The Toymaker's Apprentice (21 page)

The man smiled broadly at his audience, white teeth like pearls in the coffee expanse of his face. On his head he wore a shimmering turban, like Samir's, but made of a gorgeous striped cloth of many colors: gold, pale red, pine green, purple, and peacock blue. He wore pantaloons to match, curled-toed slippers, and a gold-trimmed vest.

“Is this the king?” Stefan asked.

Samir chuckled. “No. Only a performer. The king is over there. And that is the Pater beside him.” The astrologer pointed to the left of the stage, where an ancient squirrel rested on a cushion beside another human, not as darkly handsome as the
man on the floor, yet more regal-looking in a pure white turban and kaftan. His legs were all but invisible beneath the drape of his cloak. His dark hands were bedecked with golden rings, and his beard was carefully trimmed to a point that curled slightly, like the performer's slippers.

King Almande scanned the audience. Catching sight of Samir and Stefan's wide-eyed stare, he smiled and tilted his head, his hand making a series of waterfall movements from the forehead downward. Samir repeated the gesture.

“What does that mean, Samir?” Stefan whispered.

“It is a blessing, asking God to grant you peace.”

Stefan rested back against the bench. He was torn between wanting to lie down and sleep for a year, and getting quickly on their way to Boldavia. Here he was in a court of wonders and all he could think of was being home again with his father and a cup of Miss Prue's elderflower tonic.

His eyes prickled. He rubbed the sensation away. The Pagoda Tree was fascinating, but he hadn't come here for a show. How long would they be expected to wait before he could speak to the Pater and get some answers?

A cluster of human musicians were seated near the floor. They began to play thin, reedy music on an instrument that Samir called a sitar. A pipe joined in, the thin cry of a lonely crane at the end of summer. Then chimes, a hundred silver bells. The Moor in the rainbow turban clapped his hands once, twice, three times, and began to dance.

Stefan had never seen anything like it. It was like watching a djinn, an Arabian genie, come to life. The music grew wild, a
storm of bells and thunder and screaming winds, and the Moor whirled and whirled like a top, spinning in joyful circles around the room. The squirrels watched serenely, as if they had trapped a storm under glass for observation.

Stefan's heart beat faster. Suddenly, the man leapt into the air, turning an impossible arabesque. A second leap, and he pulled his knees into a wide crouch, then sprang sideways and continued along in a circle of crouching spins. The whirling reminded Stefan of the City Clock, a complex spiral of motion.

In spite of himself, Stefan began to clap in time to the music, oblivious to the incredible calm of the squirrel audience, to anything but the stunning display of acrobatics. The man spun round and round, a circular metronome. Stefan could hear his own breath in counterpoint to the music, the beat of his heart thumping the rhythm. Was there a City Clock under the Pagoda Tree? he wondered. Whatever the case, Stefan knew that he had been pulled into synchronicity with
something
.

With a crash of bells, the music ended, and the dancer landed on his knees, forehead pressed to the ground before his king and host. The ancient squirrel, the Pater, clapped his tiny forepaws politely, and bowed to King Almande.

Stefan was breathless. “How do they do it?”

“King Almande's dancers train for many years,” Samir told him.

“Not the dancer. The squirrels. They're so . . . calm. I feel like I've run a race, and they look like they're having tea.”

“These squirrels are an enlightened group. They study, they observe, but they do not participate. Squirrels have one of two
goals in life—to find a
krakatook
to bring them longevity and insight, or to be invited to study at the Pagoda Tree. A longer path to wisdom, but a more likely one.”

Stefan frowned. “Enlightenment looks boring.”

Samir shrugged. “After all those years frantically looking for nuts—they deserve a little peace and quiet, don't you think?”

A soft breeze rose in the hall as doors around the room opened. Samir rose to his feet. “Perhaps now we can gain an audience with King Almande.”

THE TOYMAKER WAS NOT
at all what Arthur had expected. As promised, he and his brothers had returned several times, and each time there was progress on the toy soldier, as the Drosselmeyer called it.

But these visits had disturbed something deep inside Arthur. After all, the princes had never known their father. There were rumors, of course—one of the palace guards, a piebald, or other such scandals. And worse. There was talk of dark magic. Whatever the truth, Arthur found himself longing for what he'd never had.

It was a weakness. One he was trying to amend. Each visit should have strengthened his resolve, but it had the opposite effect. He
liked
Zacharias Drosselmeyer. And that was the highest treason.

This morning, after their mother's daily inspection and Ernst's lessons, Arthur took a book and candle down to the river that ran beneath the city. It was a good, quiet place to read where his mother's piebalds rarely sent for him, and his brothers would often grow bored and fall asleep, leaving him in peace.

Already the others snored softly, crowding around him, lulled by the rush of the river. Arthur wanted to talk. But to whom? His mother would call him weak. The court advisers
would read it as a sign, and his brothers refused to speak about it: Arthur was having bad dreams.

He was the only one of the brothers to suffer from them, as far as he could tell. Ever since the toymaker had come to Boldavia, he'd been wracked with restless nights. Only now, having spoken with the captive Drosselmeyer, did he start to understand his nightmares. He would like to share the insight with his tutor. The old rat had seen much of the world. Maybe he could make sense of it, or at least disperse Arthur's fears. But, after today's fencing lesson, the rat had requested time away to heal his wounds. Arthur knew that he and his brothers would not be welcome, at least for now.

Arthur shuddered, thinking about the darkness of his dreams, and immediately felt sheepish. He held his small candle up to play along the walls of the cavern. Here he was, sitting in a gloomy old cave by choice, and now he was afraid of the dark? But the dark in his dreams was different. It wasn't empty. Something, or someone, was there. If only he had a candle to hold in his dreams to see for himself.

A snort pulled Arthur out of his reverie.

Hannibal had woken up. “Daydreaming again?” he sneered.

“Thinking,” Arthur said defensively. “One of us has to.”

Hannibal made a face and yawned. “Some of us think
too
much. Action. That's all we need.”

“Action,” Arthur repeated, bemused. That was his mother talking. Hannibal knew her speeches by heart. Act. Lead. Triumph. The world of Men was theirs for the taking. And Arthur, young Prince Arthur and his brothers, were the ones to do the job.

The thought terrified him. Arthur had only glimpsed the humans from hiding places in the castle above. As the crown princes, they'd been told time and again that their life was not to be risked by gallivanting aboveground. The few men he had seen were enormous, like walking trees, while Arthur and his brothers were so very small. For all of Hannibal's bluster and Roland's demands, Arthur was still just one insignificant mouse.

How different life could have been if he were separate from his brothers
!
He might have chosen to be a scholar, not forced to read quickly so his brothers didn't get bored. Or to travel
!
To see the sun shine rather than stay hidden in the walls until some future date known only to his mother and her plans. Had he been born separate, one of the others could have been King and Arthur could have just been . . . Arthur. But he was not.

Hannibal had fallen asleep again, his head nodding off to the side. Now Arthur was getting tired, too. He could feel himself being pulled in by his brothers' slumber. The candle flickered in a light breeze, sputtered for a moment, then shone brighter than ever. The glow gleamed off the rocks and the white rush of the river down below.

It really was quite beautiful, Arthur realized.
Nothing to fear.

He repeated the thought to himself, humming the refrain to his mother's old lullaby as he lowered the candle and let sleep take him. With sleep, again came the dreams.

THE KING OF ALMONDS
swept out of the audience chamber with his entourage and stopped in front of Samir and Stefan. The two men greeted one another, standing like rocks in a river, as the squirrels streamed around them in a flood of red, white, black, and brown.

A few brushed up against Stefan as they passed and hesitated, delicate noses twitching, then shook their heads and moved on. Before he could worry about it, Samir was introducing him to his first king.

“Your Majesty,” he said, and bowed deeply.

“Another Drosselmeyer?” the king said with amusement. The king had a deep, rich voice that reminded Stefan of an organ at a fair.

“Yes, I am Stefan,” he said, rising.

The king came forward and offered his own courtly bow. “Samir tells me Christian is no longer with us. You have my condolences. He was an interesting man to know.”

Stefan fumbled for a response, but a sudden surge of grief made him mute. He could only nod.

“But now is not the time for mourning,” King Almande continued, not unkindly. “I hear you've made a discovery
!
”

It took all of Stefan's willpower not to pat his inner pocket, where the
krakatook
lay hidden inside its case.

“You think you can keep such things secret here for long?”
The king laughed. “My nose may not be so keen, but the Pater will smell it on you.”

“He needn't guess,” Stefan said. “I will tell him myself.”

“You have the confidence of a lion.” King Almande laughed. “If it's real, what makes you think he'll let you keep it?”

“I'll do my best to convince him.” Stefan shrugged. “Then again, if he can open the blasted thing, maybe he deserves it.”

The king smiled. “Come join me, young Drosselmeyer, and we shall see.”

Almande led his entourage up a long winding pathway that climbed the inner trunk of the tree. His robes flapped behind him in a silken ripple that reminded Stefan of a flying carpet.

Stefan and Samir fell back, allowing the king's people to lead them. From their place at the end of the line, Stefan drank in the sight—women draped in pale, sheer veils of silk, guards bearing scimitars at their sides. It was like a page from his book
Arabian Nights
. He half expected a genie to rise out of one of the glowworm lamps and offer to grant him a wish. As eager as he was to get to Boldavia, he hoped he would have time to sketch later. Certainly his father would be amazed, and Clara would admire the fine embroidery that edged the women's veils.

As they continued to climb, the number of side tunnels grew smaller. The tree branch highways became narrower until they were almost at the top of the tree.

“Where did the other squirrels go?” Stefan asked Samir.

“They are outside. They climb the trunk of the tree far more swiftly than they could travel these human walkways.”

Rounding the last spiral, they came to a dark wooden door, planed smooth and polished to a deep shine. The king's
entourage lined either side of the hallway. Stefan and Samir moved forward to stand directly behind the king as he bowed to a little black squirrel that stood outside the door. The squirrel returned the bow and pulled a thin rope beside the door.

A gong sounded overhead. The squirrel bowed again and scampered back down the walkway.

Stefan was sweating, uncomfortably aware of his wet coat and matted hair.

Samir adjusted his turban as if having the same self-conscious thoughts. He gave Stefan a reassuring nod just as the great door before them swung open.

A delicious, spicy scent wafted toward them, warm and inviting. Involuntarily, Stefan took a step forward. He could have kicked himself for stepping in front of the king, until he realized that both Almande and Samir had been drawn forward by the smell, too.

“Sandalwood,” Samir murmured, taking a deep breath. “Wonderful.”

This was the pinnacle of the Pagoda Tree. The ceiling soared high above them; windows sat high in the crown of the room, revealing small tatters of rain clouds and stars. The windows here were also of hardened tree sap, applied in many layers, yet clear enough to see through.

Despite the lofty ceiling, the room itself was inviting and cozy. The walls and floor were covered in gorgeous crimson and cream oriental rugs. In the center of the room, curled up on a pile of sumptuous pillows, sat the wizened squirrel from the audience hall. His fur was gray as much from age as from natural coloring.

“
Pater
is Latin for ‘father,'” Samir whispered to Stefan. “It is the highest office a squirrel can hold.”

The Pater began to chitter, his small body quivering beneath the yellow cloth wrapped around his shoulders. Stefan watched as King Almande and Samir bowed deeply to the aged squirrel and quickly followed suit. The Pater nodded and gestured for them to sit.

He turned to King Almande and chittered. The king nodded gravely and chattered back in a close approximation of the squirrel's language. After a moment, the Pater turned his keen brown eyes on Stefan.

“Herr Drosselmeyer,” the squirrel said in flawless German. “Is it true, Christian Drosselmeyer is dead?”

Stefan blinked, taken aback both by the novelty of a squirrel speaking German, and by the question. He would never get used to talking animals. “It's true, sir.” The aching hollow in his stomach returned. Saying it out loud gave Christian's death more weight.

“A pity. Life was always interesting with that one.”

“So I've heard,” Stefan replied.

“He will be missed, most certainly,” the Pater soothed. “In no small part because where Christian went, the dramatic was sure to follow.”

“I can't deny that,” Stefan agreed. “I was a toymaker's apprentice when I met my cousin, and now I sit here with Paters and kings.”

The Pater laughed, a chittering sound not unlike the squirrels Stefan was used to hearing before all of this began.

The Pater wiped his eyes with the back of a paw. “Even when
the storm has stopped, it does not mean the leaf has landed. For better or worse, we will all feel the effects of Christian Drosselmeyer, perhaps for years to come. Unless things can be set right.”

The Pater gave Stefan a curious look. “You have a
krakatook
. But what do you intend to do with it? Eat it yourself? Your years would be greatly extended. Or perhaps you intend to barter with it? What do I have that is worth such a price?”

Stefan cleared his throat.

“The nut is for the Boldavian princess, but I need your help to administer it.”

The Pater's shrewd eyes shone in the lamplight. “What cures the child does not cure the nation, young Drosselmeyer. Give the girl the nut, and what is to prevent the Queen from biting her again? You must not think so small,” he admonished with a pointed claw.

“Cure the princess, and we'll weaken the Queen's hold on Boldavia,” Stefan said. “King Pirlipat hasn't fought back because he's afraid a second bite will kill his daughter. If we cure her, maybe even get her away from Boldavia, he'll turn his army against the mice. He has to
!
”

“You give the old king too much credit,” the Pater said. “Had he been a wise man, he would have seen the threat to his nation long ago.”

Stefan stumbled. He'd forgotten that he'd had a similar impression of King Pirliwig from Christian's story. The man couldn't rock his child to sleep; how could he save an entire kingdom?

But he wouldn't worry about that now. Stefan needed to
open the nut. He needed the king's help. Which meant he needed the squirrel.
Think, Stefan, think
!

The Pater clapped his paws and a red squirrel appeared with a tray of tiny clay cups resembling acorns. The ancient squirrel accepted one, removed the cap-like lid, and a scent like sun-dried oak leaves rose to tickle Stefan's nose.

The old squirrel drank deeply, then offered the tray to his guests. Stefan carefully took a cup between two fingers. It was no larger than a thimble, the tea inside barely more than a splash on his tongue, but it tasted of autumn and he was glad when the Pater offered him more. If nothing else, it gave him time to think.

Then the obvious solution came to him.

“Come with us,” Stefan said excitedly. “
You
could open the nut and save the princess.”

The Pater shook his head sadly. “If I were to open it, I would eat it. It is a compulsion no squirrel can ignore.” For a moment, the old squirrel's eyes shimmered. “Two
krakatooks
in one lifetime
!
Such power is not meant to be.” He shuddered, and Stefan finally realized what a huge chance he had taken in coming here. King Almande and Samir had been right. He only kept the nut now because the Pater allowed it.

“I did not realize,” he admitted.

The old squirrel sighed. “One cannot balance the world by throwing another kingdom out of place. I could never show myself to the king—what would happen if more men learned of talking squirrels? How safe would we be in our trees if they believed we were hoarding
krakatooks
?”

Stefan's shoulders slumped. He could only imagine the treasure hunt that would ensue—men seeking the mythical cure for everything.

“If the mice found out we squirrels had interfered, the battle would not end, but shift. It might leave the realm of Men for a time, but believe me, you do not wish to see all of Rodentia at war. To put it in terms you might understand, you must learn to see the whole clock and not just the cog,” the ancient squirrel explained.

“But they have my father,” Stefan said, his voice catching in his throat.

The Pater clucked his tongue, a very squirrel-like sound. “All the more reason to take my advice,” he said sorrowfully. “They will not stop, and if they already know you exist, nothing you hold dear is safe.”

But Stefan had nothing left that death or the mice hadn't already taken. Then he thought of Clara and her amused smile. His father's workshop, the streets of Nuremberg after a rain. His mother's grave. He imagined it all overrun by mice in a plague of the blackest proportions.

“But if the mice take over, what would happen to squirrels?” Stefan asked. “When men hunt vermin in earnest, they will not care about the shape of their tails. Too many mice means famine for man and beast alike, doesn't it? Or having eaten a
krakatook
, do you no longer require food?”

“Stefan, I must protest—” King Almande began.

But the Pater had not taken offense. He raised a paw for silence.

Stefan held his glittering gaze.

The Pater nodded. While he didn't smile, he did appear to be amused.

“Another Drosselmeyer, indeed. The
krakatook
is a fulcrum. Let us see if we can use it to shift the balance of the world back into place. How may I help?”

Stefan should have been relieved. He was lucky the Pater hadn't already taken the nut, let alone put up with his insolence. But an idea had taken root.

“Squirrels can't smile,” he observed.

Samir's patience broke. “Stefan, what nonsense is this?”

“Why can't you smile?” He directed the question to the Pater.

The old squirrel shrugged, his face an inscrutable blank of gray fur and piercing eyes. “Perhaps it does not seem like it to you, but I am smiling even now.”

Samir looked astonished. King Almande was clearly confused.

Stefan took out his notebook. “Do you have any nuts?” he asked.

Samir coughed nervously. The Pater blinked. “Certainly.” He signaled for the little red squirrel, and a bowl was brought out, full of hazelnuts, acorns, walnuts, and almonds.

Stefan popped a walnut into his mouth and squeezed his jaws tight.

The nut wobbled between his teeth. A thin trickle of drool ran down his chin. He wiped his mouth with Clara's handkerchief and spat the mess out.

He turned to the Pater. “Would you please open one?” he asked.

“Surely this is not necessary,” Samir protested.

“I wouldn't do it to waste his time,” Stefan said, and immediately winced. He sounded so sure of himself. So much like Christian. “That is, I think this is important.” He turned back to the Pater. “You see, we have been unable to open the nut, and I suspect it has something to do with our not being squirrels. Our mouths are not built the same.”

The Pater chittered in amusement and selected a walnut. “Do you propose to watch me crack the whole bowl?”

“And sketch your movements—if I may?” he said, producing a pencil.

The Pater nodded and opened his jaws, placing the golden nut squarely between his small teeth. With barely a shudder, he closed his mouth a fraction, and the nut's halves fell neatly into his lap.

Stefan produced a pencil. “Again, please.”

The Pater obliged. Eventually, all of the nuts were open. Their meats lay cleanly in the bowl, so unlike the pasty messes they'd made pounding test nuts on the
Gray Goose
.