The Toymaker's Apprentice Read Free Page A

of the criminal Christian Elias Drosselmeyer, formerly of Boldavia, formerly of Nuremberg, at your service.”
    â€œCriminal?” Stefan repeated. Something tickled the back of his mind. He
had
heard of a cousin in royal service somewhereto the east, but not one that was also a criminal. “Isn’t he a royal clockmaker?”
    â€œIndeed,” Samir said.
    â€œBut . . . if he’s done something wrong, why isn’t he in jail?”
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œAha ! ” 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.
    â€œAha, 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.
    â€œHerr 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.
    â€œChristian?” he said. “You came ! ” And he collapsed into the open arms of the criminal who shared his name.

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.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œWe 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