"Your father is not holding a grudge over the matter," pointed out Lady Ulrike.
Silence. Then, with a little sniff, Kristina took her hand away from her nose and peered up at Caroline. "And where's the Count of Narnia? I wanted to say hello to him. Congratulate him, too, for being such a hero."
Caroline had to restrain a smile. She'd finally gotten some more letters from Thorsten and had gotten his viewpoint on that business. Which amounted to bemusement at being told that he was a "hero" for doing something that was considerably less dangerous than any number of farm chores. Capturing a badly wounded young officer and an exhausted old one? Try tending to a lame horse, sometime. That critter can cave your skull in. Break a shoulder, easily. Not to mention what an ox can do to you.
But all she said was, "He hasn't arrived yet. Sometime this afternoon, supposedly. No fancy flying for him, you understand. He's just a sergeant. They're bringing him here on a merchant ship."
"Well, they shouldn't. He's a count and he should be an officer."
The seven-year-old girl wandered to a nearby window and looked out over the gardens below. After a moment, she said, "He rides a horse well. The Danish prince, I mean. Really well. I watched him carefully."
"Well, thank the Lord," murmured Lady Ulrike.
Chapter 67
"I can remember when this was easy," muttered Ulrik. "Not more than-at most-one out of hundred people in Copenhagen recognized me, unless I was wearing court dress. Even then, it wasn't more than one in ten."
Walking next to him, in the same sort of cheap and utilitarian clothing, Baldur Norddahl smiled thinly. "You were just a prince, then. Not the Danish national hero."
Ulrik scowled. "I was prepared for death and dismemberment. Not the destruction of what little privacy I had left."
"Oh, stop complaining." Whatever traces of formality had still been left in their relationship had sunk into the Oresund somewhere in the course of the battle. And the prince didn't miss it at all. He'd had very few close friends in his life.
"Not more than four people stopped to take a second glance, Ulrik, and I don't think any of them decided it was really you."
"Still. It's annoying."
A few paces farther down, Baldur put a hand on his arm. "This is it."
Ulrik looked up at the tavern's sign. The nonexistent sign. Then, at what might be the entrance to a tavern. Maybe.
"Could they have found a more inconspicuous and wretched-looking place?" he asked.
"They are who they are. Which, if you've forgotten, is why we came here to begin with."
Ulrik waved him forward. "You first. You're the nerveless adventurer. I'm just a timid national hero. Better you than me, if the floor collapses or the roof falls down or giants rats come at us."
Smiling, still thinly, Baldur led the way.
Inside, the tavern wasn't quite as wretched-looking as its exterior had been. Which wasn't saying a lot, of course.
Aside from the tavern keeper, the only occupants of the room were a small crowd gathered around a large table toward the back. All men, except for two women. They were wearing the same sort of common apparel that Ulrik and Baldur were wearing, but they looked as completely out of place as a den of lions in a mousehole.
"Yes, that's them," murmured Baldur. As if Ulrik could have any doubts.
This time, Ulrik led the way. As he got nearer, he heard one of the men at the table whisper to another, "Heads up, Harry. We got trouble."
He spoke in English, perhaps thinking that a Danish prince wouldn't be familiar with the tongue. Which, indeed, most wouldn't.
Ulrik decided he might as well start there. He not only spoke the language-rather well, by now-he even had something of an Appalachian accent, according to Eddie. So, when he came to a stop, just a few feet away, he said in English:
"I am Prince Ulrik of Denmark. I believe I am speaking to Captain Harry Lefferts, of the USE Army."
He addressed the remarks to the man who been the recipient of the whisper. Even without that clue, however, Ulrik would have known who their commander was. For someone like himself, born and raised in a position of power, it was quite obvious in ways he would have found difficult to explain in words-but obvious, nevertheless.
The man who gazed back at him was a handsome young fellow. Considerably more handsome-and certainly much younger-than Ulrik would have expected, from the reputation. He even had a boyish sort of grin, which he now put on display. The only real indication that Ulrik could see that this was the Captain Lefferts was something in his eyes. There were subtleties there, beneath the apparent insouciance.
Baldur spotted it also, judging from the way he became just that little bit more still, more watchful. Lefferts was a very dangerous man, did he choose to be; of that Ulrik was quite certain. Which was what he expected, of course. He wouldn't have come here, otherwise.
"Yup, that's me, Prince. What can I do for you?"
Ulrik wanted to clear his throat, which felt very dry, but managed to restrain himself. "I believe you have come here to Copenhagen to rescue Lieutenant Eddie Cantrell from captivity. And I believe it would be fruitful if we could discuss the matter, before you do anything."
Every person at the table became suddenly motionless. The aura of menace, heretofore present but subtle, was no longer subtle at all.
Captain Lefferts made a small motion with his hand. A little downward flap, as if to quiet restless monsters.
"Interesting theory, Prince. If you don't mind me asking, is it yours-or your father's?"
Ulrik pointed with his thumb to Baldur, standing next to him. "His, actually. This is Baldur Norddahl, my… ah, call him companion. Or 'sidekick,' to use American idiom."
The eyes of everyone at the table now went to Baldur. As impossible as it seemed, the motionless figures grew intensely motionless. In the manner that wary monsters will, encountering another.
"He's normally quite harmless," Ulrik said. "I assure you. And in answer to your real question, Captain Lefferts, my father does not know that you are here in Copenhagen. Nor does he know that I came here to speak to you. I came on my own, because I believe my father-not for the first time, alas-is gambling too recklessly."
After a moment, Lefferts nodded. "Have a seat, then, please. Paul and Don, clear a space for him."
As they did so, Baldur reached back and pulled up a chair for Ulrik from an adjoining empty table. By the time the prince sat down, the tension at the table had eased somewhat.
Not much, though.
Lefferts' still had a smile on his face, but there was no trace of the humor that had been in his eyes earlier. "All right, Prince. I'll be blunt. Cut to the chase and do it quickly. Since your Americanese is damn good enough to understand the expression. Got that from Eddie, I take it?"
"Yes. He is, by now, a friend of mine."
"Ah." Lefferts glanced away, looking at the door. "The plot thickens."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Yes, you're right. And if you're not here for the reason I'm guessing you're here, things are going to get really sticky between us. Really quick."
He glanced now at Baldur. "Meaning no offense, Mr. Norddahl, but there's only one of you."
The tension was back in full. Hastily, Ulrik said, "I came here because-in the event Eddie needs to be rescued, which I don't think he actually will-we can handle it in a better way than having you shoot up half a palace in the process."
"Really. And how is that?"
Now, Ulrik felt he could afford to clear his throat. "Well, I am a prince of Denmark. That means, among other things, that I have access to the palace keys."
"That's a step, sure enough. But it's a small step." Lefferts pointed toward a very large man seated down the table, next to one of the women. "You'd be amazed how fast George there can get through a locked door. Clickety-boom; clickety-boom; smash. That's how long it takes."