Stefan and Marie stared at each other. The silence was broken when Christian burst through the door in his robe.
“Marie!” He shut the door behind him. This was not something for the rest of the household to hear. “Gods, Stefan, you’re awake! Have you frightened this girl?”
Stefan’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.
Before he found his voice, Marie stepped in. “No, Uncle, in fact he saved me. From a mouse,” she said, climbing down to sit on the settee.
Christian’s face turned gray. He helped Stefan up from the floor. “They’ve found us, then.”
“No,” Stefan replied, with a glance toward Marie. “I caught the mouse. But her cat—”
“Kinyata,” Marie said, nodding.
“Kinyata . . . finished him off. They might not have word yet.”
“I see.” Christian sighed and joined his niece on the settee. “Marie, this is Stefan Drosselmeyer. My cousin’s son.”
“We’ve met,” Marie said.
Not as recently as he probably believes, Stefan thought.
Christian nodded. “He lives on the other side of town. I feared he wouldn’t be safe there, so I brought him here.”
“Is anyone hungry?” Marie asked.
“Actually, I’m starving,” Stefan said.
“Me too. I’ll get you some soup so you don’t try your jaw.” She fixed her uncle with a stern look.
Stefan was surprised to see Christian blanch under that glare.
“And when I return, Uncle, you’ll tell us how you plan on fixing this mess.”
GULLET HURRIED THROUGH the tunnels as quickly as his feet would carry him. On his head he wore a miner’s helmet with a red lantern affixed to the center. It made him look like a crimson-eyed cyclops. Between his lips, he held a small silver pipe that he blew into every so often. It could not be heard by human ears, but it was certain to keep all rodents away.
Most of the Brotherhood was spread out across the city aboveground. While the City Clock lay in the catacombs, the city’s clocks perched in church steeples and towers far above the madding crowds made for good lookout points. An advantage when your city was under siege, and as safe a location as any when the enemy came swarming from underground. But there was one place where the clockmakers still held sway beneath the city.
A position to be maintained at all cost.
Within minutes, Gullet had reached the Cogworks. Pausing to insert some ear plugs, he cranked the door wide and sealed it shut behind him. Within the great room, the shimmering gears of the City Clock moaned as if in pain. Gullet had lived long enough to witness a shift in the clock once before, years ago. When the Black Plague spread through Barvaria, thousands of shining cogs had shifted and fallen away. So many deaths had devastated the clock movement, and it hurt his bones as deeply then as it did now.
But Gullet was not a sentimental man. It had taken years for all of the fallen cogs to be replaced with new ones. But it had happened, and balance had been regained. So it would be again, in due time.
Gullet waved a short arm over his head at the cogsmen on shift. Brühl and Waltz waved back, but only Brühl clambered down from the scaffolding. The man wore goggles and ear plugs, and a belt over his leather apron. The belt held a jar of grease for the gears and a variety of wrenches and keys for fine-tuning the clock. They often had to adjust for drag on the pendulum caused by moisture in the atmosphere. The job of the cogsmen was to keep the City Clock running accurately. Which often meant clearing debris and, quite literally, bugs. The insect kingdom was one of the few that proved near impossible to regulate by city clockery.
“How’s she holding?” Gullet asked when Brühl was close enough to hear him over the churning of the machinery.
He was a lanky fellow with a tendency to shrug. He did so now, almost apologetically. “She’ll hold, but she’s shifting and there’s not much we can do to stop it.”
Gullet nodded and led the cogsman over to the desk-size replica of the Cogworks. He pointed to the rod of the pendulum, where it was anchored onto a large gear.
The movement of the entire mechanism was managed with weights that hung from chains looped over the teeth of a series of gears—each weight controlled the hour, the minute, the second, the chime, like any pendulum clock. But this was a City Clock, and far more complex.
There were weights for all the kingdoms of Man and Animal, for the planets, the seasons, and any other measurable unit of time. The weight assigned to the Kingdom of Mice had been shifting ever since the mouse army turned its head toward Nuremberg. Soon, the pendulum would swing to a different beat.
“We can’t stop it from here, but we can slow things down a bit.”
“Sir?” Brühl asked. “You mean . . . tamper with the weights?” It was interference of the highest order, and something no self-respecting member of the Brotherhood would ever attempt to do.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Brühl. Just lower the pendulum. We can’t shift the balance, but we can slow down time. The world will take its course either way, just not as fast as it might like.” He jotted a few names and dates on a scrap of paper and thrust it at the cogsman. “Here. When we’re finished, adjust the cogs for these names, along with those of the Brotherhood. We’ll need agents afoot during this madness.”
Unlocking a cabinet against the wall, Gullet revealed a series of keys and wrenches hanging from hooks. He removed the largest of these, a socket wrench the size of his leg, and hefted it over his shoulder. “Can you manage the basket, or shall I?”
Brühl glanced about nervously. “I . . . uh . . .”
Gullet rolled his eyes. “Just the basket, Brühl. This is my task to complete. Be quick. And set the organ playing,” he added, holding up his silver pipe. “We need to keep this room clear.” A self-playing organ had been installed in the cavern years ago, tuned to deter various sorts of vermin as needed. It would not play forever, but wound properly, the mice would steer clear of the Cogworks for a while. “Buck up, now. I’ll be back soon.”
The cogsman sighed with relief, took the wrench from Gullet, and scurried to set up the basket.
Gullet craned his neck. The pendulum swung through this chamber every thirty-seven minutes. It would hover overhead for less than twenty seconds. At the end of the great golden disc was a small hexagonal nut, the size of a man’s fist, made of the same shining metal and bolted to the base of the rod. This was the adjusting nut for which the socket wrench had been designed.
Time was slipping away. The gears of the great clock clamored in tiny increments. Gullet checked his pocket watch out of habit. He clapped the brass casing open and closed, ticking off the seconds.
“Sir, ready when you are,” the cogsman said. A breeze lifted the hair off the top of his head. The pendulum was swinging nigh.
Brühl operated the pulley system to raise Gullet in a basket usually reserved for hoisting cleaning crews into the works. Moments later, the great disc swung into view. Brühl threw his weight against the levers, keeping the basket beneath the gliding saucer. Gullet took a steadying breath, slipped the socket wrench onto the pendulum, and gave the adjustment nut a counterclockwise quarter-turn twist.
Nuts, Gullet thought bitterly a few moments later, shutting the door to the Cogworks behind him. He blew on his silver pipe and adjusted the wick on his lantern. This whole Boldavian misadventure came down to a handful of nuts.
At least this one would buy Christian some time. He hoped that it would be enough.
ZACHARIAS HAD BITTEN his nails to the quick. Sitting on the judging stage beside his giant nutcracker soldier, he watched his neighbors and friends carry on normally while his son hid for his life across the city.
This was lonely work. People swirled around him like colorful snowflakes in the wind. Girls in their winter coats clustered together, laughing and whispering like conspiratorial hens. Young men in new hat
s strutted by like peacocks. Babies bounced in daddies’ arms. Mothers herded their children past the toy display, clucking at naughty little ones who certainly could not have yet another toy before morning. It was a veritable farmyard of humanity. Wonderful, but utterly alien to him tonight.
Samir had shared Stefan’s analogy of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse with Zacharias. Now, all he could see was how many of these good people would fall to the famine and pestilence of mice.
“Come, Zacharias. You act as if this is your first Kindlesmarkt!” Tobias Muller said, thumping him on the back. Tobias was a woodmaker like Zacharias, but where they might have been rivals, they were friends.
“Of course, this will be the hardest time of year, with Elise gone now. You always were a nervous one in competition. She knew how to handle you just so,” Tobias said kindly. “This piece of yours, though. It’s wonderful. A perfect blend of truth and whimsy. I thought it was Stefan himself when you first arrived. It’s sure to do well tonight. It’s one of a kind.”
In fact, it’s three of a kind, Zacharias thought. Smiling, he allowed himself to be cajoled into drinking a cup of hot cider. As the warmth of cinnamon and apples filled his mouth, the taste of fear and the chill of the Boldavian dungeons began to wash away. He was safe for the first time in many weeks.
And then the screaming began.
• • •
SAMIR HAD BARELY REACHED the street when the enemy appeared. The road before Professor Blume’s house was teeming with mice.
Samir turned and ran. Down the walkway, through the rows of carefully tended flowering shrubs, the annuals, the perennials, the evergreens. His boots slapped the flagstones as he bounded up the front steps. He raised his fist and banged on the door.
Professor Blume blinked out into the night air. “Yes?”
Samir broke into a relieved grin. “I’ll have that tea after all, if you don’t mind.”
The old botanist stepped back and let the Arab inside. He did not appear to notice that the underbrush in his garden was moving.
Samir pulled him away from the door, throwing the bolt.
“I say, it looked a bit breezy out there,” the professor said.
“Indeed, that is what chased me back,” Samir lied. He peered out into the night from behind a heavily draped curtain. “Must be a storm coming,” he murmured less boisterously.
For on the lawn and in the trees, the eyes of a hundred mice looked back at him.
IT WAS MARIE’S IDEA TO send Kinyata out for more information.
Stefan watched, impressed, as the girl knelt by the cat and whispered the task into her ear.
“Find us another mouseling, Kinyata. But don’t hurt it. Bring it to us. Uncle Drosselmeyer wants to talk to it.”
“You speak Catish?” Stefan asked.
Marie shook her head, eyes still on her pet. “I haven’t a clue. But Kinyata understands me.”
The cat blinked her yellow eyes slowly. With a soft mrrowl, she padded to the window and leapt out onto the open ledge.
“She climbs down the tree next door. Scared me half to death coming home one night, scratching at the window. I must’ve closed it not knowing she was gone. But now, no matter the weather, I keep it open just enough for her.”
Christian frowned. “If a cat can get out, a mouse can get in. When Kinyata returns, we’ll have to find a better way of securing your room. It’s not safe here until we do.”
“It will be if I leave,” Stefan said. “I can’t stay here if they know where I am. I won’t put anyone else in danger.”
“They don’t know where you are yet,” Christian said. “And, quite frankly, I don’t know where else to go. Let’s not make decisions until we have our stool pigeon. And then we’ll know where we stand.”
A knock at the door announced the light supper Marie had ordered.
Stefan froze into the perfect likeness of a doll as Marie opened the door.
A gray-haired woman entered with a tray.
“Thank you, Clara,” Marie said with emphasis.
Stefan stifled a chuckle.
“Now don’t leave a mess, Miss Marie. We don’t want to draw any nasty pests,” the maid admonished. Clearly, she had once been Marie’s nurse. “Merry Christmas, Miss, Herr Drosselmeyer.” Clara dipped a curtsy and left them to their snack.
Half an hour later, Kinyata returned, her fur damp from prowling the misty night. In her mouth was a motionless gray-and-white mouse.
“She’s killed it,” Stefan said.
“No, she hasn’t,” Marie replied. She picked the mouse up from Kinyata’s delicate grip. “It’s fainted.” Her mouth pursed in concern. “How do you revive a mouse?”
Efficient as an army nurse, Marie laid her patient on the dressing table. After a moment’s thought, she reached for a small bottle, and waved the stopper beneath the mouse’s nose.
“Rose water,” she explained.
It seemed to work. The mouse’s nostrils twitched, and then its eyelids fluttered, revealing pink, albino eyes.
• • •
“BE CALM, WE WON’T hurt you,” the human growled.
Dusker forced himself to squirm the way a mouse would be expected to. But his mind was not clouded by fear. He assessed the situation the way he was trained to.
The smell of the cat that had caught him was fading, but a sniff told him the beast was still in the room. Stupid, being caught like that. He’d be demoted if he ever survived this encounter. It would be no less than he deserved.
Dusker had been on reconnaissance for the chief of intelligence himself, having just left the presence of his commander and a glimpse of the wondrous King. It was the sight of the King that had set Dusker’s head whirling off the task at hand. He had to concentrate to deal with the situation. Ponder the wonders of the universe later, he told himself. For now, survive.
Dusker squealed incomprehensibly, in a convincing imitation of dumb terror. The human frowned at him. It was a male. From the description Dusker had been given, he supposed it was the clockmaker himself, the one who had thwarted the Queen’s curse in Boldavia with that despicable nut.
Dusker scented the air. Perhaps the boy was here, too. The piebald shuddered for real this time, but in pleasure, not fear. To bring the new King this prize would establish him forever in the intelligence branch.
“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me!” Dusker cried in his best country accent. He doubted the human was familiar with mouse dialects, but it was always best to be thorough when undercover.
A second human, the one with the rose water, appeared distressed by his cries. Good. A sympathizer.
The cat was still in the room. It leapt up onto the table to peer at him with murderous interest.
Dusker cursed himself for a fool. Best to get this scene over with, discover how much the humans knew.
“What do you want?” He spoke more clearly, dropping the country act.
The clockmaker’s lips parted in a vicious smile. “Ah,” he said in passable Mouseish, “you know who I am?”
There was no use lying. Honesty brought answers more quickly. He nodded once, yes.
The girl beside the clockmaker seemed anxious, or curious. Dusker wished he had a better grasp of human languages.
“Have you reported our location yet?” the clockmaker asked.
Dusker hesitated. If he said yes, the humans might kill him now, with nothing else to lose. If he said no, they still might kill him, or they might keep him for later.
Dusker shook his head, no.
“When do they expect to hear from you next?” The human seemed to have all the right questions.
“At dawn,” Dusker lied. In for a nibble, in for a bite—dawn was as good a time as any to die, if it came to that. There were too many mice out to even consider a periodic report from each of them. Instead, each scout had be
en given one command—report when you find the clockmaker and his boy, or do not come back. The King’s intelligence had spies out in every quarter, scouring the city for the clockmaker. Dusker had found him only by misfortune.
The clockmaker nodded, and exchanged some words with the girl, who’d been watching with great interest. She produced a small cage and ushered him inside. The lock was simple, a latch he could easily throw with a paw. But, he would not do it. Even when the girl took the extra step of covering the cage with a thick towel, dampening sounds and blocking his sight, Dusker merely smiled.
It was difficult enough to be a piebald in this day and age, but being albino was worse. Dusker would have been lucky to make sergeant. But, his luck had changed. He had the clockmaker, one way or another, which meant a promotion. He’d be a hero to the crown. Not to mention warm and dry until sunrise. His comrades in the sewers and streets of Nuremberg would not be so lucky tonight.
• • •
“WE’RE SAFE UNTIL DAWN, at least. That gives us some time,” Christian told them.
“That was Mouseish? Such a painful-sounding language,” Marie said.
“I’m sure German sounds quite clunky to them,” Christian replied.
“Where is my father?” Stefan wanted to know.
“Safe for the moment at the Kindlesmarkt.” Christian pulled a watch from his pocket. “Which lasts for another hour. Time to put on our thinking caps. By then we’ll need a plan.”
“What about the cats?” Marie asked. “Can’t they do something against an army of mice?”
Christian shrugged. “If they wanted to, I suppose. But, aside from your friendship with Kinyata, diplomacy is difficult in the language of cats. Furthermore, what the politics are between other animal kingdoms, I can’t say. Let’s not forget our history. In Boldavia, and in Hameln years ago, cats were nowhere to be found. We’ve no reason to think Nuremberg will be any different.”
“Well, that hardly seems fair.” Marie frowned and flounced down on the edge of her bed. “Let’s rouse the mouse again and ask him about his army. Kinyata will make him tell the truth.”
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