The Toymaker's Apprentice (5 page)

STEFAN'S STOMACH WAS
uneasy from Frau Waldbaum's potato casserole and Frau Kirche's sour cherry pie. He had eaten twice his fill in order to hide his nerves. They had been downstairs for over an hour now, but it was poor manners to talk business or question guests until they had dined, and Christian had yet to raise the subject of his offer. Now that the meal was over, Stefan's nerves returned. He drowsed near the fire while his strange cousin and his father pulled their chairs close together at the hearth. The astrologer, Samir, sat in the shadows, keeping his own counsel and an eye on his prisoner.

“Stefan, you look as though you could use some of this cordial,” his father said. “It does my heart good to see you eat so well, but I fear you are out of practice.”

Stefan straightened up, embarrassed. He dragged himself out of his chair. “If you think so,” he said. “Would anyone else . . . ?”

He went to the cupboard to find a mug. If Miss Prue's potion would do the trick, he was more than willing to try it out.

A mouse scurried inside the dark reaches of the cabinet, startling him wider awake. He'd have to place traps in the morning. With a sigh, he shut the cupboard and poured himself a draught of elderflower cordial.

“You have both been very patient,” his cousin said as he regained his chair. “So I will tell you what brings me—us”—he nodded toward Samir—“to Nuremberg.”

Stefan's heart jumped into his throat. He forced himself to take a sip of the elderflower concoction. It was herbal, sweet and light. And it did absolutely nothing to quell his anxiety.

“Stefan, stop fidgeting,” his father said. “Your cousin is speaking.”

Stefan muttered an apology and turned away, his eyes growing damp. His father's tone was clear—he was upset with Stefan for skipping the funeral. In truth, Stefan was disappointed in himself. Shame heated his cheeks. He turned back to the fire and caught his father's eye. His heart thudded in his ears. And then his father's face softened with a look that was almost as good as a hug. He understood.

The hand that had been squeezing Stefan's stomach relaxed.

Christian nodded, as if gathering his thoughts, and began again.

“The king has sent me on a quest. We've ridden a long, hard way these past seven years,” he said wearily. “Finally, I convinced Samir it was time for me to come home, if only for a little while. There are people in the city who might help us. But mostly I've been missing Nuremberg.”

“There's not another city like her,” Stefan's father said. “And of course, we're glad to have you back. I only wish it had been sooner. For Elise's sake.”

Stefan was swamped by another swell of grief. His mother was dead. He couldn't possibly leave his father, not when the house was so newly empty.

Suddenly, the mouse from the cupboard skittered across the floor. Stefan yanked off a slipper to hurl at it, but Christian's glove struck first, stunning the little pest and knocking it over.

“Catch it, quickly
!
” Christian bellowed.

Zacharias scrambled up from his chair. Stefan and Christian lunged toward the mouse. The poor creature scurried along the wall, searching for a crack to escape through, squealing the whole while.

“Don't let him get away
!
” Christian cried.

Stefan grabbed a bowl from the table and dropped to his knees in an attempt to trap the mouse inside. Only now did he have the sense to wonder, why make such a fuss over a mouse?

“Samir, now
!
” The clockmaker had the mouse cornered. It began to scream, a horrible shrill sound. Samir slammed a boot on the ground by its head and the mouse fell into a stunned silence. Christian scooped it into his gloved hand.

“Quickly, a box,” he said calmly. Stefan's father grabbed an empty cocoa canister and handed it to Christian, who stuffed the mouse inside.

It started screaming again, the shrill sound taking on form. Stefan realized that it was speaking. In
German
.

“You are too late, Clockmaker, too late
!
The Queen is with child. Our time is at hand
!
” Still screaming, the mouse struggled from the canister and drove its sharp teeth into Christian's glove.

Christian threw the mouse to the floor. Instantly, it hopped up and ran away.

Stefan stared at the crack in the floorboards through which the mouse had disappeared. “What the devil was that?”

His father had turned ashen gray. “Stefan, watch your language. Your cousin's been bitten. Get a bandage.”

“It's all right,” Christian said. “The glove took the brunt of it.” He held up the injured hand where his skin showed through the black leather. “I'm no tailor, but I think it will live.”

“What
was
that?” Stefan repeated, careful not to swear. His skin still prickled with the sound of those unnaturally high words.

“A spy,” Christian said darkly.

“But, it spoke
!
” Stefan exclaimed. He looked wildly to his father who, though ruffled, seemed less than surprised. “What's going on?” he asked.

Stefan's father looked chagrined. “Son, there is more to this world than apprentices know. Even a master toymaker such as myself has mostly only heard of, and rarely seen, these things.” He turned to the scowling clockmaker. “Christian, this has nothing to do with toys.”

“But it doesn't make sense,” Christian muttered to himself. “We are no closer to our goal than we were seven years ago.” He scratched his chin. A look passed between him and Samir. “Sit down,” Christian said. “I'll tell you all I can.”

With more than one backward glance for more mice, Stefan and his father sat down again at the table. Spreading his fingers wide, Christian began.

“Several months' ride from here is the small kingdom of Boldavia. Rich and important by virtue of its location, Boldavia is an island nation at the crossroads between Europe, Asia Minor, and the Ottoman Empire, which leads on into Africa and points south. Seven years ago, the King of Boldavia had not a care in the world, but for his one joy and heartache, his daughter, Pirlipat . . .”

• • •

PRINCESS PIRLIPAT WAS CRYING.
That was nothing unusual. Pirlipat was always crying. It was a sound that had soaked into the very stones of the castle, shrill, angry, and unending. The queen wrung her hands. She had guests arriving and her famous pudding to oversee, but her darling little Pirly-teeth was screeching to wake the dead.

“Imebella, isn't there something we can do?” her husband, the king, asked. They had proven poor parents from the start. Pirlipat was three years old and had spent much of that time screaming her head off.

“Lovekins, you know I have to be in the kitchen with the chefs. Isn't there anyone to rock the cradle? She seems to like that.”

The cradle in question sat on the dais in the main audience chamber, next to the thrones of the king and queen. Usually the castle was quieter if Pirlipat was kept in the nursery (which was really a dungeon, the queen knew, but “nursery” sounded nicer, especially when speaking of a place for one's child), but with guests arriving, the royal family was expected to make a full presentation of itself.

“No, there is not anyone to rock the cradle. The musicians are making music, the soldiers are soldiering, and the ladies-in-waiting are . . . waiting, I suspect. Besides, the royal crib is too big for them to rock. And I can't very well do it. I'm the king!”

“Of course, dear,” she said, patting his arm. King Pirliwig was a very large man with reddish hair and even redder cheeks. When he got angry, the queen was always afraid he'd be mistaken for a beet and planted in the royal garden. So she did her best to quiet him by reminding him that there'd be some of his favorite pudding
soon, if only he'd let her go to the kitchens instead of worrying about rocking Pirlipat into silence.

Eventually, the violinist gave up violining to rock the child, leaving the rest of the quartet much the poorer for it, although at last their music could be heard.

The guests arrived and, as long as one of the musicians stopped playing to rock the cradle, the royal banquet went on uninterrupted.

But eventually even the royal musicians grew weary, their bowing arms cramped and unable to play, what with all of the alternate music-making and cradle-rocking. Once again, much to Queen Imebella's dismay, Pirlipat began to wail.

“Somebody, do something
!
” the king bellowed, at his wits' end, the queen knew. Otherwise he'd have never admitted to not being able to handle a small child.

Nobody moved.

And then a chair pushed back from the table and a remarkable-looking young man rose, tall and thin as a scarecrow with a shock of fair white-blond hair. He looked pallid and mysterious in his black suit. The young man made his way to the royal crib and paced around it three times, deep in thought.

“Darling, is it safe?” the queen whispered to her husband.

“Yes, my dear, I'm sure it will be quite all right,” he whispered back, although he couldn't know for certain.

After a long moment, the young man gestured to the musicians for their instruments. Smashing a viola on the floor, he proceeded to rig the most amazing system of hoists and pulleys strung together with violin string, at the center of which he put the musicians' metronome.

The room was utterly silent (except for Pirlipat's screaming). Queen Imebella held her breath.

The young man surveyed his handiwork. And then, with a daintily gloved hand, he pushed the crib, one gentle rocking motion, and stepped back.

The crib rocked to. Inside, Pirlipat made a hiccupping noise, as if swallowing the rest of her scream. The crib rocked fro. And to, and fro, and to, with the same steady, reliable motions of the metronome.

“Perpetual rocking machine,” the young man said with a shrug, and in the utter silence that followed, he returned to his place at the table.

“But . . . but . . .” Queen Imebella sputtered, tears welling in her eyes. She tugged her husband's sleeve, too overcome to speak more clearly.

“What is your name, young man?” her husband bellowed. “How do you come to be here?”

Queen Imebella was quite taken with the way the young man rose and bowed to the king. “Christian Drosselmeyer, formerly of Nuremberg. I am a clockmaker, and most glad to be of service.”

The king looked at the queen, then rose to greet him. “Of service you shall be
!
From now on, Christian Drosselmeyer, most trusted friend of the Kingdom of Boldavia, you shall be Our Clockmaker and forever be held in our highest royal esteem.”

• • •

“AND THAT'S HOW I BECAME
the Royal Clockmaker of Boldavia,” Christian said.

“I had become Royal Astrologer in much the same way,”
Samir added. “The king and queen are quite practical people and only hire staff when there is a reason to do so.”

Stefan frowned. “Then why didn't they hire a royal crib rocker? Or just make a lighter crib?” It seemed so obvious to him. For the first time, he wondered if cleverness was a requirement for being a king.

“Perhaps the royal family is not as smart as you,” Christian said with an amused smile. “In any event, they suffered until I showed up, and then they hired me. And I lived rather happily in Boldavia for almost three years, until tragedy struck.

“Mice had been a problem in Boldavia for as long as anyone could remember, which is to say at least since Pirlipat stopped crying and they could begin to notice other nuisances.

“You see, Boldavia is an island nation that rests in the mouth of a river. The bedrock it sits on is granite riddled with caverns carved by wind coming off the sea. An easy place for rodents to hide, and so there was already mouse trouble in the royal kitchens, but it was tolerable. Cats are illegal in Boldavia due to the king's allergies. Still, the problem might have been managed with traps and poisons, but toward the end of my third year as Royal Clockmaker, I made a mistake . . .”

“What sort of mistake?” Stefan asked.

For the first time that day, Christian seemed at a loss for words.

“Hubris,” Samir rumbled, his deep voice rising from the shadows. “Our wonderful clockmaker forgot about his duty and chose, instead, to make himself great.”

Christian paled, looking younger than Stefan had guessed
him to be. “Do you know why I left Nuremberg? Too many master clocksmiths, not enough work to appeal to my grand ideas. I left to make my fortune. I didn't want to build university clocks and mantelpieces. I wanted something bigger. I wanted to make
art
.”