The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  “What is it?” Marie sat up in her chair across the room. She had been watching over him.

  Stefan shook his head and pulled himself into a sitting position on the divan that had become his makeshift bed. The room (or was it the world?) tilted, slipping out of balance. He could feel it, like a dizzy spell washing over him. He steadied himself. “Nothing. Sorry I fell asleep.”

  “Nonsense,” Marie said. “You’ve been literally petrified for days. You must be exhausted. What? Am I wrong?”

  Stefan shook his head. “No. You’re . . .” Wonderful? Amazing? The words came to mind, but he could not say them. Instead, he blushed furiously, the deep rosy tint rising to his wooden cheeks once again.

  Marie smiled and tactfully pretended not to see him blush. Much the way she’d pretended not to see his tears that day in the garden, he realized. He swallowed his embarrassment.

  “Now that you’re awake, tell me what kept you tossing,” she said. “Was it a bad dream?”

  “I started having them at the Pagoda Tree.” The chill of his dreams receded as he recounted what he’d seen, and how he’d thought Marie would have loved to see the place. “It’s a university, a place of great learning. Hundreds of squirrels run along the branches of the biggest tree you’ve ever seen.”

  Marie held up the handkerchief she’d rescued from his coat pocket. “Just think of the things my linen has seen!”

  Stefan smiled wryly. “As promised.”

  They looked at each other and he felt unaccountably warm inside.

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “I don’t know why. Maybe because we were so close to Boldavia, to the Mouse King. I think it has something to do with him. I see him—in my dreams. Sometimes he’s just a young mouse. And then there are nights where there are two, or three—”

  “Two or three what?”

  He swallowed hard. “Heads. One is a warrior. One . . . one is dead, I think. Its eyes are glassy and never blink.”

  “Heads?” she said softly. There was horror in the hush of her voice. “How many did you see tonight?”

  Stefan bit his lip. “Seven.”

  Marie gasped. “If it’s as you say and the dreams increase with proximity, then the King must be near. We have to warn Uncle Drosselmeyer. And prepare the house.”

  She ran to the window to check the lock. “Stefan,” she said in a strangled voice. “Something is out there.”

  In an instant he was at her side.

  “Oh, no. Marie,” he breathed her name like a prayer.

  Outside the house, in the public square, soldiers were moving, walking awkwardly, to congregate on the far side of the fountain. Their blue coats and brass buttons caught the light. So close to Stefan’s own uniform, it gave him a chill.

  “Uncle Drosselmeyer sent the city guard?”

  Stefan peered closer through the glass. “Those aren’t people, Marie. Look closer. They’re made of wood. Like me.”

  Marie huffed. “Marionettes. Toys. Not like you at all. But very clever, just the same.”

  The toy soldiers lurched forward, ten of them in all. The ground flowed around them as they moved to encircle the entrance of the house. A masterwork, Stefan thought with a shiver. At least the motive for kidnapping was now clear.

  “So they can fight on our level,” he realized.

  Marie shivered, pointing. “Look, the streets are flooded.”

  “That’s not water,” said Stefan. “We’re surrounded. By mice.”

  He drew away from the glass, unable to think.

  “I’ll be right back!” Marie disappeared and returned with a short, curved sword. She pressed it into his hands. “You’ve played at swords before?”

  “Of course; I’m a toymaker’s son.” Stefan accepted the weapon. The curve of the handle was surprisingly familiar.

  “This is from my father’s shop!” he exclaimed. Knowing his father had carved it made Stefan feel stronger.

  “I took it from Fritz, the little horror. Uncle Christian sent it to him two Christmases ago. It’s not much, but it’s the best we can do until he returns.”

  Stefan took her hand. “Thank you, Marie.”

  She squeezed his palm. “You’re to watch over me, remember? And I over you.”

  “Should we wake your parents?”

  “I tried to, but it’s like something out of a fairy tale. I couldn’t rouse them.” Marie settled her robe around her and curled up in the window seat to keep watch. Stefan was suddenly filled with the urge to protect her at all cost. Another wave of vertigo washed over him.

  “Hurry, Christian,” he whispered, and drew the curtains shut.

  SAMIR AND ZACHARIAS found each other at the base of the university clock tower just as it struck eleven o’clock.

  “The marketplace,” Zacharias gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Overrun.” He leaned against the round stone base of the clock tower.

  Samir’s turban was askew. He paused to straighten it. “Professor Blume’s as well.” He checked the clock, high in its tower. “We must wait for Christian, but I fear anything we do will not be enough.”

  Zacharias scowled in frustration. “I won’t let my son be taken. There is still time to prepare.”

  He charged off into the darkened city.

  Samir didn’t give chase. He had waited seven years for something to happen. It was a hard thing to do, but he would wait for Christian to appear.

  Time ticked by slowly. The moon showed her face through scudding clouds that scraped across the sky, pushed by a damp and tattered wind. Samir crouched before the clock tower and listened. A small yellow dog wandered down the street. It sniffed at the gutter, whined plaintively, and was gone.

  In the buildings around the university square, what few lights were still on turned down until they went out.

  Samir waited.

  And then, footsteps echoed from the depths of the clock tower. He stepped back from the door in its base, the one used by clockmakers to keep the clock running smoothly.

  Silence. A click. And the door swung open just a crack.

  “Samir?” Christian’s voice was barely above a breath.

  “Christian,” he said in his deep bass.

  “Thank the heavens.” Christian emerged from his hiding place, with a long bag hung at his side. “Gullet told me what happened. We must—” He went pale. “Where is Zacharias?”

  Before Samir could answer, the clock struck the half hour and Zacharias came scuttling across the cobblestones. The large sack slung over his shoulder made him look like a bedraggled Father Christmas.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Zacharias whispered. “I had to grab a few things. To help. Now, quickly, take me to my son.”

  The three men slipped silently into the night.

  Christian traveled with Gullet’s sack slung securely across his shoulders. It weighed no more than a pound or so. The key within was about the length and size of a clarinet. And yet, to Christian, the contents of the bag were heavy indeed.

  Zacharias hauled his own bag of tricks without complaint. They took front streets, as the alleys were more likely to be filled with mice. But a few blocks from their goal, it no longer mattered. Every path before them was flooded with vermin—a sea of fur, claws, and black eyes, all swarming toward the same goal.

  “Mein Gott!” Zacharias exclaimed. “How will we get through them?”

  Samir pointed up. The moon had sunk behind a bank of clouds, but the rooftops stood out quite clearly. “The other day when I was up on your roof, I noticed your houses are built very closely together. It’s like a second highway up there.” A slanted, treacherous highway perhaps, but a better idea than the flooded streets in front of them.

  “Up we go,” Christian agreed.

  They mounted the stairs of a nearby church steeple and began to pick their way across t
he building tops toward the Stahlbaums’ house on Englestrasse.

  THE MICE WERE GATHERING.

  Stefan’s heart had sunk lower than he thought possible. “He won’t get back in time.” His breath steamed the glass, momentarily obscuring his view.

  The ten clockwork soldiers stood at attention, bayonets raised in challenge. Pointing to this very window, thought Stefan. To me.

  Marie made a small cry.

  “What is it?” he asked. She had handled everything so matter-of-factly to this point, he was afraid to see what could have startled her.

  She stamped her foot angrily and pointed across the room where, a moment before, the draped cage had held the piebald mouse spy. “He’s gone.”

  The towel was awry, the lock tossed easily open.

  “We’ve underestimated them,” Stefan said softly. He stumped to the empty cage and uselessly closed the door again. “Marie.”

  She stood before him in her dressing gown, her cheeks flaming with anger.

  He took her hand. “I wish we’d met a year ago.”

  “What difference would that—” she began.

  “I need to go. Stay here. You’ll be safer.”

  “Go? Out to them? You can’t!”

  “I have to,” he said. “I killed their Queen. Christian made a mistake once that led to this. What will my mistake lead to?”

  “It was an accident.” She squeezed his wooden hand between her own soft palms. “Please, Stefan. I won’t let you go alone.”

  He bent low and kissed her hand, wishing his lips were not made of wood.

  She quickly planted a kiss on his cheek. “All right,” she said. “I’ll stay here, but I’ll be watching you.”

  An odd sense of peace filled him and he let go of her hand. “Thank you.”

  He slid the wooden sword into his belt and straightened his coattails.

  It was time to go.

  ARTHUR SHIVERED IN HIS CHARIOT. The four albino mice pulled it dutifully to a stop before a makeshift tent at the base of the square’s decorative fountain. It would be comforting to be back inside again. Perhaps because of his mother’s protectiveness, or the recent memory of owls, Arthur found he did not like open places and, above all, he did not trust the stars. They winked down at him now, like the many heads of his ancestors enjoying a private laugh, and he was the butt of the joke.

  The chief of intelligence, a severe older piebald with an unnervingly calm voice, ushered Arthur out of the coach along with his tutor, the rat, Ernst Listz. Ernst had been brought along in chains for his usefulness as a translator. Use him now, they had decided, and punish him later.

  They emerged from the chariot in silence. Arthur hurried toward the safety of the tent, but the rat stood on his haunches and sniffed the open air wistfully.

  Hannibal scowled. “We’ve a battle to command,” he hissed.

  The small party proceeded inside.

  “My liege,” the head of intelligence was saying. Arthur couldn’t remember his name. He’d had difficulty focusing since leaving Boldavia. His nightmares now came in droves, night after night. He was being consumed by a beast that he could not escape. A terrifying voice called to him from beyond. It offered help, but also—something else. Arthur did not know what. All he knew for sure was that trying to escape the beast would mean his death.

  His brothers, of course, said nothing of these dreams. They hardly slept anymore, so eager were they to lead Mother’s army into war. And if the dreams did leak over into his brothers’ minds, they saw it as an omen. Rodentia was a ferocious warrior and they stood at its beating heart.

  It made Arthur sick.

  “—just escaped, Your Majesty,” the piebald was saying. He was pointing to another piebald, a filthy thing mottled amber instead of black, with shrewd red eyes.

  The albino bowed deeply, graceful despite his appearance. “Agent Dusker, sire. I have cornered your enemy for you, upstairs in the house across the square.”

  “Why didn’t you report back earlier?” Hannibal hissed. “We have had to rely on others for your information.”

  The albino faltered. He was having trouble deciding which head to speak to.

  Hannibal solved that for him by hissing again.

  “I . . . uh . . . I wanted to watch his moves closely, sire. The assassin is unarmed but for a toy sword. He had two companions, the clockmaker and a young girl. The rest of the house sleeps. I confer him to you.”

  “Confer?” This was Ernst, speaking in the contemptuous tones Arthur had heard him use toward so many others, but never to Arthur himself. “You can hardly confer that which you do not possess.”

  The rat turned to Arthur and his brothers. “You have a field army, sirs, not a guerilla band. City mice survive by hiding. But your army is designed to be bold. Your mother trained them to meet the enemy in open spaces, not townhomes. Too many men in close quarters”—the rat shuddered—“and the tramp of feet alone could defeat you. What were your losses in the market square?” He did not wait for an answer. It was many, they all knew. “And then there is the furniture. Enter the house, and your army will be scattered, every chair and sofa an obstacle. I would not send them in without first getting the full lay of the land. And even then . . .” He let doubt hang in the air for a heartbeat.

  Arthur frowned.

  “Those siege engines of yours are useless beyond that front door,” Ernst continued. “I doubt they could even climb the steps. You must fight one of two ways—on your own territory by issuing a challenge, or inside the house, alone.”

  “Alone?” Arthur piped up before his brothers could stop him. “That’s impossible! We have no chance against that monster on our own!”

  “It’s true,” Roland agreed. Hannibal started to protest, but Roland continued. “Shut it, Hannibal, we’re not all as tough as you. Besides, that monster killed Mummy, and she was tough as nails. Why risk it? Call the monkey out into the field.”

  “Yes!” Arthur concurred. Although, why on earth the human boy would come out to them, he did not know. “We’ll draw him out. Taunt him. Scare him into running straight onto our sword.”

  “Sires.” It was the chief of intelligence again. Snitter—that was his name.

  The old piebald’s whiskers twitched in distaste. He disapproves of us, Arthur realized. No. He disapproves of bickering.

  “You won’t have to,” Snitter said. “It appears our enemy has come to the gate on his own.”

  A cold wave of fear washed over Arthur. This was it. Trapped in the belly of the beast, with no one else to save him.

  And then a voice the size of the ocean called out across their ranks. “Where is your King?”

  STEFAN STOOD ON THE STEPS of the townhouse, an astonishing sight in his bright doll’s uniform. He had judged correctly. The mice would take time to swarm the steps, and the soldiers, while clever and dangerous at close range, hadn’t the proper joints to carry them up to meet him.

  “Where is your King?” His voice quaked, but it was loud and it carried. He hoped the mice would not notice his fear.

  Maybe they wouldn’t understand him at all. He recalled the horrible, high-pitched noises Christian had made. He had no hope of imitating them.

  Silence reigned across the square. He waited.

  From the far side of the fountain there was a ripple of movement. A path split open in the ranks, and a litter was carried forward by four liveried mice. To a child in an attic window, this would look magical. But there were no little children to witness the event, only Marie’s pale face above him. Stefan suspected Marie was right. The square, perhaps all of Nuremberg, had indeed fallen into an enchanted sleep.

  It must be the City Clock, he realized. Christian had found Gullet after all.

  The litter came to a stop a few yards away and a great, lean rat stepped out. He was dressed like a gentleman, almo
st foppish in a long, pale blue overcoat with lace at his cuffs and collar.

  Stefan blinked. He should have been surprised. But the lump of ice in his stomach prevented it.

  “Good evening, sir,” the rat said in flawless German. “I am Ernst Listz, emissary to the King. Our terms are as follows. Your life, sir, as the murderer of our beloved Queen, is forfeit. Surrender yourself and the clockmaker, and the lives of your friends and family will be spared. However, should you refuse to lay down your arms, they will be given no quarter in the coming revolution. I’m afraid you will simply be the first of them to fall.”

  Stefan stifled a nervous laugh. “I’m no master of diplomacy,” he told the rat. “And I’m afraid I haven’t the authority to speak for anyone but myself. Your King may have his chance at me. But when I fight, it’s for the city and its entire population. Your ‘revolution,’ as you call it, must come to an end.”

  The rat fixed him with glistening black eyes. “Our King knew your father, and showed him mercy.”

  Stefan clenched his wooden jaw. “You mean he kidnapped my father and held him captive.”

  “That was the Queen’s doing. His majesties were rather taken with your parent, and he with them—or so I believe.”

  Stefan swallowed. His father had survived his ordeal. Did the Mouse King have any part in that? “Tell your King to leave now, and we won’t follow. The clock that turns this world is out of balance. Doesn’t he see that?”

  The rat shrugged eloquently, and Stefan wondered if the King simply didn’t care.

  “He has my condolences, for his mother,” Stefan said hesitantly. “Her death was not my intent.”

  “But your death is his, I’m afraid. A life for a life. Those are the terms.” The rat bowed and returned down the stairs to his palanquin.

  The litter flowed back through the crowd to the far side of the fountain.

  After a moment’s silence, a bugle call sounded, small and tinny in the cold night air. As one, the mouse army surged forward.

  STEFAN HELD HIS GROUND.