The Toymaker's Apprentice (30 page)

ERNST SAT IN
his damp cell—a cage of roots guarded by two piebald mice. If he had any hope of outrunning his captors, he would have chewed through the roots an hour ago. But the mouse army of Boldavia was as wide as an inland sea, and he was but a tiny raindrop.

You're a fool, Ernst,
he told himself. He had seen madness in the Queen's eye, and used it to feed himself, to cloak himself in glory. But now it was time to pay the Piper. He laughed bitterly. The Queen had been right. Hameln was a failure for ratkind alone. Soon, Nuremberg would belong to the mice. And then what use would there be for a washed-up rat?

“Captain to see the prisoner
!
”

The piebalds guarding his cage snapped to attention.

Ernst peered through the root bars with interest. Even bad news meant new opportunities, and he'd rather not waste the whole night in jail. He rose and straightened his coat and tail.

The captain was none other than Snitter, the hoary-furred piebald who'd hired him so long ago.

“Not so different from that tavern in Vienna, is it?” Snitter asked in his rough voice.

Ernst wrinkled his nose. “No, I suppose not. Except a warm stove would be welcome right about now.”

“No doubt,” the old soldier said. “I see you served our Queen well. Her boys have come a long way under your tutelage.”

“Under her spell, is more like it,” Ernst said before he could stop himself. Bitterness never won allies. “The Queen was a formidable mouse.”

“The Queen, in my opinion, was mad,” Snitter said without compunction. Beside him, the guards' ears twitched. Such remarks were treason, and traitors belonged on Ernst's side of the cage. “But perhaps madness is divine after all,” Snitter added smoothly.

The guards shared a glance and shrugged.

“What brings you my way?” Ernst asked. “Small talk is a fine art, but it can be managed just as well outside of a prison cell.”

Snitter laughed. “Patience, Herr Tutor. The King might have need of you yet. I just came by for a little company. You and I are alone here, Listz. Never mind the guards. They'll do as they're told. But tell me. My mice will follow their King to the very shores of death on faith alone. Is it well founded? You helped raise these boys. I need to know—can they do it? Can they topple a city like Nuremberg? If so, we'll back the King to the very end. Or should we . . . cut our losses, when the time comes? Let the madness end with the King?”

Ernst peered at Snitter through the roots. The mouse was getting on in seasons. This would likely be his last campaign. The outcome mattered little for him, then—unless he was the sort of leader who cared about his troops. Would he be willing to let his King commit suicide rather than see his foot soldiers' lives dashed uselessly upon the rocks of vanity?

Ernst made a decision. One that he hoped would get him out of this cage and back into the game.

“Yes,” he said. “They can.”

Snitter whistled a low breath, and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

“With guidance, that is,” Ernst added quickly. “From those of us who have more experience.”

The old mouse gave Ernst a strange look. “Very clever. Now, if I leave you here and we lose, it'll be my fault. If I let you out and we lose, none of us will live to regret it. But, if we win . . .” At last, Snitter waved a paw for the guards to open the cage door. “You're crafty, rat. I'll give you that. And we'll need craftiness on top of numbers to win this war. You're reinstated. Come with me.”

CHRISTIAN HURRIED HEEDLESSLY
through the streets of the city. After the first few stealthy blocks, he no longer cared about Boldavian spies. It would confuse the mice to see him alone. His coattails flapped in the wind as he ate up the distance in long, loping strides.

The streets were empty of both man and beast. The people, of course, were at the Kindlesmarkt or in their own homes. But that did not explain the lack of mice.

The university clock chimed ten. Christian checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter past. He would have to fix that clock, someday. Heaven willing there
was
a someday.

Using his master key, Christian slipped through the rear entrance to the clockmakers' guild. Once inside the descending chamber, he patted his pockets and withdrew a red headlamp. It had led him safely through the dungeons of Boldavia—mice could not see red light—and he knew he would need it here. While the streets of Nuremberg may have been empty, he was sure the cellars would be a different story.

The door to the little office opened. “Gullet?” Christian called. A light shone at the desk, but the room itself was unoccupied. Christian crossed the room to the hidden door behind the desk, and hesitated. It was no different than searching the
dungeons for Zacharias. Except now the mice were expecting him. “For Stefan,” he muttered.

Lowering his headlamp, he went through the door and into the catacombs.

It was deathly quiet in the dark tunnels. The rush of the river and the groaning of the City Clock were both drowned out by the beating of his own heart. Christian followed the path of ruddy light cast from his headlamp. He hadn't gone far when a rocketing figure bowled him over. His headlamp fell over his eye and went out.

“God's sake
!
” a voice bellowed.

“Gullet?”

Christian fumbled for his flint again, but his assailant beat him to it, opening the shutters on the lamp he wore, bathing them both in a deep ruby light.

“Good, it's you, then,” Gullet said by way of reply. He reached down a thick hand and helped haul Christian to his feet. “You should have better sense than to be down here, but I've been looking for you, so it saves me a trip.”

“I've been looking for you, too.”

“Really?” Gullet said dryly, with a glance around the cavern. “The mess you've made, Drosselmeyer, it astounds me. The Kindlesmarkt's been overrun, then some house near the botanical gardens. And now you've gone pale, so I assume you know the reason.”

“We gave them decoys,” Christian said in a broken voice. “But I didn't think they would act so boldly—or so quickly.”

Gullet frowned. “Yes, well, you're not the only rash youngster
in town, it would seem. The mice have a new leader. A persuasive one, from the sound of it.”

“I need to get back to my cousin. He killed their Queen. He's in danger.”

“We're
all
in danger, Christian. It's the one thing you seem to keep forgetting about clockery. Gears upon gears, one move affects the others. We'd best get a handle on this quickly, before Nuremberg is lost.”

Gullet turned and led Christian back the way he had come.

“The catacombs are difficult to travel tonight with our new tenants in town.” If the Kindlesmarkt and Herr Blume's house had been attacked simultaneously, Christian could only begin to imagine what size army he faced. “Boldavia was overrun, it's true. But this is Nuremberg. It's seven times Boldavia's size. How many mice are we dealing with?”

Gullet granted Christian a sidelong glance of pity. “Better to ask how many drops of water in the sea, boy. They're vermin. And they're not just Boldavian. They've joined forces, these mice—we've gotten reports from the Netherlands to the Black Sea. If we aren't careful, the scales will tip and the world will belong to Rodentia.”

Christian balled his gloved hand into a fist. “I'll stop them,” he swore through clenched teeth. “Mice are nothing without a strong leader. Like the hydra, cut off the head and the body dies.” Christian wished he was as certain as he sounded.

“The analogy is more apropos than you realize, Drosselmeyer. The trick will be in guessing which head to take. Our hydra, we're told, has seven.”

Christian stopped in his tracks. He braced himself against
the damp wall of the cave, his glove sinking into the mossy slime. The gears and cogs of the city groaned like old men.

“The spy we captured said the King was divine. I took it as fanaticism. Not fact.”

“One leads to the other, eventually,” Gullet commented. He stopped at an alcove that contained a plain wooden door, and produced a ring of skeleton keys. “In here. There are some things you'll be needing. And then I'll show you the devils' lair.”

The door swung open to reveal a room full of chests.

“Ho, Gullet. This room is new,” Christian said.

“Not new, just off-limits to the likes of you,” Gullet replied. “Some clockworks are not for everyone to toy with. You, of all people, should know that.”

“What does that mean?” Christian asked. He had studied all the levels of clockwork there were—mechanical, celestial, mundane . . .

Fishing in his pocket, Gullet produced a small brass key and unlocked a wardrobe against the back wall. The cabinet swung open in the soft light of Gullet's torch.

Christian's mouth fell open, his pulse quickening. “An unwinding key . . .” He shook his head in wonder. “I thought they no longer existed.”

“Nor should they,” Gullet grunted. All clockmakers had pondered it, much the way alchemists had striven to turn lead into gold: a key to unwind a living soul. Could a human even begin to divine the clockworks of the immortal soul? For most of the Brotherhood, the search had proven to be a fool's errand. But not for all of them, it seemed.

Christian frowned. It would not do to be careless with such a tool.

“A drastic measure. But, I suspect you'll find a use for it, somehow,” Gullet said, placing the key in a narrow sack. He handed the bag to Christian, who stood there, torn between the need for haste and a new, unexpected fear. “Now, let me take you closer to home.”

Christian came back to himself. He had gotten the help he'd come for. Now he needed to find Samir and Zacharias. “The university clock tower. My companions will be there. But first . . .”

Gullet read his mind. “Reconnaissance? On the way. Believe me, you'll want to keep moving once you see the force they've got on their side.”

Gullet sealed the room behind them, and led the way deeper into the catacombs.

Above their heads, the city clockworks ticked with purpose. It had been lifetimes since Christian had delved this deeply into the tunnels beneath the city. The slow roaring sound that steadily built over their heads told him they had reached the place where the river ran above them, through the very heart of Nuremberg. The walls grew wet with spray as they followed the course of the river. Their red lamplight flickered in the moist air.

When the river was its loudest, Gullet turned away down a side tunnel that narrowed until Christian was forced into a crouch. The roar of the river fell away behind them, and a new sound poured out of the tunnel in front. Gullet slowed and edged forward. Raising a hand in warning, he shuttered his lamp.

Christian stifled a protest. It was pitch-black, too dark for human eyes. Until he realized he could see.

They were in the mouth of a tunnel that spilled out into a large cavern below. Above him, Christian could see the roots of ancient trees woven into the ceiling of the cave. Below was the source of the new sound. His heart stopped at the sight.

Beneath them seethed, not a river, but an ocean.

An ocean of mice.

Gullet opened his headlamp and brushed past him, turning back the way they'd come. Christian stumbled after him. Only when they reached the wider tunnel beneath the river did he swear under his breath. “Gods, Gullet. Boldavia was just the beginning.”

The clerk shrugged his broad shoulders and took off down the tunnel. “That's mice, though. For every one you see, seven in the walls.”

Christian nodded. But there hadn't been
seven
for every
one
. There had been thousands.

“And that's little more than half of them,” Gullet added as they came to the university cellar door. “They're on the move. After your nephew, I'd say. Go. We've begun fixing the city clockwork to keep the streets free for a time. Internal rhythms are a bit tricky, especially with the children, but most everyone should sleep through the night, present company and relevant parties excluded. Have done with this by cock's crow and, with the exception of a rather nasty end to the Kindlesmarkt, Nuremberg need be none the wiser. If not . . . then I fear for us all.”

Christian nodded and took the older man's hand. “Thank you, Gullet.”

“Good luck, Drosselmeyer,” the clerk said, and disappeared back into the catacombs.

Christian stood for a moment, alone in the basement of the university, his face as pale as his milk-white hair. What he had seen was unimaginable. And his responsibility, alone. Christian had opened the gates to a flood of biblical size. Looking down at the sack in his hands, the weapon seemed inadequate, and yet it was their only hope.

He stormed up the cellar steps and prayed that Samir and Zacharias were safe and waiting. If he was to live through the night, Stefan would need them all.