The Toymaker's Apprentice Read Online Free

quills. But before he could attract his first customer, the barkeep approached.
    â€œPut that away for now,” the stout mouse said gruffly, shoving a warm bowl of seed and nut porridge with a bit of cheese across the table. “You’ve earned a hot meal, I think. And a glass or two. Rare form,” he said.
    He waved away Ernst’s thanks and hurried back to the bar, where the tears in his eyes would be less noticeable.
    Ernst ate his meal with less relish than he had intended. The ballad of Hameln town was effective, to be sure, but even he was not immune to the sorrow it conjured. He had been a wanderer for most of his life. The thought of a homeland, no matter how long ago, affected him deeply. But the road was his lot in life. To hope for something more was like building a castle on a cloud.
    Nursing a headache and a growing sense of melancholia, Ernst finished his meal and the first glass of beer. Then he rearranged his papers and ink on the table, signaling that the scribe was open for business.
    His first customer of the night was a love-sick sailor hopingto win his sweetheart back with a poem. Ernst rolled his eyes as he took down the would-be poet’s composition.
    Many rats spoke a minimum of two languages (not including Mouseish or Volean or Mole—Rattish was the root from which they all sprang). But few could write, and even fewer could manage it in another tongue. And so, acting as scribe for the riffraff of Vienna, he earned himself a sip of ale and a place to sleep the night. The melancholy of his song soon lifted as he went about his letters and gossip.
    He wrote three apologies to worried mothers from wayward sons, an inquiry to a distant relative for a city mouse looking to move back to the country, one will, and three birth announcements (those were the most tedious—so many babies, such long names ! ).
    The scents of wet rodent and ink filled the room as he wrote and chatted with the sailing rats and dock scavengers that were regulars whenever their ships had come in. Scribes and information rats such as Ernst were expected in these parts of town, just as a storyteller might be, or a bard with songs to sing. The barkeep seemed pleased that Ernst could offer all of the above.
    The room was cozy enough, and the supper had been filling. He even bartered for a lovely fish and beetle custard for dessert. Ernst would write until his wrist grew tired. Another day’s honest work for the rat. Tomorrow would bring its own worries, but for now, he felt very fine indeed.
    Until the piebald mouse stepped up, anyway.

EVERYTHING HAD GONE WRONG. Stefan should have been miles away by now. He edged toward the door and reached for his duffel, not sure if he should make a run for it or simply hide the bag, when his father released Christian and caught Stefan’s eye.
    â€œYes, put their things in the little bedroom, Stefan, thank you. We’ve scrubbed and aired it quite well . . .” He faltered. “But . . . of course, take my room. I’ll—”
    â€œFather, no,” Stefan interrupted. He couldn’t believe he would be willing to sleep in his mother’s deathbed.
    The gorge rose in Stefan’s throat. He left the bags and stepped outside into the street, where the rain could hide his tears until he had them under control. He squeezed his eyes shut.
    â€œYou’ll catch your death out here, child, dressed like that,” a woman said in a sugary voice. Stefan kept his eyes closed. Talking to Christian had been a mistake. One he would not repeat with whoever this newcomer was.
    â€œCome inside, Stefan,” another voice said. Someone tugged at his shirtsleeve.
    Stefan opened his eyes to find the local mourning committee, a collection of five widows and spinsters, all looking for a husband. Stefan had heard rumors of their ability to quickly find guildsmiths in mourning—in one fell swoop their children could gain both a father and