice had reached Boldavia, and there was a real chance that they would win the day.

  A subtle shift, for now, sure to go unnoticed by the shoppers celebrating at the Kindlesmarkt. Birds and animals were more sensitive, of course, which might have been why the streets were empty of dogs and cats. And clockmakers. Every clockmaker in the city would be able to feel the damage being done. They would rally to the Brotherhood, do their best to guard the Cogworks. Other than that, it would be as he’d told Stefan so long ago. Every clockmaker is responsible for his own work. A second set of hands might ruin the timing.

  This crisis was of Christian’s own making. He could rely on the Brotherhood only so far. But, in the end, he’d have to solve it on his own.

  He paused a moment longer to take a deep breath, and another, gauging the rise and fall of his chest until each inhalation was as long as his exhalation. He could not adjust the movement of the city all at once, but he could certainly rebalance himself. An unsteady clockmaker did unsteady work.

  Through the heavy oaken door, he could hear the sound of the little piano in the corner of the parlor. That would be Lisle Stahlbaum, who’d had quite a career as a pianist in her youth. Christian allowed himself a small, nostalgic smile, then forced it wider as he hefted the brass knocker and announced his arrival.

  “Uncle Drosselmeyer!” came a rousing chorus as he swept into the foyer, the chill night air wafting from his great coat.

  “Merry Christmas, meine kinder!” he bellowed. He gently lowered his package to the floor beside the resplendent Christmas tree and was accepted into the house of his foster family.

  The scents of pine, woodsmoke, and mulled wine assailed him. The Stahlbaums were famous for their Christmas Eve parties. Half the neighborhood was here—a good sign. There was safety in numbers for people this night.

  He scanned the grand parlor, heavy with garlands and the scent of clove-studded oranges. A fire crackled in the marble hearth that took up the better part of the far wall. He would see to closing the flue the moment the fire died. There was his foster brother, Franz, with his young son, Fritz, Franz’s wife, Lisle, and his goddaughter, Marie. Here were the Gerstenfelds from across the road, and the Pfeffers, and Mrs. Walden from the kitchens, and their maid, Clara, serving hot mulled wine. He accepted a glass of the spiced drink gratefully and turned to his foster brother.

  “Christian, we’ve heard so little from you after you wrote about your royal position, and now, two visits in the same year?” Lisle exclaimed. “We’ll begin to think you miss us.”

  “Of course I’ve missed you,” Christian replied. “All of you. The past few years have been difficult. I tried to send word when I could.”

  He scanned the room and spied a large box in the corner.

  “Ah, my packages have arrived,” he noted with satisfaction.

  “As they do every year,” Lisle assured him, gently placing a hand on his arm. There was a strange tugging in his chest that he recognized as longing. The Master Clockmaker of Boldavia was homesick.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” Franz said. “The children have been desperate with anticipation for days!”

  The tugging in his chest grew stronger.

  “Very well.” For a few moments, Christian Drosselmeyer allowed himself to be at home. He played with his young foster nieces and nephews, congratulated the older ones on their accomplishments. He pried open the crate sent so many months ago out of foreign ports of call, and unpacked his gifts.

  A ballerina unfolded from the crate and rose to her full five-foot height and danced delicately before the cluster of children and adults. Then there came the jester, and then a Moor, mimicking the whirling dance of one of King Almande’s entertainers.

  The children laughed and clapped, and the adults congratulated him, while Marie, his favorite, sat in the corner reading quietly and offering her applause when called for.

  At last, the furor moved on without him and he went to Marie’s side.

  “Ah, so now you see me,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling merrily in the firelight.

  Christian kissed her hand. “Young lady, I hardly recognized you, so beautiful have you become.”

  She swatted him with her book. “Come, Uncle, the only thing that’s grown here is your nose. What is the corpse in the winding sheet over there? What have you brought into our house?”

  Christian scowled. “You are too bright by far, Marie. It’s something that deserves tender care and safekeeping.”

  “Then you’d best bring it here. Fritz is knocking it to the floor.”

  Christian rushed to save Stefan from a fate worse than he’d already suffered, but he was too late. The veil slipped, and the beautifully carved soldier fell facedown onto the floor.

  Fritz jumped back. “Sorry, Uncle Christian! It slipped!”

  His mother gasped. “Fritz Stahlbaum, you little terror!”

  Only Christian noticed the split lip.

  “I am so sorry, Christian. Has he broken one of your manikins?” Lisle asked. She was so like her daughter, Marie, but a harmless honeybee, where Marie could sting.

  “He’ll be fine. I . . .” Christian picked up his cousin.

  “So lifelike,” Franz exclaimed.

  “Indeed.” Ch
ristian touched the split lip. It came away reddened with—

  “Sap? How freshly you carve your wood!” his foster brother said.

  “Father, really,” Marie said, pushing through the cluster of guests. “Your son has destroyed my gift. I’ll take him from you, Uncle,” she said gently, and lifted the doll in her arms.

  “What a clever nutcracker he is,” she said, and carried her prize up the stairs.

  • • •

  MARIE STAHLBAUM’S ROOM would be the envy of collectors everywhere. The walls were lined with neatly kept cupboards, each containing row upon row of clever, beautiful dolls. They watched with silent glass or painted eyes as she entered the room with her latest acquisition.

  Laying the nutcracker on the counterpane of her four-poster bed, she examined the lip. “Curious, indeed.” She cast about for a napkin or handkerchief to blot the sap with, and found the corner of one sticking out of the toy soldier’s pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said, and tugged it free. She shook the linen open and nearly dropped it—a small handkerchief embroidered with the letter “S” in pale blue.

  “Impossible!” she exclaimed, and looked into the toy soldier’s wooden gray eyes.

  It was impossible. But evidently true.

  “THE ASSASSIN. Where is he?” the King of Mice demanded. He paced the hard-packed floor as his piebalds scrambled to answer.

  One tough-looking mouse stood to attention while the others conferred behind him. “Sires, we have followed the clockmaker and his companions to three locations. The main market, the gardens, and a private home off a residential square. Our spies are attempting to infiltrate. We should know which of the three harbors the assassin within the hour.”

  “An hour is a lifetime,” Roland said.

  “Too long!” Genghis spat. “We should attack them all. Teach these men to fear us! Take the city, and our mother’s killer will also fall.”

  Charlemagne hissed through curled lips, balling their paw into a fist. “The city. We’ll crush it as we did Boldavia. For mousedom.”

  “For Mother!” Arthur said. He turned his brothers away from the gathering of spies until they faced one of the soaring cavern walls. The underbelly of Nuremberg was unlike anything they had ever seen. The constant roar of the river above- and belowground was similar enough to the susurration of Boldavia’s shoreline, but there was another sound. A grinding, as if the bones of the very earth were breaking. It made Arthur uneasy.

  The wheels of the world were turning. At any moment he could be crushed.

  But not before he took the life of the boy that killed his mother. Let his brothers become emperors and rulers of Men. Arthur no longer cared. His mother was dead, and with her his last hope of love. He had no heart for conquest, but he would have his revenge. As long as he lived up to one-seventh of her expectations. Let his brothers do the rest.

  He turned to his spies. “Take them.”

  The piebalds looked up from their plans, like pigeons scrounging for feed in a park.

  “Sire?” the tough one said apologetically.

  “Three targets. Take them all. We will not wait a moment longer. Vengeance is at hand.”

  The piebald hesitated. “The townhouse and the villa, yes, but sire . . . the marketplace? It is what the men call a holiday. The square is unmanageably large and packed with them. I am afraid it is strategically impossible.”

  “Impossible?” the King said coldly, his voices harmonizing in a way that made even Arthur’s fur crawl. “We are impossible. Yet, Boldavia is ours. You are ours. If it costs us your life, we will spend it gladly. For the honor of our fallen Queen.”

  The piebald blanched, a strange effect behind his mottled fur. “Sire.” He dropped to one knee and bowed until his whiskers brushed the ground.

  “WAKE UP, BEAUTIFUL BOY. Wake up!”

  A cool hand slapped his cheek. Stefan blinked his eyes open.

  “Mother?”

  “I should hope not,” a wry voice replied.

  “What?” Stefan rubbed his eyes with stiff wooden hands. His lids rasped over the hardened orbs. His body creaked when he moved, like an old ship bobbing at sea. But his arms and legs seemed to obey his commands. He looked at his wrist. A well-carved ball-and-socket joint allowed his hand to swivel, almost like a real wrist. It loosened up as he worked it round, becoming more natural with each revolution. Next, he cracked his fingers. They clacked open and closed, each joint as well made as the most poseable of his father’s toys. He sighed and blinked.

  A girl was standing over him.

  “Clara!”

  She smiled. “Not exactly.”

  He sat up, his waist bending oddly at what he realized was now a hinge. His heart beat furiously in its frozen cage. “Beautiful?”

  “Thank you,” she said with a little curtsy.

  “No, not you—”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “No! I mean, of course you. You’re beautiful. But you called me beautiful. It’s not dark enough in here to make that mistake.”

  Clara’s smile returned. She dropped down to sit beside him.

  He was in a bedroom, he realized. A rather nice one, with a soft mattress and walls full of books and well-made dolls. Carefully, he pulled himself up farther and rested his back against the pillows.

  His knuckles had seams and little carved joints. They didn’t feel quite like his own, nor did the rest of his body. He felt like a marionette, but one that he could control with his mind. Like he’d told Princess Pirlipat, he appeared to be well made. He touched his face with a clack of wooden fingertip on wooden skin. Well made, but ugly.

  “Of course you’re beautiful, Stefan,” Clara said. “Any boy who has gone through what you’ve obviously suffered and still kept this next to his heart”—she held up the folded square of linen—“is beautiful indeed.”

  Stefan felt himself blush, his wooden cheeks flushing with sap. At least that part of himself still worked normally. “I told you I’d keep it with me,” he replied.

  “Of course you did. It’s what all young men say, but not what most of them do.” Her smile faded into a gentle look of tenderness. She dropped the handkerchief to his chest and patted it. “And I owe you an apology. I did what young women do. I lied about my name.”

  “It isn’t Clara?”

  “Clara’s our maid.”

  “But why?”

  “Because proper young ladies don’t hide in the arboretum with their toes in the dirt when they’re meant to be home learning to be dull. If Arno had known I was more than a simple maid, he’d have thrown me out long ago. Imagine the scandal, a groundskeeper alone with the unescorted daughter of a respectable family. It would be in all the papers, and give my mother a heart attack! As would a talking nutcracker, I suppose. But you won’t turn me in, will you?”

  “I . . . no, never.” He struggled to keep up with the quickness of her tongue.

  “Good. Then, my real name is Marie. Marie Stahlbaum.”

  Her eyes dropped significantly to the handkerchief with its neatly embroidered “S.”

  “Of course.” Had he still been made of flesh, his already red face would have also gone hot. Humiliation on top of humiliation.

  Why had Christian brought him here, of all places?

  “But that changes nothing else,” she said. “A rose by any other name, and all that. Though I prefer tulips, and seem to be more of a dandelion, personality-wise.”

  Clara, now Marie, was just as he remembered her. The warm brown eyes, the shining braids. She had been in his thoughts since the day they met.

  Stefan groaned and she gripped his hand. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just realized, I’ve written an awful lot of letters to your maid.”

  “Then let’s hope the mail is slow.” Marie smiled and her eyes danced.

  Stefa
n struggled to form a grin, but could not. “Worse. I forgot to mail them.”

  “Never mind the letters, my poor nutcracker,” Marie said, smoothing his cheeks with her hand. “It seems you’ve had quite an adventure. Sit up now, and tell me all.”

  Like poison leeched from a wound, the story came out.

  The death of his mother, his flight from Nuremberg. Losing Christian. The Pagoda Tree. The teeth, the princess, the nut. The Queen of Mice.

  “That old wolf has gotten you into more trouble than either of you can handle,” Marie surmised at the end. “My godfather is many things, but uncomplicated isn’t one of them.”

  “Christian’s your godfather?”

  “I’m afraid so. More like an uncle, really. You know he was orphaned and raised by my father’s family?”

  Stefan laughed a short, harsh bark. “I know nothing about him. He showed up on the worst day of my life, shook the world upside down, and—”

  Something flickered in the corner of the room. The same sort of flicker he had seen in the throne room of Boldavia. The vermin couldn’t possibly have reached Nuremberg so quickly.

  But they had.

  The mouse came into full view and headed straight for Marie.

  “No! Leave her alone!” Stefan cried, and leapt up from the bed to throw himself at the creature.

  The mouse squealed as Stefan came down, pounding his wooden fist.

  Marie leapt up onto the bed. “Kinyata!” she cried.

  A great orange cat with yellow eyes emerged from the hallway, pressing the door open with her huge weight. Glancing curiously at the wooden boy on the floor, and the mottled brown mouse in his grasp, the cat decided on the familiar, and went after the mouse.

  Stefan pulled away as the cat batted its prey. The mouse let out a high-pitched squeal that made even Stefan’s sap turn cold. A moment later, there was a crunch. A pink tail twitched in the corner of the cat’s mouth, and was gone.

  Kinyata smiled, prowled the perimeter of the room, and then, seemingly satisfied, left again.