The Toymaker's Apprentice (27 page)

NUREMBERG
, ERNST LISTZ
said to himself.

It sounded rich. Not as rich as Austria or Paris, but it would do. Anything was better than the terrors of the open countryside with its death strikes from above, and the moldy stench of damp tunnels. They had marched hard all the way from Boldavia, using log barges on underground streams when possible. They kept up their speed, even racing through tunnels and under mountains, knowing their enemy must travel the longer way.

A mouse could run twice as fast as a man could walk, if necessary. For this journey, the King of Mice had deemed it very necessary indeed. And so they had run and sailed, to the point of exhaustion.

For Ernst, anyway. These Boldavian mice never seemed to tire. Fanatics rarely did. Ernst had hoped Arthur and his brothers would eventually forget him, caught up in the tides of war. He was beginning to fear he would never be free.

A paw clutched him from behind. The paw of the Mouse King.

Ernst used every ounce of self-control he possessed to not jump out of his skin. “Sire.”

As the army approached Nuremberg, Arthur's brothers had grown more agitated. The owl attack outside Vienna had only made matters worse. The rodent army had been forced to flee underground. For the first time in this ridiculous campaign, the
mice had been frightened. What's more, their spies in the city had lost sight of the clockmaker's boy, which had only served to feed the anger of their King. The bloodlust in Hannibal's eyes had become more apparent with each step as he gnashed his teeth, drunk on power and the promise of vengeance.

And now, per Arthur's orders, each head wore its own golden crown.

When Ernst turned to face his King this time—not
his
king, he had to remind himself, merely an upstart rabble-rouser of lesser Rodentia—it was not Hannibal he saw, but Arthur. One of those odd eclipse-like times when the other heads were asleep and the boy seemed like himself again.

“Ernst, may I speak with you?” Arthur's voice sounded hollow and young even though his body had grown to adulthood.

Pity wrapped around Ernst's jangled nerves. Why did he stay, if not for this boy? Perhaps because Arthur was the only creature to treat him with real respect in all of the years since Ernst's family's decline.

“Of course, dear boy,” Ernst replied softly, not wanting to wake the other brothers. It seemed to be Arthur's gift, to stay awake while the others slept. But it made the boy seem even lonelier than usual.

Ernst kept his voice soft and light, but he was afraid. For Arthur and for himself.

“Ernst, I've been having dreams again.” Arthur tucked his arm around his tutor's elbow and they began to stroll. They were camped beneath the roots of a great oak tree in one of the parks outside Nuremberg. Intelligence had scouted it as the perfect headquarters. In fact, the chamber here was so large, it
had allowed them to begin the curious work of assembling the siege machines.

“What kind of dreams, Majesty?” Ernst asked in real concern. Nightmares had begun to wrack all of the Mouse King's heads in the past few weeks, but Arthur was the only one willing to talk about it.

“I see
him
in my dreams,” Arthur confided. The young face paled beneath the silvery fur. “Mother's killer. I can't face him, Ernst. I could barely stand up to my own mother. She was a sorceress, she had such power. What on earth could snuff her out?”

“You haven't actually seen the assassin, then?” Ernst asked. Even he had caught a glimpse of the human boy, through a chink in the wall as he fled the Boldavian throne room. Ernst had been attempting to escape.

“I have. On that terrible day, and every night, in my dreams,” Arthur said softly. “He's a monster. My brothers think we are invincible, that we will triumph by divine right. Not even the hawks have swayed them. But Mother reaped what she sowed, don't you think? What hope have we against one man, let alone an entire race of them? I fear we will all perish.”

Ernst gripped the younger mouse by his shoulders. At last, a lick of sense in the entire escapade
!
“Then stop it, Arthur. You are the King—
you
are
!
If you can see your mother's legacy as the idiocy it is, then call an end to it
!
”

“I can't,” Arthur cried forlornly.

“Why not? Your brothers? Will you let them bully you into the grave?”

“If that's what it takes.”

Ernst's heart skipped a beat. The voice was not Arthur's. Hannibal was awake, leering at the rat through slitted yellow eyes. Ernst let go of the King's jacket and stepped back. The other heads were awake, as well.

“I told you the rat was not loyal to us,” Genghis said.

“And you were right.” Hannibal frowned. “Herr Listz, you disappoint us.”

“Treachery
!
” Charlemagne hissed.

The other heads echoed the word. “Treachery.”

Ernst was bewildered. Arthur would not look him in the eye.

“Seize the rat. Lock him up
!
” Hannibal called out.

Two armed guards stepped from the shadows to follow their King's command.

“Arthur?” Ernst's voice cracked.

“I'm sorry, Ernst. We had to know if you were with us or against us,” he said in a voice Ernst hardly recognized. “You must understand. She was our mother.
My
mother.”

With a start, Ernst realized Arthur had truly loved her. She who had only ever seen him as a means to an end. Who had made him into this unnatural form. In spite of all that, Arthur loved her fiercely, and would follow her into the grave. Ernst's last slivers of hope began to fade.

“Enough, Arthur,” Charlemagne snapped. “Visit him in the dungeon if you must.”

“The enemy has been spotted in Nuremberg,” Hannibal said. “We have work to do.”

So the Drosselmeyer was here. The war would begin by nightfall, if Hannibal had his way. All Ernst could hope to do was save himself.

“You can't imprison me
!
You need me
!
” the rat called out as his escort dragged him from the chamber. Hannibal snorted. The little upstart would suffer for that, one day, Ernst swore.

His last sight was of the Mouse King laughing from all of his mouths but two. Ernst closed his eyes. Julius had been blank as ever, but the look on Arthur's face was all too clear. Nothing would stop him from having his revenge.

CHRISTIAN HURRIED UP
the steps, the cloth-wrapped figure solid and unyielding, but distressingly light in his arms. They didn't have much time. Once they reached the city, the mice could move quickly through the sewers and catacombs. They could be everywhere, anywhere, at once.

Behind him, the expanse of Englestrasse Square made his back itch. But much worse was the grinding ache in his bones. Something was out of step. The City Clock of Nuremberg was losing time. He could feel it with each stuttered beat of his heart, as if he, and not the city, had somehow slipped out of rhythm.

He paused at the top of the stairs and swallowed a wave of nausea. Unlike the neglected university clock, very few things could knock a City Clock off-kilter—an act of sabotage (unheard of in his lifetime), an immense natural disaster, or a shift in the balance of the world. Without seeing the movement himself, he knew it was the latter of the three. The mice had reached Boldavia, and there was a real chance that they would win the day.

A subtle shift, for now, sure to go unnoticed by the shoppers celebrating at the Kindlesmarkt. Birds and animals were more sensitive, of course, which might have been why the streets were empty of dogs and cats. And clockmakers. Every clockmaker in the city would be able to feel the damage being done. They would rally to the Brotherhood, do their best to guard the
Cogworks. Other than that, it would be as he'd told Stefan so long ago. Every clockmaker is responsible for his own work. A second set of hands might ruin the timing.

This crisis was of Christian's own making. He could rely on the Brotherhood only so far. But, in the end, he'd have to solve it on his own.

He paused a moment longer to take a deep breath, and another, gauging the rise and fall of his chest until each inhalation was as long as his exhalation. He could not adjust the movement of the city all at once, but he could certainly rebalance himself. An unsteady clockmaker did unsteady work.

Through the heavy oaken door, he could hear the sound of the little piano in the corner of the parlor. That would be Lisle Stahlbaum, who'd had quite a career as a pianist in her youth. Christian allowed himself a small, nostalgic smile, then forced it wider as he hefted the brass knocker and announced his arrival.

“Uncle Drosselmeyer
!
” came a rousing chorus as he swept into the foyer, the chill night air wafting from his great coat.

“Merry Christmas, meine kinder
!
” he bellowed. He gently lowered his package to the floor beside the resplendent Christmas tree and was accepted into the house of his foster family.

The scents of pine, woodsmoke, and mulled wine assailed him. The Stahlbaums were famous for their Christmas Eve parties. Half the neighborhood was here—a good sign. There was safety in numbers for people this night.

He scanned the grand parlor, heavy with garlands and the scent of clove-studded oranges. A fire crackled in the marble hearth that took up the better part of the far wall. He would see to closing the flue the moment the fire died. There was his
foster brother, Franz, with his young son, Fritz, Franz's wife, Lisle, and his goddaughter, Marie. Here were the Gerstenfelds from across the road, and the Pfeffers, and Mrs. Walden from the kitchens, and their maid, Clara, serving hot mulled wine. He accepted a glass of the spiced drink gratefully and turned to his foster brother.

“Christian, we've heard so little from you after you wrote about your royal position, and now, two visits in the same year?” Lisle exclaimed. “We'll begin to think you miss us.”

“Of course I've missed you,” Christian replied. “All of you. The past few years have been difficult. I tried to send word when I could.”

He scanned the room and spied a large box in the corner.

“Ah, my packages have arrived,” he noted with satisfaction.

“As they do every year,” Lisle assured him, gently placing a hand on his arm. There was a strange tugging in his chest that he recognized as longing. The Master Clockmaker of Boldavia was homesick.

“Well, don't just stand there,” Franz said. “The children have been desperate with anticipation for days
!
”

The tugging in his chest grew stronger.

“Very well.” For a few moments, Christian Drosselmeyer allowed himself to be at home. He played with his young foster nieces and nephews, congratulated the older ones on their accomplishments. He pried open the crate sent so many months ago out of foreign ports of call, and unpacked his gifts.

A ballerina unfolded from the crate and rose to her full five-foot height and danced delicately before the cluster of children and adults. Then there came the jester, and then a
Moor, mimicking the whirling dance of one of King Almande's entertainers.

The children laughed and clapped, and the adults congratulated him, while Marie, his favorite, sat in the corner reading quietly and offering her applause when called for.

At last, the furor moved on without him and he went to Marie's side.

“Ah, so now you see me,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling merrily in the firelight.

Christian kissed her hand. “Young lady, I hardly recognized you, so beautiful have you become.”

She swatted him with her book. “Come, Uncle, the only thing that's grown here is your nose. What is the corpse in the winding sheet over there? What have you brought into our house?”

Christian scowled. “You are too bright by far, Marie. It's something that deserves tender care and safekeeping.”

“Then you'd best bring it here. Fritz is knocking it to the floor.”

Christian rushed to save Stefan from a fate worse than he'd already suffered, but he was too late. The veil slipped, and the beautifully carved soldier fell facedown onto the floor.

Fritz jumped back. “Sorry, Uncle Christian
!
It slipped
!
”

His mother gasped. “Fritz Stahlbaum, you little terror
!
”

Only Christian noticed the split lip.

“I am so sorry, Christian. Has he broken one of your manikins?” Lisle asked. She was so like her daughter, Marie, but a harmless honeybee, where Marie could sting.

“He'll be fine. I . . .” Christian picked up his cousin.

“So lifelike,” Franz exclaimed.

“Indeed.” Christian touched the split lip. It came away reddened with—

“Sap? How freshly you carve your wood
!
” his foster brother said.

“Father, really,” Marie said, pushing through the cluster of guests. “Your son has destroyed my gift. I'll take him from you, Uncle,” she said gently, and lifted the doll in her arms.

“What a clever nutcracker he is,” she said, and carried her prize up the stairs.

• • •

MARIE STAHLBAUM'S ROOM
would be the envy of collectors everywhere. The walls were lined with neatly kept cupboards, each containing row upon row of clever, beautiful dolls. They watched with silent glass or painted eyes as she entered the room with her latest acquisition.

Laying the nutcracker on the counterpane of her four-poster bed, she examined the lip. “Curious, indeed.” She cast about for a napkin or handkerchief to blot the sap with, and found the corner of one sticking out of the toy soldier's pocket.

“Thank you,” she said, and tugged it free. She shook the linen open and nearly dropped it—a small handkerchief embroidered with the letter “S” in pale blue.

“Impossible
!
” she exclaimed, and looked into the toy soldier's wooden gray eyes.

It
was
impossible. But evidently true.