The Toymaker's Apprentice (26 page)

“WHAT A RACKET THEY MAKE!”
Stefan's mother said.

They sat perched on the roof of their townhome. Her apron pockets were full of broken gingerbread that she hurled into the air.

Stefan laughed as seagulls swooped down to snatch the pieces out of the sky. “And so far inland
!
” he exclaimed.

“They come in whenever there's a storm, dear.” His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It's getting cold. Come inside and we can have some cocoa.”

“Look how they catch the air,” Stefan said, pointing at the arc of a gull wing, cupped on a gust of wind.

“Yes, amazing,” his mother said. “A pity your father doesn't make birds. What child wouldn't want a toy that could fly?”

“I would,” Stefan agreed.

His mother was in the kitchen, pouring cocoa. “You would what, dear?”

“Like to make birds,” he said. “Like on the roof.”

She smiled her brilliant smile—the one that pulled smiles from all other lips—and handed him a tray with four mugs. “That's a wonderful thought, Stefan. When you figure it out, I'd love to have a little gray dove.”

Hadn't he made her one already?
Stefan accepted the heavy tray. The warm, sweet steam of chocolate and milk curled about his face.

His mother patted his cheek. “Go, beautiful boy. Don't keep your papa waiting.”

Through the window, he could see his father and two other men. “Look
!
It's Cousin Christian,” Stefan said. “And . . . Samir.”

Their heads were together, discussing . . . something. He heard them say his name. Christian drew plans in the air. Stefan listened closely. He wanted to join them, but could not find the door.

THEY ARRIVED IN NUREMBERG
on Christmas Eve, like three premature wise men—Christian, Zacharias, and Samir. On each of their backs was an identical bundle, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. They joined the latecomers to the Nuremberg Kindlesmarkt, no more unusual than the other traveling peddlers toting their wares. Once through the gates of the old city, Christian went right, Samir turned left, and Zacharias went straight ahead with the crowd into the heart of the Christmas Market.

“Mein Gott,” Zacharias muttered as he entered the main square. The sun had gone down and the sky had turned deep blue. In the glow of lamp- and torchlight, the pride of Nuremberg spread out before him—music, people, and market stalls.

The Kindlesmarkt—a three-hundred-year-old Christmas tradition to which the entire city flocked in the days leading up to Christmas. This year was no different. Every toymaker, clockmaker, craftsman, and baker for miles around had set up shop in neat little rows beneath the central clock tower.

Above it all, from the clock's cloth-of-gold-draped balcony, ruled the benevolent golden-ringleted Christkind, or Christ Child. Usually a young girl chosen for her father's standing in the town government, the Christkind wore white robes, a long blond wig, and a golden crown. She also carried a scepter with which she blessed the proceedings each year.

The rich scents of gingerbread and roasted nuts wafted through the air, making Zacharias's mouth water. Cold wind bit the tip of his nose and melting snow sloshed over his boots as he made his way through the jostling crowd. A group of children sang carols at the intersection of two rows of booths. A little boy dressed as an elf laughed, a bell-like sound that almost brought tears to the toymaker's eyes.

He continued on, running through Christian's plan in his mind. It was mad, of course. Life had offered nothing but madness since the day he buried Elise. All he could do was press on.

Zacharias shifted his grip on the bundle and pushed through the crowd to the judging stage. Here, the toymakers' guild accepted the finest craftwork of every eligible master toymaker in Nuremberg and the surrounding area.

“Zacharias Drosselmeyer, of Kleinestrasse,” he presented himself at the small sign-in table. A platform had been built, as it was every year, with tables that showcased the prize pieces of the market.

“Zacharias, you're here
!
” the guildmaster cried. Herr Grüel tugged at his red hair where it peeked out from beneath his hat. “Are you all right? We've not heard from you since the day that boy of yours feared you'd been kidnapped
!
By mice, was it? I should have known you were merely working in secret on your Kindlesmarkt toy. And thank heavens for that
!
It was a bit frightening, but all our guildsmen are accounted for since that day. You make the last.” He tittered with relief. “Now, what great work have you brought for the judging?”

Zacharias slid the bundle gingerly to the ground and bent to peel away the loosely wrapped paper.

“Wonderful
!
Rather a portrait of the original, eh?” the guildmaster exclaimed. “The limbs are moveable?”

“Most lifelike, indeed,” Zacharias said, mopping his damp brow.

“Table twelve, to the left,” the guildmaster directed him, making a note in his ledger.

Zacharias lifted the bundle into place and removed the rest of the wrappings.

It was a wooden soldier. Not so different from the one he'd made in Boldavia, it was nearly life-size, standing four and a half feet tall. This one had red coattails, white breeches, black boots, and brass buttons, a shiny black cap, and startlingly lifelike gray eyes that were exactly like Stefan's.

Zacharias sat the doll in place more tenderly than one might have expected. He adjusted the soldier's cap and made sure the coat was secure on the body.

“There we are, in plain sight,” he muttered. The mice had spies in the crowded marketplace, he knew, but none could reach him up on the platform here.

Overhead, the Christkind stood on the balcony of the cathedral with her entourage of angels, smiling down at the crowd. Zacharias said a short prayer for his son and settled in to wait.

• • •

“HOLD YOUR
horrible horses!” Professor Blume shouted.

Someone was pounding at the door hard enough to bring the house down. He'd given the staff the night off to visit the Kindlesmarkt. He preferred to stay home and soak up the warmth of his greenhouse over a nice book rather than brave the cold for roasted chestnuts and gewgaws. He clapped a hand over his
fez to keep it from flying off as he sped down the stairs, jamming his feet into his slippers every third step. Out of breath and nearly as red as his velvet housecoat, he threw open the door.

“Yes, what is—?” The rest of his exhortation fell away. Perhaps he was dreaming after too much roast beef and potatoes. Nothing else could explain why one of the three wise men was standing on his doorstep the night before Christmas.

“Professor Blume?” the Arab asked rather unexpectedly.

“Uh . . . yes?” The professor was very aware that his fez was remarkably out of place in front of such an awe-inspiring turban. The little gold tassel on his hat jostled belatedly to a stop in front of his right eye. He brushed it out of the way.

“Samir abd al-Malik at your service. Might I come in?”

Blume stammered for a proper response to the florid bow the Arab presented. He stepped aside before any words came to mind.

Shutting the door, he tried to gather his composure while his unexpected visitor lowered a bundled package to the ground and paused to rub the warmth back into his hands.

“Is that for me?” Blume asked, eyeing the package.

Samir followed the man's gaze. “If you like. Perhaps we can effect a trade. The nutcracker in exchange for a nut.”

The professor's eyes glided across Samir's whole being, before settling on his face. “Would you . . . fancy a cup of tea?”

Samir grinned, white teeth startlingly bright against his dark face. “Very much so, but I'm afraid my business is pressing. I seek the
krakatook
. Have you another?”

Blume, who had rather begun to enjoy the idea of such a bizarre Christmas Eve, blinked twice, reeling to catch up. “The
krakatook
? My dear fellow, why would I want two of the useless things?”

The Arab's face fell into a thunderous scowl. “So you only had the one?” he asked.

The despair in his visitor's voice was deeply affecting. He patted the big man's shoulder. “I am afraid so. And unfortunately I can't tell you where to find another.” He shrugged. “There was a boy here some weeks ago, but I haven't heard from him since. Had the loveliest ideas for my bonsai trees—”

“I come on his behalf,” Samir said. “These are bad tidings, indeed.”

Professor Blume hovered for a moment, twiddling his fingers anxiously. “Bad tidings? Hardly. He was playing a prank of some sort. Now, are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?”

The Arab took a deep breath and seemed to regain some of his height and strength. “Another time, perhaps. For now, lock your doors and sleep soundly. This is not a night for being abroad.”

He threw open the door and left just as quickly as he had come.

“You forgot your—” Professor Blume let yet another sentence hang unfinished in the cold air.

The Arab had left his package, the paper torn across the top. Staring out from the brown wrapping was a beautifully polished wooden nutcracker with the face of the boy to whom he'd given the
krakatook
.

“Will wonders never cease?” he asked the empty foyer, and carried his sole Christmas present into the greenhouse to study it someplace warm.

THE BROWN-AND-GRAY PIEBALD
twitched his whiskers in an effort to look less suspicious. Of course, his target hadn't seen him—he was too well trained a spy for that. But other humans passing by might notice him, and a scurrying mouse drew less attention than one that was standing still.

The clockmaker and the boy assassin had arrived in the city, just as intelligence suspected. But they had been clever and divided their party. Each man carried a bundle. One of them, undoubtedly, concealed the Queenkiller, but which one?

Tailitch had been forced to split up his band of scouts to follow the astrologer and the boy's father as they fled into the city. He chose to follow the clockmaker himself. At this time of year, it would be difficult to follow them through the wide avenues and rolling cart wheels, but not impossible. Tailitch had been chosen for his ability to move about this city, his hometown.

He would not fail like the last Nuremberg spy. Caught by the enemy
!
Tailitch twitched his tail in indignation. No, he would not fail.

His only real concern was not being able to send word back to his superiors, if he chose to follow his subject now. But humans were foolish. Now that they had reached the city, they likely thought themselves safe, and would no longer be moving at night. Confident in this realization, Tailitch sent one last missive down the tunnels. There it would be picked up by the
hourly courier, carried through the massive network of tunnels beneath the city to the paws of his superior, and eventually to the ears of the Mouse King himself.

Tailitch twitched with pride. He had seen the King in action at the Battle of Owl Run. Four owls had been felled that day
!
And the King had taken one single-handedly
!
Aye, the Mouse King was a force to inspire awe even in a soldier as weathered as he.

Taking a final bead on his target, Tailitch gathered himself and leapt forward into the whirling street after his prey.