The Toymaker's Apprentice Read Free Page B

or two to get them in their cups, and do what letter writing there is, and there’s a meal in it for you.”
    â€œPlus my writing fees,” Ernst added.
    â€œAye, plus whatever you can glean from these stingy vermin. There’s a table there with reasonable light.”
    Ernst thanked the mouse and made his way to the table by the fireplace. There, he set down his satchel, brushed the last of the night’s dampness from his fur, and moved to stand beside the fire. No one seemed to notice this newcomer silhouetted against the flames. The murmur of gossip continued, the sayingof farewells, the rustling of coats. Ernst smiled. The mention of the mouse uprising had inspired him. Orange flames lit his hoary fur, glinting silver and copper in the warm light as he cleared his throat and began to sing.
    I travel the long way home
    Although it leads nowhere
    O’er track and field and stone
    Through cold and bitter air
    Still I go on
    Through field and farm
    To where my darlings lie
    T’was only the weight of bitter Fate
    I lived while they did die
    Soft at first, his voice rose until it seemed to fill the room, silencing tables, mice pausing halfway to their feet. Ernst sang in a sweet, clear tenor, the ballad of Hameln town. It was a song every rodent knew, of the death of the rats in the hamlet that had once been their kingdom. Mouselings learned it in the nursery, a cautionary tale to never stray too far into the realm of Men. Every rodent, beast, and blade of grass had its place, and nature kept the balance, no matter how cruel or kind. Rats knew the tale from late nights at family gatherings, when the old ones got in their cups and longed for the lost days of yore. Every mouse and rat in Underwall knew this folk song like the beat of his own heart.
    But not the way Ernst sang it.
    The tune he followed was as old as the hills, raw and sad, weirdly familiar yet strange. He added verses long forgotten by other rodents, words that gave voice to the cruelty of Hameln. His was the original song, the melody of a time long past. It thrummed deep and rose high, tugging at ancient memories. The wharf rats were the first to rise to their feet to join him, adding their baritones to the old tune.
    When Ernst reached the chorus, every mouse, rat, and mole in the bar joined in, singing the simple verses alongside his heartbreaking melody.
    Hameln town is a long way down, a long way down.
    The walls hummed in resonance until the last note faded away to bittersweet silence.
    Before the fire, Ernst bowed his head.
    No one spoke. In the corner, someone sobbed.
    The rats raised their claws to the barkeep and a plump mouse maid rushed a tray of tankards to their table in the corner. Mice that had been about to leave sat down again and ordered a round for their fellows. Better to be among friends than alone in the cold night just now. Soon the buzz of conversation returned, but it was soft with nostalgia.
    Pleased, Ernst took his seat, ears twitching at the snippets of conversation. There was talk of another uprising in the east of France, where a war amongst Men had caused damage. Some mice argued in favor of pressing back against the driving force that was Man. Rodent populations tended to grow whenever there was a human war, since shooting each other made them forget to set traps for mice. And then there was the Black Death. Bubonic plague always brought rich days for the rodentkingdom. When all the humans were sick and afraid, rats and mice could run rampant through the streets.
    Ernst shook his head at the dreamy nostalgia in the speakers’ voices. Every rat worth his salt knew a plague would sweep whole villages of men away, and leave no one to fill the larders or till the fields. No, he thought, now was not the time for plagues or uprisings. Famine always followed. And Ernst, for one, did not intend to starve.
    He opened his satchel and pulled out the wares of his second trade—a sheaf of paper, an inkwell, some