The Toymaker's Apprentice (17 page)

“WHEN DO WE BEGIN
strategy?” Hannibal demanded.

They were halfway through their history lesson for the day: the discovery of the New World and the reunion of mousekind with their cousins across the sea.

“Quiet, Hannibal,” Arthur whispered. He was hard at work writing down answers to Ernst's questions. “Sorry, Herr Listz.”

“It's all right,” Ernst said. He patted the princes encouragingly on the back and stifled a sigh. It was a challenge, handling six personalities at once. Vacant Julius lolled to the side, while the others clustered around the central head, like petals on a furry flower—each with their own demands. In the end, he had found it best to focus on that center head, Arthur.

In Ernst's mind, Arthur alone was the prince. He was a sweet child, almost normal-looking, if one squinted. He had a head for books (and six others that weren't) and might have been quite the scholar one day, if his mother and brothers didn't have other ideas. Ernst liked Arthur, and perhaps the feeling was mutual.

It was the other boys who were problematic. Hannibal was the belligerent one, excellent at swordplay; Charlemagne had the qualities of a leader—insightful, decisive—but he lacked patience; Genghis could be a brute, but a careful one; Roland was demanding and had a tendency to whine, which grated on the
nerves; and Alexander had a keen mind for chess . . . But perhaps that was Arthur, too.

In truth, Ernst suspected that most of the young mouse princes' skills belonged to Arthur alone. The other heads merely clamored to take credit for the boy's hard work.

Arthur put down his quill and sighed. “I think he's right, Herr Listz. I'm getting stiff with sitting. A little exercise might help clear our heads.” Arthur smiled wryly at his joke.

Ernst returned the smile. It was hard to believe Arthur would one day lead armies into the castle above. But that was the Queen's wish, and Arthur was the kind of boy who obeyed, even feared, his mother.

“Fair enough,” Ernst said aloud, dropping his quill to the desk. “Grab your foil and gear.”

The Queen had been very clear on the schedule of instruction for her boys. Equal time was to be given to learning history, languages, strategy, and warfare. In the area of warfare, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat were taught. While Ernst was no genius in a fistfight, he did have a flair for fencing, and so those duties, in addition to history and human tongues, fell to him. The rest were handled by the piebald spies.

Strolling to the wall of the large royal classroom, Ernst selected a foil from the rack. Unlike the rapier blade he used in street fighting, the foil was longer, and needle-thin. Both were designed for thrusts and jabbing, but the foil had a protective tip for practicing. He watched with a morbid fascination as Arthur struggled to enclose his brothers in a specially made helmet—it wouldn't do for the tutor to accidentally blind
one of the royal heirs. No such gear had been provided for Ernst.

“Ready?” Arthur asked, voice slightly muffled by the screen of their helmet. Ernst could hear Hannibal's low chuckle from inside the hood.

Taking a deep breath, the rat nodded. “
En garde
!
”

Arthur—or was it Hannibal now?—pressed the attack, rather than taking the defensive, as Ernst had taught them. Ernst leapt back, annoyed at the boy's persistent assault. Riposte, parry . . . the young prince handled each maneuver with skill. And Ernst the rat was no longer so eager, or so young.

Ernst swished his tail to distract his charge. He had no wish to be nicked yet again by the royal sword. But the young princes were not swayed. They lunged with their foil and gave a sharp slap to the base of the rat's long pink tail.

Ernst dropped the tip of his sword and bowed. “Touché, my prince.” A smile spread dutifully across his lips and he did not recoil when one of the other heads—not Arthur, but the fighter, Hannibal, sat straighter on the great stem of their neck and grinned slyly.

“We learn quickly, Herr Listz, do we not?”

Listz noted the appropriateness of the royal “we.” He nodded and pressed his foil to his forehead again. “
En garde
!
”

Ernst allowed the princes to attack again. He had learned that each personality merited a very different approach. Hannibal liked to win.

Ernst dodged for his life as the protective tip flew off his charge's foil. The prince, however did not stop. If Ernst wasn't careful, the little menace would draw blood. Again. Alas, Arthur
was never the one in control when there was real fighting to be done.

“Mother says we should learn strategy next,” Hannibal announced, lunging toward his tutor.

Barbarian,
Ernst thought. Out loud he said, “Your mother has mentioned that, yes. But first you must master languages. There are several texts on strategy that you should read for yourself—human books. Not that rubbish they teach mouselings in school.”

Hannibal fell silent. He was not the intellectual of the group.

Arthur spoke up, eager to please, his boyish face a beam of light in the center of his brothers. “You're right, Herr Listz. I'll work harder on my languages and try to read the original texts. Mother would like that, don't you think?”

“Yes, my boy.” Ernst's face softened.

The pinch-faced head next to Arthur spoke up. Ernst recognized Roland's whine instantly. “No, no, no
!
You are the royal translator—do your job
!
Translate the texts for us and we'll do the rest. We should begin strategy as soon as possible.”

“Your Highness, you speak ahead of yourself,” Ernst snapped, pricking Roland's nose with his foil.

Arthur looked ashamed, but Hannibal sprang back to life with a scowl, redoubling their attack.

The rat tutor found himself too hard pressed to chide them any further. Despite his friendship with Arthur, Ernst hoped he'd find a way out of this life soon.

STEFAN EXAMINED
his handiwork. He'd taken his time testing different types of pitch. Now he had thinned the solution, painted his bird carefully, and tested the wings three times.

The sun was slipping behind the trees when he wound the bird. His stomach growled. It would be time for dinner soon, but he had to see if it would work this time. He lifted the dove into the air and let it go.

The bird rose, drumming its wings high over the dark river. Stefan watched with the net at his feet, ready to retrieve it from the water. The little dove soared.

“Ha
!
” Stefan exclaimed. “She's flying
!
” he shouted as it flew farther than ever, in a widening circle. It had worked
!
His idea with the pitch, his patience, his skill had all paid off. And now the bird was coming back toward him for a landing. Stefan held up his hand to catch her.

Whoosh
!
The air beat against his eardrums and a shadow swooped over the deck. Stefan ducked. He turned just in time to see his beautiful little dove carried off in the talons of a massive barn owl.

“No
!
” He waved his arms, but the owl had already disappeared into the trees.

“Imagine the bellyache
that
one will have in the morning,” Samir said. The astrologer doubled over with laughter.

“Did you see that? That owl
!
It took my bird
!
”

“That owl
thought
it took a bird,” Samir replied, still chuckling.

“There is no greater compliment,” Christian agreed. “You fooled nature at her own game.”

Stefan wondered how long they'd been standing there, watching. He broke into a grin. “I guess so.”

“That, right there,” Christian said sharply, stabbing a finger at Stefan's chest. “That feeling? Remember it, Stefan. It goeth before a fall.”

Stefan stepped back in confusion and rubbed his chest. “Pride,” the Bible said, “goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” But Stefan wasn't being haughty. He'd worked hard to get that bird perfect; he had a right to be proud of his work, didn't he? Over Christian's shoulder, Samir shook his head, cutting off Stefan's protest. Pride was a touchy subject with his cousin. That much was clear. “I'll remember,” Stefan said. He lowered his eyes to hide his confusion. Pride might have been his cousin's downfall. But Stefan wasn't Christian. He was very sure of that.

• • •

AUSTRIA GAVE WAY
to Hungary, its cliffs and hills melting into vineyards, and finally flat farmland. The sailors on board breathed a sigh of relief. Pirates, Stefan learned, had a much harder time hiding in the fields than they did in the craggy heights of the upper Danube.

Then the Western Carpathian Mountains rose up and the river headed sharply south, flowing through the heart of Hungary and on to Romania. Once more, the mountains hemmed them in, until the river became so narrow that Stefan could have easily swum from one bank to the other.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Christian joined him at the rail, his black coat opened to the river breeze. The mountains were like nothing Stefan had ever seen. They made him feel small. He'd just finished saying as much in his latest umailed letter to Clara.

He tucked the notebook into his pocket and leaned against the railing to enjoy the view.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Holige-Schwarzwasser announced, coming up beside them. “Welcome to the Iron Gate.”

Up ahead, the “Gate” stretched out before them, a deep gorge cut into the rock by centuries of flowing water. The river dropped abruptly away from its smooth expanse, churning into a froth of white, choppy waves.

“Rapids?” Stefan involuntarily grabbed hold of the railing.

“Rapids,” the captain confirmed. “Best hold on tight. Better yet, get inside. This is the worst of it.” He broke into a grin. “I'm crazy to say it, but I think it's fun.”

Stefan didn't agree. But Christian didn't seem concerned with going inside, so Stefan tightened his grip on the railing and wrapped a guard rope around his wrist. Now he understood what all of the rope on deck was for.

“Christian, hold on to something. It isn't safe.”

His cousin seemed lost in thought. “No, it isn't safe at all, really.” He smiled sheepishly. “Things never are around me.”

With his free hand, Stefan checked to make sure his notebook was secured inside his pocket.

“Don't forget this,” Christian said, handing him the
krakatook
in its silver casket.

Stefan snatched it. “Are you
mad
, bringing that out here?”

The river bucked and heaved beneath them as they passed the Iron Gate. Stefan's stomach dropped and rose. He sucked in a breath as it dropped again.

“Mad?” Christian asked in a distracted voice. “Perhaps I am. You look so much like your mother, Stefan. She would be proud of you. Now, remember your promise. And I'll keep mine.” He smiled gently.

It was such an odd thing to say. Stefan opened his mouth to tell him so when the barge dropped, and kept dropping. Stefan was sure he would be sick.

A wave splashed over the hull like a grabbing hand. Water blinded him.

When it receded, Christian was gone.

Silence, but for the wash and spray of the rapids.

Stefan reached out belatedly, but his cousin was beyond help. Then a phrase clicked into place in his head like the winding key of a clock, dredged up from his memory of ships and sails and souls lost at sea.

“Man overboard
!
” he shouted frantically.

Instantly, the deck was alive with bargemen racing to the rail, towing ropes and nets and guiding poles.

“Where?” bellowed the captain. Stefan pointed to the place where the waves had claimed his cousin. How had it gotten so far behind them? There was the dead tree on the shore, the cluster of submerged rocks that looked like a cow wading in the river. Even as he pointed, the landmarks disappeared from view behind the frothing waves.

They trolled the water.

“He's light, faster than the
Goose
. He'll be ahead of us now, lad,” the captain said, clamping a hand on Stefan's shoulder. It was hot against the cold weight of his wet shirt.

Stefan raced to the bow of the barge. “Christian
!
Christian
!
” He screamed his throat raw, desperate for a glimpse of the white hair, the black coat, any sign of his cousin.

But the rocks were black, the rapids white and gray, blowing back into his face as the river spat at him in contempt.

Samir stormed onto the deck, summoned by one of the sailors, or by the sixth sense that tells all jailers when their prisoner has disappeared. He raced from one end of the barge to the other, calling out each rock or piece of driftwood that might be a coat or an arm or face. But they were not.

The rapids churned, and Christian did not reappear.

Stefan was still screaming his cousin's name as they passed through the final rapids and the
Gray Goose
came to rest in a calm, still pool.

Flotsam and lost bits of cargo drifted in the silent water, circling as they rejoined the gentler flow of the river downstream.

Stefan gripped the railing with frozen fingers, staring into the water. “No,” he murmured. If he took his eyes off the rail, if he looked away from the glassy surface, it would be true.

Christian would be gone.

Not gone.
Dead.
That place beyond the veil, where his mother had disappeared. There would be no miracle to bring him back.

“Here's where we find the bodies,” a sailor muttered to Samir. “Not always,” he quickly added. “It could take weeks if he's in the rocks.”

Stefan gave the man a hateful glare. “Samir,” he called, but
the name turned into a sob. He turned to the astrologer expecting comfort, an embrace, assurances—all the things his father had offered when his mother died. Things Stefan had rejected. Trying instead to be brave, to be unaffected. He had shrugged off the warm hand, the sad smile that would have opened the door to shared loss.

But he wanted it now, all of it. He wanted the black wind blowing through his chest to stop; the cold empty curdling in his gut to cease. Everyone he loved had been taken from him. Was this part of the universe's design? Even now, another cog was being pulled from the clock in Nuremberg.

Christian Elias Drosselmeyer was dead.