The other seats at the table were filled with eight richly dressed men, some old and some merely middle-aged. Only two were anywhere near as young as the prince, and they stared, one and all, at Eddie as though they had a burr under their saddle.
And there was no chair for him. He hobbled closer on the single crutch, feeling horribly unbalanced. The thought of tripping and putting any weight on that still-healing stump was terrifying. Black dots shivered behind his eyes like the blobs in a lava lamp, merging and merging until he could hardly see. The room seemed to be buzzing. He reeled, then felt strong hands easing him into a chair.
After a moment, his vision cleared and he realized the minister seated closest to the king had surrendered his place to Eddie and was now glaring at him from a few paces away. Embarrassed, he tried to get up, but Christian himself pushed Eddie back as the servants brought another chair for the displaced man.
"No, no," Christian said. The icy eyes were intent. "You have not much strength yet. Americans are not as hardy as Danes. I should have realized."
A servant wearing the black royal livery pressed a goblet of hot mulled wine into Eddie's trembling hands. "Drink!" Christian said heartily, then upended his own golden goblet and clanked it down on the table. Drops of red wine glistened in his beard as a manservant hastened forward to refill the empty cup.
Eddie's dad had been an alcoholic, so on the whole, he avoided the stuff, but he sipped the wine. It was deliciously hot and heady and burned all the way down. After a moment, he did feel a bit better. His heart stopped racing and his hands shook less.
"Now," Christian said, leaning toward Eddie. "Grantville. Tell us how to defeat your navy. How many more of those deadly little boats do you have? How many flying machines?"
The Outlaw power boat, now reduced to fiberglass splinters floating in Wismar Bay, had been a one-off, though Grantville had a few other power boats, none as big. They were building more planes back home, but he wasn't sure how that was going. Parts were of course limited to what had come back through the Ring of Fire with them, and anyway he'd been too busy helping with the construction of the ironclads in the Magdeburg shipyards.
He just wished he could be there when the first ironclad met Christian's navy and blew it out of the water.
"Lieutenant Cantrell!" Christian's florid face with its fussy goatee hovered inches from his nose. "Are you well enough to speak now?"
It would be easier to say no, to plead infirmity and retreat back to his bed, but, dammit, Eddie'd had enough of lying about, staring at the stupid ceiling. He was ready to do something, anything, even if it was just sparring wits with royalty.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said and took another sip of the heady wine. "I am fine."
"The little boats that dash about in the water, then." The king gazed at him expectantly and Eddie noticed that, despite being bloodshot, those chill eyes were very intelligent. "How many?"
When he'd first been captured, he'd raised the issue of the Geneva Convention, refusing to give more than his name and rank, professing to have forgotten his serial number, though the truth was that he'd never been issued one. That had worked at the time, but now misinformation and misdirection might help Grantville more than his continued silence.
"Twenty," Eddie said off the top of his head and saw the councilors stiffen. A murmur ran through the room. "More or less. How long have I been here?"
"It has been two months since you were plucked out of the sea," Christian said and sat back in his gem-encrusted chair, thinking.
"Oh, then it's probably more," Eddie said and squirmed until he was sitting up straighter. Maybe if he told a big enough lie, they would think twice before attacking American and Swedish forces again. "We, um, build at least"—he was tempted to say "ten" but decided that would make it seem too implausible—"five or six a month."
"I . . . see." The king's tone was frankly disbelieving.
"We have over three thousand 'engines,' which we use to power machines like speed boats and airplanes, in Grantville," Eddie said. "I'm not sure how many have been allocated to the speed boat program, the airplane program, and other . . . projects. I'm just a lieutenant. They don't tell me everything."
"Three thousand?" echoed around the table. Chairs shifted uneasily. Startled glances were exchanged.
"We have calculating machines called 'computers' that help in their design," Eddie said. "And we have made some improvements lately in what we call 'software.' The new boats will be faster, and we should have a lot more of them."
"We have sent spies to Grantville," the king said, "and to the shipyards at Magdeburg. As far as we can tell, they are building very large ships with no sails at Magdeburg, nothing else. How can you explain that no one has seen any evidence of more deadly little boats anywhere?"
"They're . . . ah, in a building, hidden away," Eddie said. A drop of cold sweat rolled down his temple.
"Do you know this secret location?"
"Y-e-s," Eddie said, drawing the word out as he thought furiously.
"If we captured some of these 'engines,' " the king said, "could we build our own deadly little boats as well?"
"It wouldn't do you any good," Eddie said. "They require an energy source that you do not have, and anyway you would need what we would call a 'technician' to build, then service them." He gave the word in English.
The king pushed to his feet and loomed over Eddie. "Are you one of these 'technicians'?"
"No, I was just a pilot,' " Eddie said, "what I guess you would call a helmsman.' " The wine was potent, much stronger than any that he'd ever tried. He could feel it all the way down to his toes, even the ones that weren't there. He gazed morosely at his truncated leg, masked by the lame stocking they'd provided for him to wear under knee-length black trousers. He hoped the guys back in Grantville never got a gander at him dressed like this. "Or at least I was a pilot. Don't imagine I'd be good for much like this."
"You will mark for me a map!" Christian said. "Showing the location where these 'engines' of yours are built, so that we can send an expedition to acquire some for ourselves. And we will need to know more about this mysterious 'energy source.' "
"Sure, sure," Eddie said in English. "Whatever. It will be a waste of time, though. They will have moved the facility by now so that I can't give them away." The room was spinning again. The wine had gone to his head. He should have been more careful in his weakened condition. Well, what the hell. This was the best he'd felt since that terrible day in the bay. He upended the goblet and took another fortifying swig.
The king gave some commands in Danish that Eddie couldn't follow, then the ministers talked to one another in their native language.
At length, just when Eddie's eyelids were growing very heavy, Christian turned back to him and pushed a large map across the table. "Now, show us the location of these 'engines' at the time of your capture."
Eddie tried to make his eyes focus on the crude map of Grantville, with the high school and other major buildings indicated. "Right here," he said, trying not to slur his words. He stabbed his finger on the outskirts of town, pointing to the sketched-in square that he was pretty sure occupied the same space as Grantville's Value Mart in real life. It was a big retail building with a large area in the back for storage that wasn't accessible to customers. That might do the trick, unless the Danes could get a spy into the employees-only area.
An advisor made a careful X.
"And we will need at least one of your 'technicians,' " King Christian said, "who could construct and then operate one of these 'engines.' Give us a list of names."
A cold chill penetrated Eddie's increasingly hazy mind, then shivered down his back. He couldn't give them real names. Dimly, he was aware that he'd screwed up big-time. Jeez, couldn't he do anything right?
"Um, there's . . ." He tried to cudgel his useless brain to think. "Walt Disney and, ah, Harpo Marx. And Clint Eastwood. They're all pretty—you know—good at what they do."
One of the min
isters scribbled down the names, asking Eddie for the details of the spelling. Christian looked satisfied, like an immense cat that had cornered a mouse. "It may not be necessary to actually infiltrate Grantville. Although ransom is usually paid in money, your king seems to value you highly for one of your rank. Perhaps he will be amenable to trading a 'technician' and one of these 'engines' along with its 'energy source' in order to ransom you."
Oh, yeah, Eddie thought as the room swooped around him in lazy circles, that was just so likely to happen.
Back in his room, once his head stopped spinning, Eddie was aghast at his stupidity. Eventually the king was going to find out there was no speed boat construction program. He'd think Eddie had made a fool out of him, and people who incurred the displeasure of monarchs didn't last long in this century. Outside, sleet rattled against the window and he shivered.
Lying on his bed, he folded his arms behind his head and wondered if they did that gruesome "draw and quarter" thing here in Denmark. In the movies, it always looked—
The door opened without preamble. Anne Cathrine peered in, then entered, wine-colored skirts rustling. "My papà was very pleased with your interview this morning."
Eddie struggled up into a sitting position. Even that was hard without two legs to push. "I'll bet," he muttered in English.
"He says, if you will give your parole, you may now have the freedom of the grounds." She stood before the fireplace, studying the guttering flames with a critical eye. "This is disgraceful. I will have it tended immediately."
"My 'parole,' " Eddie said. "What does that mean?"
"That you will not try to escape."
Eddie thought of trying to return to Grantville, one-legged, in the dead of winter, through hostile territory and without a single coin to his name. "Sure," he said, then added, "like I even had a prayer of getting away," in English.
"I so wish to learn your language!" She smiled and he saw that she had dimples. "They say you have books from the future in your city. If I knew this American tongue, I could perhaps read them one day." She pulled up a straight-backed chair and settled on it beside the bed. "It must be very wonderful, this future, with great clockwork birds you can ride through the sky."
"Airplanes," Eddie said and swung his foot over the side of the bed. "We call them airplanes."
Papà, it seemed, approved of Anne Cathrine learning English, or, as she termed it, American. Eddie suspected that she wasn't really supposed to spend time alone with him in his room, but so far no one had objected. Just to be on the safe side, though, he scheduled her language lessons down in the king's library.
Fortunately, she had tons of brothers and sisters so she wasn't exactly the center of attention. She'd explained to him that the king had fathered six children by his first marriage, including her half-brother, Prince Christian, who would inherit someday, and his younger brothers, the princes Frederik and Ulrik, also in line for the throne. Then there were twelve more children by Anne Cathrine's mother, Kirsten Munk, though several of those had been stillborn.
And now the king had a new mistress, some doe-eyed woman, not much older than Anne Cathrine, named Vibeke Kruse. The woman behaved abominably at every opportunity to all of Kirsten Munk's children, but especially to Anne Cathrine. The king, however, seemed infatuated with her.
Court politics were darned convoluted here at Rosenborg, and Eddie didn't think he would ever get all the pedigrees of the royal progeny straight. It was a little like one of those television soap operas his mom had used to watch, he decided, only a lot more complicated.
The ransom letter had been sent to Grantville. Eddie wanted to beat his head against the wall every time he thought about it. How could he have been such an idiot? Even though he doubted it, still there might have been some possibility folks back there could ransom him if he hadn't set up an impossible situation.
The whole thing was insane anyway. When that letter arrived, they were sure to think he'd lost his mind. And maybe he had. Being shut up in this Danish nuthouse, and one-legged on top of that, was enough to make anyone stir-crazy.
As near as he could tell, there was no such thing as a wheelchair around here, and certainly nothing like wheelchair access, even if there had been. The whole castle was full of steps from one end to the other, and most of them narrow winding ones at that. He was more limited by his lack of mobility than he was by his status as a prisoner-of-war.
At least Anne Cathrine was helping him with his Danish, so that every day he could understand just a little more of what was said around him. And since he continued to communicate to everyone else only in German and didn't let on that his command of Danish was improving, he heard more than anyone realized.
King Christian was effusive every time he saw Eddie, soliciting the American's opinion on where to build the royal engine factory, how many Eddie thought they could produce in the first year, and urging him to better explain this mysterious energy source. He also talked endlessly of Grantville's alliances, who was in charge, what sort of men they were, and how they had come to rely on that dastard Gustavus Adolphus. They could do better, Christian seemed to imply. Perhaps some of his fellow residents in Grantville might like to come and work for the Danes, sharing their advanced knowledge. Could Eddie inquire for such people, once he returned home?
Eddie did his best to answer without giving anything important away, working to create the impression that Grantville was a cohesive community with everyone pulling together for the common good. It was difficult, because the king seemed to see through everything he said and divine the truth of the matter, even when Eddie didn't think he was telling it.
One thing was for sure, the king drank even more as the winter progressed. Though he never appeared drunk, he always had a drinking bowl or goblet at hand. That made Eddie wary. Back home, before the Ring of Fire, his old man had known how to put it away too, and he'd been a mean, heavy-handed drunk, prone to smacking his family around.
One morning, when they met for Anne Cathrine's lesson, he asked her, as diplomatically as possible, if her father had always imbibed so much. She thought about it for a moment, her young forehead creased. "Yes, Papà is almost as fond of spirits as he is of young women," she said finally. "How would you say that in American?"
Anne Cathrine was wearing a gown of patterned blue silk today, which set off her eyes. Sometimes, when they were working together, he got lost in that pale gaze and couldn't remember what they were talking about.
"We would say 'he likes to tie one on almost as much as he likes to chase skirts,' " Eddie said.
" 'Tie—one—on'?" Anne Cathrine repeated, her expression intent. Her accent was thick, but improving. She folded her hands on the table and leaned toward him. "I understand the reference to 'skirts,' but the tying part does not make sense. In what regard does 'drinking' involve 'tying'? Perhaps they do it differently in Grantville."
Before Eddie could answer, the king's elderly secretary, Anders Larsen, burst into the library. A great blob of a man tricked up in dark-red velvet, his eyes widened when he saw the two young people seated at one of the tables. "Lieutenant Cantrell! You are summoned to the king's chambers at once. A letter from Grantville has arrived."
"Wonderful!" Anne Cathrine handed Eddie his crutch, then bounded to her feet. "Now Papà will get one of your engines. Then we can build deadly little boats for our navy. We will be able to defend ourselves against wicked King Gustavus Adolphus, and you will go home to your family!"
"Not bloody likely," Eddie muttered in English, forgetting that the princess could understand a great deal of what he said these days.
She halted at the threshold and stared at him. "You think not?"
"I am not important enough for such a trade," he said, then felt a hot flush creep up his neck.
"But you were so brave in the battle," Anne Cathrine said. "Papà told me how you sank one of our ships all by yourself even after you were badly injured. Surely your king values you?"
Eddie ducked hi
s head and followed Larsen's lumbering form to the door and then down all the steps to the first floor. He had a flash of that excruciating day, of the moment when he'd looked behind him and seen his friends bloodied and dead. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He shuddered. Brave. "Yeah, right," he mumbled.
The king looked up from a sheaf of papers when Eddie hobbled into his study. It was a sumptuous room, full of expensive woods, precious ceramic vases and burgundy velvet draperies. Even the blasted ceilings had fancy paintings on them, when you thought to look up, and the andirons in the massive fireplace appeared to be gold. He glanced out the windows and saw it was snowing again. As far as he could tell, that was what it did best in these parts.
"Sit! Sit!" Christian waved a careless hand at a stool and Eddie eased onto it gratefully, laying his crutch on the floor within reach.