The Toymaker's Apprentice (3 page)

IT WAS A ROUGH PLACE,
this Underwall. Like most rodent taverns, it was nestled beneath the cellars of an ancient Man-built edifice. A sign swinging from an iron bracket above the doors marked the human building as an inn. A much smaller sign hung low to the ground, depicting a hole in a wall— indicating the entrance for a different crowd.

Inside, wharf rats and a few scraggle-coated mice huddled around low tables, drying their fur by the chimney that ran down from the ovens in the human kitchen overhead, heating the room to an almost intolerable degree.

Ernst stretched luxuriously in the welcome heat, cracking his knuckles and neck. It was good to be out of the cold. Gossip rose and fell around him. His sharp ears flickered back and forth, getting a feel for his audience. News of the richest crops, which ships were leaving soon, the latest sites of human battles—Men were always going to war. Armies made for good pickings, but troops and artillery were a plague to the field mice who lived beneath them.

He heard rumblings of some nonsense about a mouse uprising in a place on the Black Sea. That would be crushed soon enough, Ernst thought, and the rest of the gossipers seemed to agree. He detected a wistfulness from a few of the rodents. It would be a quiet night.

Brushing his whiskers into shape, he sidled up to the bar and presented himself to the proprietor.

“Good evening, Master Barkeep. I am Ernst Listz, at your service,” he said with a slight bow.

The old mouse looked him up and down. “At my service? What are you, then? A bard? A scribe?”

Ernst preened his whiskers. “Which do you have most need of tonight?”

The barkeep looked around the room. A few tired mice were finishing their meals; some were already rising to head home. In the darkest corners, wharf rats hunkered down over hard crusts.

“We could use a bit of song,” the barkeep decided. He was a stout little mouse, more muscle than fat. “Nothing rowdy, though. Don't like the look of them sailors.” He nodded toward the rats. Ernst did not take offense. He didn't care for the look of them either.

The mouse gave Ernst a considering look. “Tell you what, sing a song or two to get them in their cups, and do what letter writing there is, and there's a meal in it for you.”

“Plus my writing fees,” Ernst added.

“Aye, plus whatever you can glean from these stingy vermin. There's a table there with reasonable light.”

Ernst thanked the mouse and made his way to the table by the fireplace. There, he set down his satchel, brushed the last of the night's dampness from his fur, and moved to stand beside the fire. No one seemed to notice this newcomer silhouetted against the flames. The murmur of gossip continued, the saying
of farewells, the rustling of coats. Ernst smiled. The mention of the mouse uprising had inspired him. Orange flames lit his hoary fur, glinting silver and copper in the warm light as he cleared his throat and began to sing.

I travel the long way home

Although it leads nowhere

O'er track and field and stone

Through cold and bitter air

Still I go on

Through field and farm

To where my darlings lie

T'was only the weight of bitter Fate

I lived while they did die

Soft at first, his voice rose until it seemed to fill the room, silencing tables, mice pausing halfway to their feet. Ernst sang in a sweet, clear tenor, the ballad of Hameln town. It was a song every rodent knew, of the death of the rats in the hamlet that had once been their kingdom. Mouselings learned it in the nursery, a cautionary tale to never stray too far into the realm of Men. Every rodent, beast, and blade of grass had its place, and nature kept the balance, no matter how cruel or kind. Rats knew the tale from late nights at family gatherings, when the old ones got in their cups and longed for the lost days of yore. Every mouse and rat in Underwall knew this folk song like the beat of his own heart.

But not the way Ernst sang it.

The tune he followed was as old as the hills, raw and sad, weirdly familiar yet strange. He added verses long forgotten by other rodents, words that gave voice to the cruelty of Hameln. His was the original song, the melody of a time long past. It thrummed deep and rose high, tugging at ancient memories. The wharf rats were the first to rise to their feet to join him, adding their baritones to the old tune.

When Ernst reached the chorus, every mouse, rat, and mole in the bar joined in, singing the simple verses alongside his heartbreaking melody.

Hameln town is a long way down, a long way down.

The walls hummed in resonance until the last note faded away to bittersweet silence.

Before the fire, Ernst bowed his head.

No one spoke. In the corner, someone sobbed.

The rats raised their claws to the barkeep and a plump mouse maid rushed a tray of tankards to their table in the corner. Mice that had been about to leave sat down again and ordered a round for their fellows. Better to be among friends than alone in the cold night just now. Soon the buzz of conversation returned, but it was soft with nostalgia.

Pleased, Ernst took his seat, ears twitching at the snippets of conversation. There was talk of another uprising in the east of France, where a war amongst Men had caused damage. Some mice argued in favor of pressing back against the driving force that was Man. Rodent populations tended to grow whenever there was a human war, since shooting each other made them forget to set traps for mice. And then there was the Black Death. Bubonic plague always brought rich days for the rodent
kingdom. When all the humans were sick and afraid, rats and mice could run rampant through the streets.

Ernst shook his head at the dreamy nostalgia in the speakers' voices. Every rat worth his salt knew a plague would sweep whole villages of men away, and leave no one to fill the larders or till the fields. No, he thought, now was not the time for plagues or uprisings. Famine always followed. And Ernst, for one, did not intend to starve.

He opened his satchel and pulled out the wares of his second trade—a sheaf of paper, an inkwell, some quills. But before he could attract his first customer, the barkeep approached.

“Put that away for now,” the stout mouse said gruffly, shoving a warm bowl of seed and nut porridge with a bit of cheese across the table. “You've earned a hot meal, I think. And a glass or two. Rare form,” he said.

He waved away Ernst's thanks and hurried back to the bar, where the tears in his eyes would be less noticeable.

Ernst ate his meal with less relish than he had intended. The ballad of Hameln town was effective, to be sure, but even he was not immune to the sorrow it conjured. He had been a wanderer for most of his life. The thought of a homeland, no matter how long ago, affected him deeply. But the road was his lot in life. To hope for something more was like building a castle on a cloud.

Nursing a headache and a growing sense of melancholia, Ernst finished his meal and the first glass of beer. Then he rearranged his papers and ink on the table, signaling that the scribe was open for business.

His first customer of the night was a love-sick sailor hoping
to win his sweetheart back with a poem. Ernst rolled his eyes as he took down the would-be poet's composition.

Many rats spoke a minimum of two languages (not including Mouseish or Volean or Mole—Rattish was the root from which they all sprang). But few could write, and even fewer could manage it in another tongue. And so, acting as scribe for the riffraff of Vienna, he earned himself a sip of ale and a place to sleep the night. The melancholy of his song soon lifted as he went about his letters and gossip.

He wrote three apologies to worried mothers from wayward sons, an inquiry to a distant relative for a city mouse looking to move back to the country, one will, and three birth announcements (those were the most tedious—so many babies, such long names
!
).

The scents of wet rodent and ink filled the room as he wrote and chatted with the sailing rats and dock scavengers that were regulars whenever their ships had come in. Scribes and information rats such as Ernst were expected in these parts of town, just as a storyteller might be, or a bard with songs to sing. The barkeep seemed pleased that Ernst could offer all of the above.

The room was cozy enough, and the supper had been filling. He even bartered for a lovely fish and beetle custard for dessert. Ernst would write until his wrist grew tired. Another day's honest work for the rat. Tomorrow would bring its own worries, but for now, he felt very fine indeed.

Until the piebald mouse stepped up, anyway.

EVERYTHING HAD GONE WRONG.
Stefan should have been miles away by now. He edged toward the door and reached for his duffel, not sure if he should make a run for it or simply hide the bag, when his father released Christian and caught Stefan's eye.

“Yes, put their things in the little bedroom, Stefan, thank you. We've scrubbed and aired it quite well . . .” He faltered. “But . . . of course, take my room. I'll—”

“Father, no,” Stefan interrupted. He couldn't believe he would be willing to sleep in his mother's deathbed.

The gorge rose in Stefan's throat. He left the bags and stepped outside into the street, where the rain could hide his tears until he had them under control. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You'll catch your death out here, child, dressed like that,” a woman said in a sugary voice. Stefan kept his eyes closed. Talking to Christian had been a mistake. One he would not repeat with whoever this newcomer was.

“Come inside, Stefan,” another voice said. Someone tugged at his shirtsleeve.

Stefan opened his eyes to find the local mourning committee, a collection of five widows and spinsters, all looking for a husband. Stefan had heard rumors of their ability to quickly find guildsmiths in mourning—in one fell swoop their children could gain both a father and an apprenticeship. Stefan's mother
used to laugh when she saw them. The Wild Hunt, she'd called them, after the Welsh tale of gods that hunted the souls of men.

If the women in front of him had their way, his father would be remarried within the year. Stefan refused to be a pawn in that arrangement. He didn't want a new mother, just time to properly mourn the one he'd lost.

“I'm fine, Mrs. Waldbaum.” He plucked his sleeve from her grasp and gave the women a slight bow. Mrs. Waldbaum was an apple-cheeked older woman with three children, two of them boys just about apprenticing age. Behind her, Drusilla Prue, a dour stick of a woman who had never married, stood with a basket on her arm. The rest of the committee looked much the same. Plump or thin, short or tall, they were all draped head to toe in black gowns, overcoats and bonnets, with baskets of food and drink on their arms, and a feverish gleam in their eyes.

“I've brought knockwursts fresh from the butcher,” Miss Prue said proudly, “and a bottle of my elderflower cordial. It will settle your father's stomach. Grief causes such indigestion
!
” She forced her pinched face into an expression of sympathy. “You poor, dear boy,” she cooed. Coming from her, the sound was as jarring as hearing a stork meow.

Stefan made no move to open the door.

Finally, Mrs. Waldbaum brushed him aside. “I'll just let your father know I'm here . . . that
we
are here, all of us, in his time of need.” She bustled through the door, the rest of the Wild Hunt following in a rustle of skirts and coats.

Stefan waited outside a moment longer. It
was
cold today. His arms were goose-pimpled and his nose had gotten chilly.
Dragging his feet, he followed the ladies inside just in time to hear Mrs. Waldbaum screech, “Oh
!
A Moor
!
In your very house
!
How unexpected
!
”

Stefan bit his lip to keep from smiling. Laughing, even at the startled Mrs. Waldbaum, felt disrespectful to his mourning. The thought of more people patting his head and cooing over him was even worse. He escaped up the ladder to his sleeping loft. Pulling on a too-small coat from last year that hadn't made it into his duffel bag, he clambered through the trapdoor in the roof and left the murmur of the adults behind.

The rooftop of his father's shop was pitched to keep snow from piling up dangerously in winter, but if you sat with your knees to your chest, you could perch comfortably for hours. It had been his mother's favorite spot, and now it was his.

Before him, slate and shingled roofs stretched to the horizon like a sea of frozen waves dotted with church steeples. The drizzle had stopped and the sun shone pearl-like above the town's distant clock tower. Stefan's jaw unclenched and sorrow flooded in.

His mother was dead and buried. And he had failed to leave before his father came home. Stefan had watched him age years in the past few days since her death. To have to look him in the eye and tell him the last of his family was leaving—Stefan could never do that.

And so, the future stretched out before him as monotonous as the rooftop sea. He had outgrown the rooms downstairs. Next, he would outgrow the city, and then, like a dog chained too long to a house, he would grow until the shackles cut into his ankle and crippled him for life. Painful, yes, but the hurt he
would cause his father by leaving would be far worse. Stefan sighed. He would stay in Nuremberg and help his father. He would fend off the Wild Hunt for at least a year, until his father could decide for himself if he wanted to marry again.

The thought made him queasy. But he would feel differently in a year, he hoped. In fact, if his father remarried one of those nosy women with children of her own, then maybe Stefan would be free to leave.

“One year,” Stefan said out loud.

There was a rustle as the trapdoor opened. A shock of white-blond hair emerged. His criminal cousin climbed out onto the roof like a spider emerging from a crack in the wall. The likeness made Stefan's skin crawl. No one had ever invaded his sanctuary before.

“Ah. I knew you'd be up here,” Christian said, arranging himself into a sitting position next to Stefan. “This was Elise's favorite escape, and that flock of biddies deserved a good escaping from.” He smiled easily, folding his long legs to his chest and leaning back on his palms. “I've missed this city,” he said.

“Why are you here?” Stefan asked. His father had been delighted to see this stranger, leaving Stefan even more alone in his misery.

“It's a long story and I'd rather not tell it twice. I think the ladies will be leaving soon and they've left a nice spread for supper. Come down and I'll tell you both over a glass of elderflower cordial.”

“No,” Stefan said. “Not why are you here in Nuremberg. Why are you here
now
?”

His skin prickled at his own rudeness, but he didn't care.
Mysterious criminals with eye patches and royal jailers didn't get to just show up and have polite conversations on other people's rooftops. Stefan stiffened his jaw. “You turn up and act as though you're part of the family. My father seems to adore you. But I've never even heard of you, apart from a few stories about ‘our cousin at the royal court' of wherever. If you knew my mother well enough to sit on this roof with her, then where were you when she got sick?”

Christian's easy manner grew solemn. “I loved your mother, Stefan. Had I known she was unwell, I assure you I would have come.”

“But why have you stayed away all these years?”

Christian's mouth twisted in consternation. “Have you ever wanted to impress someone? I mean, really show them that you've done well?”

“Yes,” Stefan said. Every apprentice strove to impress his master. That his master also happened to be his father made it both better and worse. There were days he thought his father was too hard on him, and days he was too easy. Stefan often wondered if his work was as good as his father sometimes said, or as bad. The only way to be sure was to always do better.

“Then you'll understand,” Christian said. “I wanted to impress your parents. Zacharias is one of the best toymakers in the city, and your mother was the best woman I've ever known. I was a bit big for my britches when I left. It's hard to come home in chains. Especially to the people you admire the most.”

“But you're here now,” Stefan said.

“Precisely. As the clockmaker said to the clock, better late than never.”

“And you're not in chains, exactly,” Stefan noted. “If you're a criminal, why aren't you in prison?”

Christian smiled wistfully. “Like I said, it's a long story.”

Everything was a long story when it came to adults. They muttered and murmured to each other all the time, but rarely shared any of the conversation. It was a wonder Stefan ever heard anything of use.

“Where is Boldavia? Or is that a long story, too?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Christian replied.

Stefan rolled his eyes.

“You know, you won't remember this, but I used to visit Nuremberg every year at Christmas,” Christian said. “The last time, you must have been five or six. Elise was very proud of you. You had just learned how to count to a hundred. And you wouldn't stop doing it. She said you might make a good clocksmith someday. You know . . . because of the numbers.”

Stefan shrugged. “I don't remember that.” Which wasn't exactly true. He remembered the counting, and his mother calling him “regular as a clock.” The image of her smiling down at him rose from a place buried deep inside him. His stomach ached, missing her. But he didn't remember Christian being there.

“You're right, of course. I'm a stranger to you and I haven't been around,” Christian said, echoing his thoughts. “We shall have to get to know each other. If you are willing.”

They sat in awkward silence, watching the sun make a fiery path across the tiled sea.

“I lost my own mother when I was less than half your age,” Christian said quietly.

Stefan's stomach curdled. He would not wish such a thing on anyone, especially someone so young.

“But I was lucky, as far as orphans go. I have a foster family, here in Nuremberg. Good people. Better than I deserve.”

Stefan faced his cousin in surprise. “But what about your father?” For their differences, Zacharias would never send Stefan to be raised by strangers. The thought brought another twinge of guilt for wanting to leave.

Christian shrugged eloquently. “I don't remember my father. It was always just my mother, me, and a name. Drosselmeyer.” He smiled sadly. “I've had to make of it what I could. With mixed results.”

Stefan swallowed the lump in his throat. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You have enough loss of your own to deal with. And mine's an old sorrow.” He clapped a hand on Stefan's leg. “It makes us who we are.”

Stefan nodded, though he didn't quite understand. If sadness shaped people, how was there ever joy in the world? It was the sort of conversation he would have had with his mother, sitting on this very rooftop with the promise of hot chocolate waiting in the kitchen below. A new wave of grief, cold and sharp as ice, splashed through him. He reached for a distraction to keep him afloat.

“Tell me something about my mother,” he said.

Christian shifted on his perch. “I'll tell you three things. One, she loved Mozart—”

“I know that. I do, too.” Stefan recalled the afternoon concerts his mother would take him to at the university. They would
sneak pieces of candy from her pocket while the music students played. To Stefan, Mozart was the sound of happiness.

Christian held up a gloved finger. “Ah, but she loved Mozart so much that she wanted to name you Wolfgang in his honor.”

“Wolfgang
!
” Stefan blurted. The only Wolfgang he knew was a snooty boy who couldn't play a triangle, let alone a piano, but still insisted on calling himself “Maestro.”

“Fortunately, your father changed her mind. Still, as long as she carried you, she referred to you as ‘Wolfie.'”

Stefan pursed his lips. “What if I'd been a girl?”

“Brunhilde, of course,” Christian said. “A solid German name.”

Stefan held back a snort. He refused to laugh but, strangely, he felt a bit lighter. As if the story held some of his mother's glow. “All right. That was one.”

“Two. Your mother loved pickles and won a pickle-eating contest at Oktoberfest one year. That was the day your father decided he wanted to marry her.”

“That's not true. I know this story,” Stefan protested. “He fell in love when he saw her
making
pickles for the fair.”

“Ah, so they've whitewashed it,” Christian said. “Maybe Elise didn't want you to know her full pickle-eating capacity. I believe it was twenty-seven in all. And they were very large.”

Now Stefan was struggling in earnest not to laugh. “She never touched a pickle in all my life. Said they made her ill
!
”

“And they did, after that day. Somewhere between the end of the contest and a very upset stomach, your mother managed to charm my cousin completely. She was quite a woman, Elise.”

“Yes,” Stefan agreed. This time, he didn't try to hide his smile.
Remembering his mother felt a thousand times better than mourning her.

Again they sat together in silence. But this time, it was more companionable.

“You said you'd tell me three things,” Stefan said eventually.

“Ah yes, the third is this. Every morning at precisely four a.m., your mother would wake up and look in on you sleeping.”