The scarlet man gently took the keys from him. “Calm yourself, sir. Your hands are shaking. Climb aboard my carriage. I’ll leave a note on your behalf.” He smiled kindly. “All will be well. Sit in back. And remember, prayers are welcome.”
Shaken—prayers? Was it as bad as that?—Zacharias did as he was bidden.
The carriage was harnessed to an old nag, and both had seen better days. Not so glamorous as their owner. The windows were curtained in sackcloth where one might have expected velvet, and the seats were stuffed with scratchy straw that poked Zacharias in the legs when he sat down. But he barely noticed. His mind was already racing through the streets of Nuremberg toward his son.
“Is it far?” Zacharias asked, sticking his head out the window of the carriage as the man emerged from the shop.
“Not far. Here.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a flask. “Some brandy will settle your nerves.” He poured a draught into the cap and offered it to Zacharias.
The toymaker hesitated, then drank. It burned its way down his throat and he coughed.
“And one for luck,” the man said gently, pouring another. This one Zacharias took without hesitation. It seemed to work. A moment later, he was sitting back, his breathing steady. The hat fell, forgotten, into his lap.
It should have struck him as odd, he thought later, when the man in scarlet jumped into the coachman’s seat on top of the carriage, rather than joining Zacharias inside. Surely such a grandly dressed gentleman would have a driver.
“Thank you,” Zacharias said, his words dissolving into a yawn.
The carriage lurched forward in a clatter of hooves, throwing his head back, then forward to rest on his gently snoring chest. He was quite unconscious when they left the city of Nuremberg far behind.
BLACKSPAW DEPOSITED ERNST at the foot of the quay.
The rat was exhausted. It had been an exhilarating trip down the River Danube, but he could have done without the underground route they’d taken. Their haste had deprived him of long days lounging on deck in the sun. But now he was here.
The Kingdom of Boldavia was an impressive sight—seven long docks jutting out from a series of porous caves at the base of the island. The castle itself towered atop the sheer mass of rock, a thousand feet above. In between, a second row of caves ringed the island, larger and squared off in a way that suggested Man, rather than nature, had shaped them. The view from there must be magnificent.
Ernst could hear the teeming kingdom of mice, weaving their way through the rock cells above. So the rumors about the uprising were true. The question was, were the men fighting back?
Ernst shivered. The quay was impressive, but it would have been more so if the Mouse Queen had bothered with a dinghy, or even a raft—some way of conveying guests from ship to shore without them having to swim.
Once safely back on land, Ernst gathered himself and shook for all he was worth, nose to tail. A splatter of water hit the gray stones around him and left his fur reasonably dry. With a sigh, he unbundled his clothes from their oilcloth wrapping and dressed himself with all the dignity a damp, travel-worn rat of middle years could muster.
Blackspaw watched from the rocks below. “This is the servants’ entrance,” the mouse said. “I must report to my sergeant. I trust you can find your way the last few yards?” Blackspaw sneered. He’d made his opinion clear every step of the trip downriver—he did not approve of a rat teaching the royal heir any more than he’d approve of an alley cat brought in to serve as a wet nurse.
What a rat had ever done to him (other than be taller, better looking, and much better educated), Ernst could not guess. He was glad to be rid of the little nuisance, and hoped that the other Boldavians would prove more agreeable.
“Young sir, I may be a stranger to Boldavia, but I know my way around a royal court.” Fully clothed in his best blue silks, Ernst hoisted the last of his bundled wardrobe and bowed to the piebald. “Would that I could say it’s been a pleasure,” he added.
Blackspaw snorted. “Likewise,” he said, and scurried away.
The trip, of course, had been anything but pleasant. From that first early morning departure, with the angry little mouse pacing in front of his hotel room, to the wet dash aboard a southbound barge. The meager fare. The dull company—really, who wants to hear about the dreams of a mouse soldier who has traveled much but seen little beyond his own ego? True, there had been a particularly good sausage procured in Romania. Aside from that, the travel had been like cold oatmeal—lumpy, bland, and best thrown out. Still, Ernst had arrived, alive and relatively well. A hot bath, a decent meal, and some minor repairs to his clothes were all that was needed. And then, once he secured the Queen’s approval, he’d look forward to as royal a feast as Boldavia could muster and a new wardrobe befitting a royal tutor.
He glanced around the rocks, taking in the dark water and pale, distant sky. Boldavia smelled of pork fat and flowers. A promising perfume, he decided as he entered the servants’ tunnel.
Halfway up the curving stone corridor, he heard someone scurrying toward him. Ernst took a moment to straighten his whiskers, crack his spine, and relax.
A young mouse, this one gray as a winter morning, came skidding up to him.
“Sir! Do I have the pleasure of addressing Ernst Listz the rat?”
“Certainly. Good afternoon.”
“Wonderful, wonderful!” the mouse squeaked. “I am Fleetfoot. I’m to convey you to the Queen.”
“Perhaps I could have a moment to refresh myself?” Ernst ventured.
The little mouse had already taken his bag and was scurrying away. “She don’t like to be kept waiting, sir. Please. This way. She’s in the audience chamber already. Blackspaw was meant to get you here this morning.”
Ernst spat a curse at his nasty piebald escort. Trying to ruin his chances at getting the job, eh? Not likely. With a snap of his tail, Ernst picked up the pace and made all haste to meet his new Queen.
STEFAN CAME HOME to a house in disarray. The furniture had been overturned, the shop had been ransacked, and Christian was standing in the middle of the living room, his head in his hands. The astrologer Samir was nowhere to be seen.
For a brief moment, he thought perhaps Christian had proven himself a thief after all. Then his cousin turned and the look on his face told a different story.
“What’s happened? Where is my father?”
Christian shook his head. “Gone. Taken.”
“Taken? What is this? One of your jokes?”
“Would that it were,” Christian said. “We found the place like this. Samir went to search for him. I wanted to wait for you. I’m so sorry, Stefan. The mice have him.”
Stefan stared. “The mice? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You’re not just a criminal, you’re a liar. I can’t believe anything you say. The krakatook? Seven years? Princesses, talking mice? You’re either wicked or mad. What have you done with my father?”
In answer, Christian pointed to a scrap of paper on the table.
In very small, precise writing, there was a note:
To the criminal Drosselmeyer,
Stay away, or the Toymaker dies.
The accusation and the smudged paw print at the edge of the paper gave proof to Christian’s story. He was a criminal to both mice and men. “What did you do to make them hate you this much?” Stefan asked.
“Only my duty. When the mice first emerged from the tunnels under Boldavia, I tried to send them back into their caves—with traps and other means—to chase them out of the kingdom. And it worked, at first. We killed . . . I killed mice by the hundreds. But, for every one we saw, there were a dozen more in the walls. They rallied and . . . I’ve told you the rest.”
Stefan collapsed onto the bench beside the table, stung with a hundred needle points of fear. “Mice did this?”
His cousin pic
ked up an overturned chair. “More likely men working for mice. An anonymous sack of gold will buy much in this world.”
He grasped Stefan by the wrist. “We will find him,” he promised.
Stefan nodded. His father, taken, his mother, dead. What was left for him now?
His free hand drifted to his coat pocket and brushed against the embroidered handkerchief there. It brought him a small bit of comfort. This piece of linen came from a world where mice were just dumb animals, and parents didn’t disappear.
He felt the casket in his pocket and pulled it out with a sigh. “I almost forgot. This is for you,” he said, and opened the box.
Christian froze, as if seeing the face of Medusa.
“Mein Gott!” he breathed.
“I—” Stefan began.
His cousin swiftly pressed a finger to his lips and eyed the upended room. Christian gripped Stefan’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. He did not speak, but mouthed the words: No. One. Must. Know.
Releasing Stefan, he swiftly flipped his eye patch up and secreted the krakatook in the void left by his missing eye. Stefan blanched but, given the circumstances, it was a better hiding place than his pocket.
Christian smiled as he readjusted the patch. “Samir!” he bellowed. “We have work to do!”
There was a scraping sound overhead, and the Arab appeared in Stefan’s sleeping loft. “What in the seven hells do you think I’m doing?” the astrologer said.
“I thought you were out looking for my father,” Stefan exclaimed angrily.
Samir raised the small brass telescope in his hand. “There is more than one way to seek a man.”
“The stars? That’s ridiculous. You should be out on the streets looking for him. We all should!”
“This is a spyglass, Stefan, for streets, not stars,” the astrologer said calmly. “We can cover more area from high ground than wandering these mazes you call roads.” He turned to Christian, ignoring Stefan’s outburst. “No disturbances, no ripples to indicate a wave of rodents. If he is with them, they are underground or they have already left the city.”
“If I hadn’t been running around like a fool eating cakes all day trying to help you, I could have stopped this from happening!” Stefan cried, his shock replaced by panic.
An expression flickered across Christian’s face. Was it guilt?
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or maybe both of you would have been taken. What matters is what we do next.”
Stefan deflated. He was yelling at Samir and Christian when he wanted to yell at himself. He was good at losing parents, it seemed.
“Will he be okay?”
“Dear boy, he’s worth more to them alive than dead.”
“As what—a hostage? Why? As far as they know, you’re further away from finding the nut than ever.”
Christian gave him a warning glance.
Samir quirked an eyebrow, and a look passed between the astrologer and the clockmaker.
Christian nodded slightly. “Time to pack, Samir,” he said.
Samir broke into a grin. And then he began to sing. It wasn’t a song Stefan knew, but Samir belted it with gusto as he moved about the shop, straightening the mess.
If only Stefan’s life could be tidied so easily. “I’m going to the city guard,” he announced. They had men at the gates around Nuremberg. They should be able to tell him if his father had left the city. He reached for the front door; Christian’s gloved hand held it firmly shut.
“You will do no such thing.”
“I will do something. Something more than singing and cleaning house. He’s my father. Maybe that means nothing to you, but—” He broke off, unable to continue. He couldn’t stand to think of this place as home without his mother. With his father gone, too . . . There’d be time for guilt and blame later. For now, he had to act.
“What will you tell them?” Christian asked, easing off the door. “‘My father has gone missing’? Not a rarity after the death of a spouse. They’ll assume he’ll turn up in a biergarten somewhere. ‘He’s not at home and the place is a wreck.’ No woman has been here to keep it tidy, they’ll tell you, and give you their condolences for your loss. Say, ‘He’s been taken by mice!’ and they’ll lock you up, Stefan. They’ll think you’re mad.”
Every word Christian said was true. The city guard would not, could not believe his story. His whole life had gone topsy-turvy since his cousin came to town. No, even earlier, since his mother got sick. The world no longer made sense. In a way, Christian and his crazy stories fit perfectly into this new scheme of things.
“Well then,” Stefan asked. “Am I? Mad?”
His cousin placed a hand on his shoulder. “No. You are a journeyman clockmaker. And now you will learn what that means.
“Come, Stefan. It’s time to introduce you to the true power behind our guild. The Brotherhood of Prometheus.”
“OH, HOW THE MIGHTY have fallen.” Ernst Listz gazed imperiously across the royal throne room of the mice of Boldavia, giving his usual speech with all the gravitas he could manage given his damp fur.
The Court of the Queen of Mice shifted uneasily, listening to their guest.
Peasants, Ernst thought. For all that this was a royal court and the Boldavian mice seemed to have secured more of a foothold in the city than he’d believed possible, they were still bumpkins compared to the old splendors of Ratdom. They could use a history lesson or two.
Ernst knew he cut a fine enough figure before the court—his waistcoat and tails might have been slightly out of date, the sky-blue silk faded, but his fur was groomed and his tail still firm. To such country mice he must look quite fashionable. Amused at the thought, he took a slow breath, and resumed his oration.
“Before the Fall, we were royalty, three tail lengths from the skirts of the Rat King himself. We feasted on the finest cheeses in the royal cellars of Bavaria, sipped deeply of the wines found there. We feared no man, or beast. We were the rulers of the Underearth. If only we had been satisfied to remain so. But the world of Men above was rich, and we climbed too far.”
He cast a warning eye at the gathered faces. Was anyone listening? How many knew that their ascent into the human kingdom could not last? A few traps, a few hungry cats, and all of this would be gone in an instant. He decided to put the weight of prophecy into his speech.
“What I know of that golden age is only what I’ve heard at family gatherings or in the old histories. I read them quite often. They remind me that what I saw as Paradise was only the fading light of a truly glorious age. The age before Hameln town and the Cursed One whose name must only be whispered . . . the Piper.”
A gasp ran through the room. Ernst preened his whiskers, pleased. Even here, in the backwater court of the Mouse Queen, they had not forgotten the devastation of Hameln.
Ernst puffed up and lowered his voice to a confidential stage whisper for effect. “Humans called him Pied, for the piebald outfit he wore.” He scanned the room, noting the piebald mice in the crowd. There were too many to offend, so he added to his description. “Gaily colored, they say, like a jester—black and white, yes, but also red, green, yellow, and blue. Leggings, tunic, cap, and feather, each of a different hue. A jolly figure, no doubt, if not for his cold, dark heart.”
Here, he paused dramatically.
“For that reason, and for the serpent-tongued pipe he played, all of ratkind call him Black. The Black Piper of Hameln, bane to the Kingdoms of Rodentia.”
A silence followed. Even the Mouse Queen seemed upset by the thought. Her whiskers twitched nervously, but her eyes remained calculating. Ernst waved his paw lightly in the air.
“But that was long ago, many generations by rat standards. For a while, my family used unwitting humans to buy and sell what treasures they had hoarded over the years—grain and cheese purchased with pearls and golden buttons, those sundry rich
es a diligent rodent might find, lost and forgotten by Man. Sadly, such wealth can only last so long.
“Mine is a gentleman’s trade. I act as a liaison between worlds. Animal or Man, if you desire to learn of either, you can come to me. Ernst Listz, Procurator, Tutor, and Scholar Extraordinaire. At your service, Your Majesty.”
The gray Queen squinted at him from her throne, a makeshift affair shaped out of tin and wire, fitted with a cushion of velvet and grass. She was no longer young, early middle seasons perhaps. One husband lost already. Probably to the traps, Ernst thought, though he’d heard whispers of darker dealings. Such rumors often turned out to be unfounded, usually planted by the subject to make themselves appear more dangerous than they really were. In this case, the Queen was said to be a witch. Leave it to country mice to be superstitious.
Ernst sucked his teeth, taking in the full length of the Queen’s purple brocade gown. She was heavily pregnant and appeared huge and lumpy, even beneath the elaborate dress. At least it was tailored—not the pilfered doll clothes most mice seemed to get away with these days. But she seemed common to the rat. All in all, not much of a witch, or a figurehead.
Ernst ran a paw delicately across his black whiskers.
The Queen sat silently, studying him. What is she waiting for? Ernst wondered.
As if in answer, there was a commotion at the back of the hall that turned everyone’s head, except for the Queen, who continued to gaze at the rat with a satisfied look.
A small, neat-looking piebald in nondescript clothes approached the throne. With an imperceptible nod, the Queen allowed him to come closer, and the piebald whispered something into her ear. The mouse court truly was a different place. Here, the piebalds seemed to be the Queen’s right hand. Spies, Ernst thought, with distaste. But it was clever. What decent rodent would ever give a scruffy piebald a second thought?
With a wave of her hand, the Queen dismissed her agent. Her eye fell once again on Ernst, and he straightened under her gaze.
The Toymaker's Apprentice Page 8
