The Toymaker's Apprentice (2 page)

THE CAT AND THE RAT
faced off in the alleyway. The tom was less mangy than the rat would have liked. He preferred his predators old and toothless. The rat was not as fat as the cat would have preferred. He liked a nice plump snack, but this rat was one of those rangy fortune hunters who had fallen on hard times.

They eyed each other in the night. The rat's nose twitched, long whiskers glistening with the damp of the wharfside cobblestones. He rose to his full height, an impressive seven inches, and spoke.

“I should warn you,” he said in perfect Catish, “I am quite the dab-hand at this.” On the last word, he pulled his rapier from its sheath. Slender and wicked, the sharp blade (which he liked to call “Viper's Sting”) flashed brightly, a vicious slice of moonlight in the depths of the shadows.

The cat raised a whiskered brow. Most rodents spoke a few words of Catish—mainly phrases such as “spare me,” “please,” and “mercy.” Although that last one was a mistranslation. There was no word for mercy in the cat tongue, only “swiftly.”

Ernst Listz was the sort of rat who knew the difference, the sort that could converse in more languages, both Man and Animal, than the average river rat, or even the exceptional one. Indeed, few scholars, rodent or human, spoke the tongues of other species. For, though they lived side by side, rarely did they try to understand each other. The cat might consider him an
extra-special meal as a result, but Ernst would make sure it was hard won.

Suddenly, the cat made a sound that needed no interpretation: he chuckled and grinned, revealing two rows of very compelling argument. Each ivory tooth was as long and sharp as Ernst's little blade.

The rat set himself
en garde
, his sword at the ready, and waited for his opponent to strike.

The cat flattened his ears.

Ernst twisted the sword in his paw and smashed it into the cat's bared fangs with a quick snap.

The cat blinked, startled, even as his forepaw shot out.

Ernst dropped to the ground in that peculiar way only rats can. He whipped his hard pink tail around, poking the cat in the eye.

The cat hissed and struck, snagging the tip of Ernst's tail.

“Ha, Sir Rat
!
I have you now,” the cat purred, his open eye gleaming green in the dark. The offended eye remained closed. Until Ernst pricked it with the tip of his sword.

“Do you?”

The cat winced. They formed a circle, linked tail to claw and eye to sword.

“Détente?”
Ernst proposed. The scales were in perfect balance—neither cat nor rat had the upper hand—but for how long? More than one tomcat had willingly surrendered an eye for dinner. But, like a rat's tail, once lost, the eye would not grow back. The fight was a draw.

The cat sighed. “Well played, friend Rat. Fortunately, it does not suit my purposes to eat you at this time.”

Ernst nodded, but his sword did not waver.

“Well then, I bid you on your way, Sir Tom. May our paths lie ever in opposite directions.”

The cat appreciated the sentiment and chuckled again, a deep throaty sound called a “purr” by those human wretches who kept cats in high regard. Ernst held back a sneer.

By unspoken agreement, each released the other and took two paces back.

“Adieu,” said the cat, displaying an unusual knowledge of a human tongue. Like cats and rodents, Man and Animal lived side by side in companionable ignorance. The only thing more rare than a cat who spoke Human was a man who spoke Catish, or any of the other languages of the Animal Kingdoms. But of course, these wharf cats came from all over and ate scraps at the tables of the world. Like rats had done once, long ago. Ernst relaxed his stance as the feline turned slowly and slipped into the night, his tail whipping silently in his wake.

And then Ernst collapsed against the cobblestones and breathed deeply, never mind the muck and the smell. The sweetest breaths always came immediately on the heels of cheated death. He could have hurt the brute with Viper's Sting, certainly, but with that mouth full of fangs, it was more like a battle of one against thirty. Odds even an adventurer like Ernst would rather avoid.

After a moment, his heart slowed enough for him to take stock. These alleys were likely crawling with cats waiting to take advantage of newly docked ships, and of the dull-witted rats who had spent too much time at sea, unsteady on their legs, out of practice in avoidance and combat.

Ernst sheathed his sword, inspected his tail—dimpled, but not cut, by those claws—and smoothed down his fur. Likely the tom had passed him up so easily because he was already full, dining on those very sea rats.

No one I know, of course,
Ernst comforted himself. He might have acquaintances and kin in Paris, London, even Munich. But he was new to Vienna. If he disappeared here, no one would notice. But he was a Listz, from a long illustrious line of rodents, born of better times, destined for greatness. Or at least betterness. A hot meal, a soft bed, and an appreciative audience would be a start. Clean clothes would be better, but . . . Ernst sighed, retrieved his satchel from the gutter, and slung the strap across his shoulder. He stretched his long back, dropped to all fours, and scurried the rest of the way to the Underwall, a tavern near the water where he had heard a rat might find work. Someone with his talent for languages and etiquette, his understanding of human culture, could surely find a way to put a meal in his belly and the night on the far side of a sturdy door.

It was time to sing for his supper.

BY THE TIME
you read this note I will be gone . . .

Stefan hesitated for the hundredth time. Writing a letter was almost as hard as telling his father to his face: Stefan was running away.

“Not running,” Stefan corrected himself. “Just leaving. It's time.” But he didn't sound as convinced as he had been earlier.

The fact was, he had served out his time in his father's toy shop. Every toymaker with three years' apprenticing graduated to the status of journeyman. Yes, he might have stayed to work in Nuremberg if his mother were still alive . . . But scarlet fever did not care for his plans one whit. Now, the “journey” part of “journeyman” called to him. Seven years to see the world. Seven years to put between him and the little stone crypt at the end of the graveyard.

In France, there was a toymaker who built lifelike dolls called automatons. Nightingales that sang operas, dogs that chased balls. In England, they were making life-size clockwork people
!

A tremor of excitement ran through him. His father thought he was too young to leave home, but the world was waiting. Besides, home didn't feel like home anymore.

Stefan finished his note and left it on his father's workbench, clearing a space among the wood shavings and dolls' legs. He hesitated, touching the smooth edge of the sign his father had been carving before his mother fell ill.

Drosselmeyer and Son
, it read in flowing letters, flanked by the raised images of a wooden soldier and a toy horse. Stefan swallowed hard and turned the sign over before the guilt in his belly could change his mind. The smooth white paper stood out starkly; his own blocky writing simply read, “Father.”

Stefan stooped to gather his tools. He placed his awl, knife, chisel, and sanding cloth into a piece of leather fitted with pockets for each, then rolled it up. He scanned the shop—two benches, one old and stained with years of varnish and paint, the other newer and built to accommodate a young boy. He had outgrown the bench last year. And now, he realized he had outgrown the shop as well. They looked smaller, these rooms that had once been his entire world. The workshop to the left, the storefront with its counter and display shelves cluttered with wooden soldiers, sewn dolls, and the occasional porcelain-faced angel. The living room in the back with the trestle dining table and cozy hearth. His parents' room. The loft where he slept. The guest room, where his mother had . . .

His stomach turned and for a moment he feared he was going to be sick. The place was too small, he decided. His father might even be glad of the extra room once he was gone. That was a lie, he knew, but it helped him take the next step. He shouldered his bag, stuffing his tools deep inside. The world was darker now that his mother was gone. If he stayed any longer, it would go completely black.

“Don't look back,” he reminded himself, and reached for the door.

Someone knocked. The door flew open, bounced off Stefan's boot, and slammed shut again.

“Ow
!
” Stefan said.

“Hello?” The knock was repeated, this time from the safety of the jamb. Stefan gingerly opened the door.

“We're closed,” he said.

Two men stood before him dressed in black. One tall and lean with white-blond hair and an eye patch. The other dark-skinned, his hair kept hidden beneath a cleverly wrapped turban.

“Oh, hello, dear boy
!
We aren't customers,” the white-haired man said. “We're family.”

Stefan eyed the pale man and his dark companion dubiously. It seemed unlikely he was related to an albino or a Moor. “You were at the cemetery,” he realized.

“And you were in the oak tree,” the man said. He bowed by way of introduction. “Christian Elias Drosselmeyer at your service.”

“Samir abd al-Malik,” said the swarthy man with a similar bow.

“Cousin to the toymaker, your master, Zacharias,” Christian Drosselmeyer said. “May we come in?”

“My master . . . ?” Stefan couldn't see a resemblance. This man was thin and pale, where his father was plump, broad chested and dark haired. Besides, the only family he had was at the graveyard. “I'm sorry, but I was just stepping out.”

The self-proclaimed Drosselmeyer looked him over. Stefan wanted to hide his reddened eyes, and the huge bag hanging over his shoulder. He pressed his lips into a thin line and hoped the men would leave. Instead, they brushed past him, crowding into the workshop. Stefan's protests fell on deaf ears.

“Samir, what do you think? Is he ‘just stepping out'?”

The Moor remained silent.

“Running away from your apprenticeship while the master is at a funeral
!
” Christian clucked his tongue. “I can't believe it's all that bad. Zacharias is the best man I know.”

Stefan's face grew hot. “I'm not running away. I'm—”

“Stepping out, yes, yes,” Christian interrupted.

Now Stefan really
did
want to run away. He tried to step around the unwanted visitors.

“Whose funeral?” Christian asked. “We passed by but didn't want to intrude.”

Stefan's jaw stiffened. To these men, the procession in the graveyard was nothing more than a curiosity. To Stefan, it was the end of the world.

“My mother,” he said, jaws clenched to bite back his grief.

“Your—” Christian paled and collapsed against the door frame. “Elise? My dear, sweet Elise . . . ?” His single eye grew bright with tears. “You're not the shop boy, you're her son. My little cousin, Stefan.” He faltered for a moment. “I . . . I am so very sorry for your loss. What happened?”

Stefan's own eyes begin to sting. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Scarlet fever. Really, I must ask you to step aside. I have a coach to catch,” he insisted, racing against his grief.

“Of course,” Christian said, his voice softened in sympathy. “You were just stepping out.”

Stefan shoved past, afraid he would burst into tears in front of these strangers. His bag swept the workbench, and the half-finished sign,
Drosselmeyer and Son
, slapped to the ground with a clatter. The letter to his father drifted to the floor beside it.

All eyes were on the sign now. Stefan grimaced, wishing he could sink into the earth and disappear.

The dark man grunted. “Running out seems more like it. A family trait, I suppose.”

Stefan gasped, surprised by the man's bluntness. He scrambled to pick up the fallen note, and shoved it into his pocket to hide his embarrassment. Christian bent beside him and picked up the sign. “On the day of his mother's funeral, too.”

Stefan sputtered, embarrassment turning into anger. But with whom was he angry—them, or himself?

“Quite heartless,” Christian murmured. Dusting off the sign with a gloved hand, he placed it back on the workbench, upside down once again. “Or, perhaps the boy feels too much?” He stepped back, clicking the heels of his black boots together. “Don't let us keep you. We'll just wait inside for your father and explain when he gets here. Unless, of course, you left a note.” He scanned Stefan's reddening face. “Ah, you
did
leave a note. You're not cruel, then. Just restless, eh? I was the same at your age.”

“You can't just stay here,” Stefan said.

“Why not? You're leaving. It's nothing to you anymore.”

Not true, Stefan realized as this infuriating man sat on the stool before one of the workbenches—
his
workbench
!
The one his father had built just for him when he could barely see over the top of it. His chest swelled at the offense. If only his tongue would untie itself long enough for him to respond.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman, Stefan,” Christian said suddenly. “You must miss her terribly.”

Stefan blinked away more tears. “I'm trying not to look back,” he said stoically.

“We all try,” Christian replied. “Now, before you're off, would you be so kind as to help my man with our luggage?” He indicated the open doorway.

Stefan gave up. He left his own bag by the door and stepped outside to find Samir closing the latch on one of two large black suitcases. Leather saddlebags lay against the side of the house. The horses were nowhere to be seen. At least he wouldn't have to play stableboy, too.

“Charmed you, has he?” Samir asked.

“More like confused and surprised,” Stefan said. “But not charmed.”

“Then you would be the first. I see he has managed to keep you from leaving?”

“I'm just here to help with the bags. I still have manners. And you have odd ones, for a valet.”

Samir raised an eyebrow. “Valet?” He shook his head and broke into a white-toothed grin. “I'm no manservant.”

Stefan flushed. “My apologies. He called you his ‘man.' You are friends?”

“No,” Samir replied. “I am his jailer.” He tossed the saddlebags effortlessly to Stefan, who staggered under their weight.

“His jailer . . . ?”

The Persian or Moor or whatever he was stepped back, bowed deeply, and said, “Samir abd al-Malik, formerly of Arabia, Royal Astrologer of Boldavia and royally appointed jailer of the criminal Christian Elias Drosselmeyer, formerly of Boldavia, formerly of Nuremberg, at your service.”

“Criminal?” Stefan repeated. Something tickled the back of his mind. He
had
heard of a cousin in royal service somewhere
to the east, but not one that was also a criminal. “Isn't he a royal clockmaker?”

“Indeed,” Samir said.

“But . . . if he's done something wrong, why isn't he in jail?”

“All the world's a prison when you are not free to choose your own road,” Samir said obliquely.

Stefan shook his head. “I don't understand. Is he a thief?” The Arab remained silent, so Stefan's mind filled in the blanks. “He's a thief, and he's alone in my house
!
”

Stefan raced for the shop door and threw it wide, banging it against the wall.

“Aha
!
” he said, leaping out of the way as the door bounced back and slammed shut behind him. Across the shop, Christian closed the door to the bedrooms, unruffled.

“Aha, yourself,” he said calmly.

Stefan blinked. The man seemed quite composed for a thief caught in the act. “What have you taken?” Stefan demanded.

Before Christian could answer, the front door burst open again.

“Herr Abd al . . . Samir,” Stefan called, “contain your prison—”

But it wasn't Samir standing in the doorway. It was his father.

Home from the graveyard, his mourning clothes still damp with drizzle, Zacharias Elias Drosselmeyer stared back at his son. And then he saw the man with the white hair.

“Christian?” he said. “You came
!
” And he collapsed into the open arms of the criminal who shared his name.