The Toymaker's Apprentice (16 page)

ZACHARIAS WAS VERY COLD.
Rough hands hauled him from his cabin, and lifted him from the heaving deck of his captors' boat and onto solid land. The men were clumsy and his coat got soaked in the process. Hands set to work peeling it off him.

“Don't want you to freeze to death,” a voice smirked. Zacharias knew it now as that of the scarlet man.

But they did not lift the blindfold. Instead someone took his hands, which were bound in front of him, and led him to a roughhewn rock wall. The stone was cold and wet beneath his numb fingers.

“Climb,” the scarlet man directed.

Zacharias felt forward with a foot, stubbing his toe against the first step. He waved his arms in front of him. There was a staircase carved into the side of the wall—with no railing, it seemed—and the rock was slick.

“I will fall,” he whispered, hands clutched together as if in prayer. The scarlet man seemed to agree, for he pulled the blindfold from his eyes.

He found himself on a cliffside in the dark of a moonless night. Above him rose a mountain of black stone. Below and behind him, the lapping expanse of the sea. The waves reflected nothing, not even the stars.

“Where are we?” he asked in a panic. For all he knew, this could be hell and the man behind him the devil himself.

The scarlet man merely shoved him forward. Zacharias fell silent and climbed.

They were still far from the top of the cliff when the man stopped. Here, the rock face gave way to a broad ledge and the yawning black mouth of a cave.

“In here,” said the man in scarlet.

Zacharias nearly fell to his knees with fright. He was shoved roughly into the cave. The stairs continued up the side of the cliff without them.

Under the mountain they went. The cold grew deeper. Wind sighed around them like a moist and clammy breath. Zacharias felt his way in the dark and found a rope tied to iron rings at intervals in the wall. His captor stalked at his heels, leather boots ringing out against the stone.

“Is this a dungeon? Am I to be imprisoned?” Zacharias asked through chattering teeth. He was only in his shirtsleeves and the work vest he'd worn the day he was kidnapped. Fortunately he had good shoes—Elise had made sure of that, and knitted him sturdy woolen socks as well.

“Congratulations,” the scarlet man said. “You've passed the test. I had money on leaving you in a field like the rest of them.”

There had been talk of missing apprentices in Germany, strange tales of kidnappings and mysterious tasks—like something out of a fairy tale. But this was no charmed fantasy. This was a nightmare.

If only he knew what was behind it. “Who do you work for?”

The scarlet man laughed. “Enough questions. We're to leave you here. The rest is up to them.”

Them.
Every task set to him was at the behest of a nameless
them
who clearly commanded fear in the hearts of their underlings. Or perhaps it was the sort of obedience bought with gold, and lots of it.

“At least tell me where we are,” he pleaded, only to be cuffed in the back of the head. After that, he remained silent. But there were so many questions. Why didn't they use a lantern to light the corridor? Would they give him back his coat? Was there a warm room and a fire at the end of this march? Would there be more blueprints and plans, or some other cockeyed task for him to toil over?

The drawings had been absurd, of course. Standard toys fit for a young boy—but the size of them
!
Whomever his captors worked for, surely they were mad. A chilling thought, since he was at the mercy of those madmen.

At last the scarlet man called a halt. Zacharias had passed some unseen landmark. He leaned against the wall exhausted, and quickly recoiled from the damp. There was a fumbling of cloth, the jangle of keys, the tumble of a lock, and he was thrust forward into a room. The door boomed shut behind him.

He threw himself against it. Solid wood. Running his fingers along the length of it, he found a small barred window near the top. “Please . . .” he said through the iron bars.

“Better luck to you, then,” the scarlet man muttered. His bootheels faded away into silence.

“Well,” Zacharias said to no one but himself. “Here I am, and that's something. At least I am still alive.”

He did not allow himself to wonder for how much longer.

ERNST LISTZ SAT DOZING
in a chair by the fire, soothed by the sounds of thread through velvet. The royal seamstresses plied their trade close to the light of the flames. If he lowered his lids enough, the scene was almost idyllically domestic. At his feet, the young princes were wrestling with their tail. It kept getting in the way when they tried to grasp their mother's skirts. To be fair, the Queen was not exactly compliant. She swept up and down the threadbare carpets of her antechamber, tapping her long claws against her sharp, yellowed teeth.

They had not been yellowed when Ernst first came to Boldavia. Back then the Queen had been a little bland-faced thing, a bit long in the tooth, with a hard glint in her eye and a sharpish tongue, but still, pleasingly plump in a country kind of way. Now she was more than plump—bloated—as if the birth had left her with more inside than she could deliver. She grew with each passing day, and had lost her scent of hay and seeds. The Queen of Mice now smelled of swamps and rot.

Nursemaids whispered that it had something to do with the magic she was wielding.

It had been touch-and-go with the princes at first. Although they had arrived fully formed—or malformed—they had failed to rally after their naming day. It seemed as if they would die swiftly, the way so many other misshapen creatures did. But the Queen was determined. That song she had sung over their
bassinet became an orchestra, a group of musicians playing night and day over her children's sickbed, their ears stuffed with beeswax and linen. It was a binding spell, the nursemaids said. Old magic, dark magic. The same that bound the rats of Hameln to the Piper and led them to their watery graves. Only, now it was wielded by a mad Queen intent on keeping the souls of her children firmly attached to their twisted flesh.

Ernst had visited the children daily, the Queen insisting they begin their education even as they lay possibly dying. Every day, he had descended the stairs to that dank chamber she called her suite and sat by their crib. Ears dulled with stuffing, he'd read to them from books he had procured and memorized, or rewritten in a more manageable size from the great tomes in the human libraries above. He had recounted the histories of their race, the wars, the victories. He told them mythologies of Mice, of the Piper, of gods, of Men. He spoke to them until they knew his voice better than their own mother's, his words droning loud in his own ears, overpowering the music in the chamber and the beating of his own heart. The boys would lean toward him, eyes staring, then slowly closing, as they fell into sleep.

One set of eyes never quite opened all the way. Julius, the runt of the litter, squashed to the side like a forgotten fruit at the bottom of a basket. Not dead exactly, but not quite alive, either.

After long days and nights of hedge witchery, at last, the brothers pulled through, rallied, and thrived. And now they were wrestling with their tail on the floor of the throne room.

Ernst encouraged this because it taught them coordination and how to each take a turn moving their hands. Arthur, the
inquisitive young mouse in the center of his brethren, seemed best at it. As if his strength of will was greater, or perhaps he was the one meant to be born and all these others were simply mistakes.

The boys tumbled by. Arthur, giggling, waved a paw in greeting, and lost the grip on his tail. Ernst waved back, and pointed out his mistake. A look of determination entered the little face and he lunged once more for his tail.

Ernst chuckled. He was quite fond of Arthur. The others had their moments, too, but it was a relief to look into one set of eyes and see that his instruction had been understood. And so he had taken a favorite. But their mother, who had once favored them all so highly, no longer did so. She had turned inward, the old cow, and festered there. Perhaps she had used up the wealth of her own spirit buying her sons' lives.

The sewing stopped. The words that he had so painstakingly inscribed across the expanse of velvet had been stitched over in golden thread, emblazoning the bottom of the banner.

The Queen of Mice raised her nose into the air, as if scenting its completion. “Thee dost approve of it, rat?”

Ernst rose creakily and strode to the table where the three young mouse maids had plied their work. They each grabbed a corner and held the banner up for him to see.

Nearly a foot long and half again as wide, the bloodred cloth boasted seven golden crowns on seven stylized heads. Beneath them, in his own florid cursive, now raised and glittering in the firelight, read the motto:
E Pluribus Unum
.

“Out of many, one,” Ernst translated. He bowed to the
seamstresses, who all blushed at the attention. “Beautifully done, my ladies.” He bowed to the Queen. “Beautifully done, indeed.”

The Queen nodded slightly and ran a claw through her whiskers, preening. Her sons were yet children, but she had made their armies a banner to fly in the face of war. She continued to pace, studying the banner and twitching her skirts away from the boys at her ankles. Impatient for her conquerors to come of age, Ernst realized, to rise up and take the castle by storm.

IT HAD BEEN
days, and still they could not open the
krakatook
.

“When I was a boy, my grandfather showed me how to crack two nuts together in my bare hands,” Samir said. So they had scoured the ship and found a sailor willing to share his stash of hazelnuts.

Samir placed them in his palm and squeezed with all his might. Blood would have come from a stone with that squeeze. Instead, the hazelnut was ground to powder. The
krakatook
, however, held firm.

From there, they tried knives. They used an awl and attempted to pry the shell apart. They tried bricks, a vise, and a variety of tools from the barge. They hoisted a crate on the deck and dropped it from as great a height as they dared.

The nut remained unharmed.

“Well, the good news is, we have the nut,” Christian said brightly.

“The bad news is we cannot crack it,” Samir added. “But, I've consulted the stars and it appears that
one
of us will figure it out. Eventually.”

“But, will it be in time?” Stefan asked. Their whole plan to save his father hinged on opening the
krakatook
. Only then would King Pirliwig agree to use his army to help find his father.

Christian looked glum. “I'm working on it.” He spread open his sketchbook, where he had drawn a plethora of new plans.

Stefan looked at them over his shoulder. “Waterwheels? Diamonds
!
Where are we going to get diamonds?”

“In Boldavia, of course,” Christian said. “This is a
kingdom
, after all. I'm sure they can spare one or two medium-sized diamonds. We'll cut them to a thirty-five-degree angle and attach them to a dremel powered by a waterwheel. I'll need to make a few calculations, of course, and a model or two for a few practice runs—perhaps on test nuts made of granite or marble.”

Stefan looked dubiously from the blueprints to his cousin's optimistic face. Granite could be crushed. Marble could be carved, as every Roman statue could attest. But nothing had cracked the
krakatook
.

“Maybe we can use the nut as more of a bargaining tool,” Stefan suggested. “Ask for the king's help in exchange for it. Like you said, he's a king, with an entire kingdom at his command. Let
them
figure it out.”

“Stefan,” Christian said solemnly. “Samir did not lie when he said he was my jailer. There is a price on my head in Boldavia if I can't cure the princess. The king won't lift a finger until she's restored. But I swear to you, I'll do it. For you. For Zacharias. On my honor as a clockmaker, I will find a way to bring your father home again.”

Stefan pushed away from the table and the sketchbook with its far-fetched plans. “Whatever it takes,” he said. “I want my father back.”

He walked away before any tears could escape, before he had to look at Christian's face clouding over with shame or Samir shifting uncomfortably beside him. A master clockmaker and a royal astrologer. They were the best the king had, and they
had failed. And here he was, just a toymaker's apprentice . . . or rather, a clockmaker's journeyman in his very first week—what did he have to offer? They had no choice but to try Christian's fanciful plans, or the nut would remain uncracked forever.

Stefan slumped against the barge railing. Thoughts of his father threatened like rain clouds. Nuremberg had slipped away behind them, and with it, all sense of normalcy.

Everything was wrong.

Trees on the far shore dipped toward the water, heads heavy with leaves. The sky was blue and the weather mild. Sailors were napping on deck. There were no sails to trim, no booms to lower, or whatever things were done on ships. The river simply carried them on her wide back. The world didn't share Stefan's sense of urgency. Even barge travel was slow. And boring.

He drummed his fingers on the railing. He shifted and something in his pocket dug into his hip. He pulled out the little dove from his mother's funeral.

At last, this was something he could fix. Even if it was only a little thing. He set off in search of his tools and a piece of wood, determined to build a better bird.

• • •

HOURS LATER, STEFAN
dropped his knife on the deck and wiggled his fingers, attempting to undo the curl they'd developed from wrapping too much rope.

He picked up the dove. This one was much more detailed than the one he'd released at his mother's funeral—it had a defined beak and individual feathers. There were plenty of birds on the Danube, swooping down for fish, insects, and handouts from the crew. Stefan watched them while he worked, pausing
now and then to sketch the arch of a wing or the motion of a wingbeat.

This is what being a journeyman is all about,
he told himself. Just him and his creation. He was literally carving a future for himself. As the bird took shape beneath his knife, he lost himself in the rhythm of the work. When he finished the second wing, he inserted it into the body of the bird. Inside, there was a tight coil of metal, salvaged from the first dove.

Being on the barge had served him better than he had hoped. He had a solution for the waterlogged wings now—pitch. The entire barge hull was painted with it, black pitch that kept the river from seeping into its planks. He used a thinned version to paint the joints of the bird. It wouldn't fare well underwater, but it would do for a rainy day. Or so he hoped.

Twisting the tail feather key of the dove, he held it aloft in his free hand and let go.

The wooden bird fluttered and hopped into the air, wings beating so fast they were a blur. It made a wide arc off the port bow of the barge, then circled back. Several sailors paused to see what this odd creature might be. Too late, Stefan realized it would not make it all the way back to him. He raced down the deck, dodging sailors and cargo, and leapt into the air to retrieve it. But he missed and the bird crashed into the river.

A second later, a net appeared over the water. Stefan turned to see his cousin retrieve the bird.

“Not bad,” Christian said, pulling it from the braided netting. He held the dove up in his gloved hand. Gone was the solemn criminal—Christian was once again a dashing master clocksmith, in full control.

Stefan snapped to attention.

“A charming representation of a mourning dove,” Christian said, wiggling the tail feather key and pumping the wings. “A straightforward spring design . . . taken from a mantel clock?” he asked.

Stefan cleared his throat. “A grandfather clock, trimmed to size. The mantel clock spring was too short to complete a full circle of flight.”

“Very good,” Christian muttered, peering between the joints. He held the bird up in the sunlight. “And what's this, pitch?”

“The wings of my last bird swelled in the rain, which meant shorter wingbeats, and a shorter arc. I thought maybe . . . But the pitch must have damaged the mechanism. Or else it would have . . . should have come back to me directly.” His face was hot and his stomach fluttered like the wings of the wooden dove. This was the first time he'd displayed work in front of his new master, intentionally or not. He had no idea what Christian would think.

“I see,” Christian said. He handed the bird back to Stefan.

Stefan waited for a response.

Light sparkled blindingly off the water. Around them, oak and ash trees slid by. The occasional oxcart ambled along on the shore. Stefan was sweating, even though the day was not overly warm.

Christian seemed to count every leaf and limb before he turned to Stefan again. “Promise me something,” he said. “Promise me you won't quit.”

Stefan had made progress on the bird—more than expected. He saw no reason to give up now.

“I promise,” he said, befuddled.

“Well then, carry on,” his master said, and wandered off across the deck.

Stefan released a breath.
Carry on . . . ? Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

The pitch he'd used had been too thick and scraped against the bird's wings. Peering inside at the mechanism, he saw that pitch shavings had wound themselves into the spring.
Carry on.
It was a good thing, he decided.

It was strange, given all that had happened. But here on this barge with his tools and his little dove, he felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

He'd found his father in their workshop the day after his mother died, sanding smooth the long sides of her coffin. How could he stand to build the casket that would take her away? It was too terrible for him to even consider. His father had been so absorbed in his work, he'd been unaware that his son was watching and getting angrier with every moment. Only now did Stefan realize that it hadn't been cold practicality he'd seen, but grief. His father was always happiest working with his hands. Maybe, alongside the sorrow, it had brought him a little peace.

Stefan hoped so. With a sigh, he went in search of oil to clean out the wings and start again.