Chapter 3
It was with trembling legs that Prince Nikolaus walked down the gangplank and stepped onto the pier in Arendelle. It was ironic to him that an islander such as he made such a poor sailor.
Nikolaus put his hand on the closest post to steady himself and tried to look casual and confident, but he knew the sailors who were unloading his belongings were not fooled, they had watched him retch over the side of the stern every day of the five day journey. Out of all his brothers he was the only one who could not stomach sea-travel, another reason he had not relished the idea of going to Arendelle.
Nikolaus fished out his spectacles from his breast-pocket and settled them on the bridge of his nose. He had taken to leaving them off for most of the voyage for fear that during his bouts of violent vomiting he would lose them to the ocean.
A reassuring pat on his shoulder caused another wave of nausea to roil within his worn-out stomach.
"Take heart, Your Highness, once you've had a rest on solid land and a bit of food, you'll be as right as rain."
"Please, Alvir, don't talk of food just yet," he said quietly to his valet and oldest friend.
The older man cringed sympathetically. "Sorry Your Highness."
A freshening breeze cooled the perspiration on Nikolaus' upper lip. He took a deep drought through his nose and felt his stomach begin to settle.
"With the captain's permission I commissioned a few of the sailors as I found most reliable to convey our luggage to the best inn in Arendelle. It's called," Alvir pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket. "'The Jolly Narwhal'."
Nikolaus raised his eyebrows. "What does a narwhal and its mood have to do with food and lodging?"
Alvir shrugged, "Who can tell the reasons behind the names of many establishments? I have a distant cousin who runs a tavern on the outskirts of Corona called 'The Snuggly Duckling', and that place is neither snuggly nor are there ducklings, just lots of rough looking patrons who'd bite your nose off as soon as look at you. But, getting back to the Narwhal, they have their own taxi service to the inn, that hackney over there." Alvir pointed to the vehicle waiting at the end of the pier.
"Is it far from here?"
"According to the captain it's about a mile down the road, a straight shot from here and to the right."
"I'd rather walk, Alvir, if it's all the same to you. After being on that ship I'd like to move on my own two feet for a bit. You can take the hackney."
"But, Your Highness, I can't leave you to walk by yourself."
"I'll be fine, Alvir, no one knows who I am here, and we didn't announce our arrival."
"But, the sailors might say something ..."
"I paid the captain to charge his crew not to talk about my identity at port. The only citizens remaining here are those fiercely loyal to the Queen. I doubt my life would be worth lille skilling if they knew a member of the Southern Isles' royal house was here. I'd probably be lynched in the town square, at best. And I wouldn't blame them ..."
"Hopefully the crew will bide by their captain's commands ..."
"Hopefully."
Nikolaus began to walk down the cobblestoned street. Alvir followed.
Although hungry and tired the exercise refreshed Nikolaus and give him strength. His back was straighter and his strides lengthened, much to Alvir's dismay, as he struggled to keep up with the prince as he picked up speed. The prince was a quick walker despite his short stature. At five foot, four inches he was the shortest of his brothers.
In a small amount of time the pair stood before The Jolly Narwhal, a pleasant looking wooden structure nestled in the green hillside. It was a two-story rectangular building, the first floor being made of stone and the second story dark wood. The windows were long, with fifteen panes and the frames and shutters were painted red; extending off on the left side were rows of stables. The sign for the inn was a large wooden narwhal with the "horn" anchoring it to the lintel of the main entrance.
"Not bad," Alvir murmured as the pair stepped in.
The foyer's wood paneled walls were stained in a light color as was the desk where the proprietor sat with the guestbook open before him looking expectantly at the newcomers. He was a tower of a man, with bright red hair and bristling beard of the same color; he wore a brightly colored sweater, the stripes of which strained at the seams over his barrel chest. If this man found out who he was Nikolaus was sure he could snap him like a dry twig if he had the mind to. Nikolaus' right hand went instinctively to the saber at his side, although he could picture the man breaking it with his teeth and spitting out the fragments.
A large grin spread across the owner's face, softening his intimidating demeanor, Nikolaus relaxed.
"Welcome, welcome!" The man boomed. "Thank you for choosing the Happy Narwhal, the finest inn in Arendelle, if I do say so myself. My name is Lars Jørgensson and I am the proud owner of this fine establishment. " He spun the guestbook around to face Nikolaus and handed him a fountain pen with a flower tied on the end.
"Ah, a crocus aureus..." Nikolaus said, mostly to himself as he took the pen.
"What?"
"Oh, the golden crocus on your pen."
"Oh, yeah. It's the flower on the royal crest of Arendelle. We tie one to the pen to keep people from accidentally filching it. You like crocuses?"
"They're my favorite, but we don't have that lovely yellow species where I come from."
"Oh? And where do you come from?"
"The South- the south."
Suspicion immediately leapt into Lars' eyes. "Where in the south?"
Quickly Nikolaus' mind ran over the image of the map he poured over as a child, dreaming up outlandish stories to go along with the towns nestled in fjords and isolated mountains.
"Lilliesand."
"That's more Westerly than South."
The man knew his geography, too.
Nikolaus shrugged. "South-west, give or take."
"I ordered a bed frame from Lilliesand once. Had a devil of a time putting it together, I'll tell you. They show you in pictures how to put it together, but I still couldn't make heads nor tails of it, and then I thought it was missing some parts, almost sent an angry letter, but I found them ..."
Nikolaus had the pen poised over the guestbook trying to decide what name to put down.
"What brings you to Arenedelle, if you don't mind my asking?"
Nikolaus did mind, but of course he could not say that without immediately raising the man's suspicions again. Now he had to think up a reason for coming as well as a name.
"Wait! Let me guess!"
Was Lars about to unwittingly provide him with an identity? How fortuitous.
"You knew the fancy name for that flower, I bet you're here to help the Queen with her gardens! Am I right?"
Nikolaus blinked for a moment then a slow smile spread across his face, growing wider with relief, and the idea took root. "You are exactly right!"
Lars beamed.
"I'm Pål and this is my assistant Stig."
Nikolaus quickly scribbled the names on the guestbook, not bothering to think up surnames.
"You have lots of luggage." Lars gestured to the five trunks of varying sizes at their feet.
"Lots of equipment. For gardening. Gardening equipment." Alvir piped up.
"Of course, of course. Well-" Lars turned around and took a set of keys off a hook on the wall behind him, "You're in room two, at the top of the stairs on the right, two beds. Does that suit you?"
"Fine, thanks." Nikolaus barely restrained himself from snatching the keys from Lars' outstretched hand and bolting for the stairs.
"Oh, and here-" Lars reached down behind the desk and brought out a large glass jar. "A custom of the house, a complimentary jar of lutefisk, made by my brother Oaken. He owns a trading post and sauna just outside of Arendelle- his business card is pasted on the lid, if you're ever in that neck of the woods ..."
The empty eyes of the lye-soaked codfish stared blankly back at Nikolaus. Perspiration formed on his top lip, his head tingled, and his stomach, barely settled, lurched.
"Å gud ..."
Nikolaus raced outside of the inn and was promptly sick in a serendipitously placed shrub.
...
"I've brought up some broth and a hunk of bread, Your Highness, if you think you can eat ..."
Nikolaus groaned from the bed he had been lying in for the last two hours. At the smell of the broth his stomach gave a receptive growl, which was a good sign. The prince slowly maneuvered himself into a sitting position while Alvir rearranged the pillows.
"Might I ask If we are going to continue this ruse once we reach the palace?" Aldir asked.
"We may have to, as much as I abhor the idea- at least to gain entrance. I can't see Her Majesty opening the doors to two emissaries from the Southern Isles, much less one of her princes ..."
Nikolaus tried not to think of Hans' frightening descriptions of the Queen, the validity of which he was not looking forward to uncovering.
Abnormally tall ... crimson eyes ... not even flesh and blood but living ice.
He told himself he should not put too much stock in what Hans said in his bitter rantings, but he gave an involuntary shiver none the less.
"Cold Your Highness?"
"A little."
Alvir pulled an extra blanket from the armoire in far the corner of the room and draped it over Nikolaus' shoulders.
"When do you propose we should go, Your Highness?"
"Hopefully today."
"So soon? But Your Highness has barely recovered-"
"I'm fine now. I want to get this over with as soon as possible and be on my way home."
...
Elsa paced the room as she watched her sister pack a few necessary items in a bundle.
"Why not send a couple of my men out instead?"
"Because nothing says 'I love you' and 'please come back' like two strange guys tracking you down on behalf your girlfriend?"
"I see your point. Then let me go with you, it is partly my fault after all."
"No, Elsa, you have a kingdom to run, remember? I'll be fine, this ain't my first rodeo, you know?"
"What's a 'rodeo'?"
"I have no idea. It's just a phrase I heard some Coronean merchants use, and it basically means I've done this before."
"Yes, but you had Kristoff then. If not for him you would've been dead ten times over."
Ana frowned at her sister but conceded. "Granted . . . But, Kristoff has taught me a bunch of survival skills since then. I'm much better prepared then last time, and I'll have Olaf."
"At least let's take the time to look over a map and work out your route. You can circle all the different places you think he may have gone and plan accordingly, that's better than plunging willy-nilly into the wild."
Ana paused. "I suppose you're right."
"Stop packing for now and come with me to the study, I have Father's maps and charts already laid out."
Ana gave Elsa a grateful smile.
"I want to see that dear boy back here as much as you do."
Ana's eyes started to well up again. Elsa "tsked" sympathetically, gently tucked her hand in the crook of her sister's elbow and they walked arm and arm to the study.
Elsa was about to follow Ana inside the study when an attendant hailed her.
"There are two gentlemen in the foyer, Your Majesty. One seeks an audience with you."
"Did they state their business?"
"The gentlemen said they were horticultural specialists. Did Your Majesty summon them?"
"No ... But their arrival may be Providential. Ana, why don't you go ahead and start? I'll rejoin you once my business is concluded."
"All right, but don't take too long, I might decide to up and leave before you get back."
"Don't. I'll make this quick."
...
Elsa sank down on the throne of the audience chamber. She touched her crown to make sure it was on straight and brushed a fluff of lint off the skirt portion of the more formal gown she had changed into.
These men must have heard rumors regarding the state of the palace gardens and saw an opportunity. How much would they charge if she decided to make use of their services? Elsa also wondered if there was a chance they could possibly help with agricultural crises as well. She mentally went over the various figures that had been discussed during the budget meeting.
"You may show him in."
...
Glossary:
lille skilling: One Norwegian skilling was from 1816 equivalent to 1⁄120 of a speciedaler, before that 1⁄120 of a rigsdaler specie, or 1⁄96 of a rigsdaler courant. It was introduced in Norway early 16th century and cancelled 1875. From 1625 to 1873, one Danish skilling was equivalent to 1⁄96 of a rigsdaler. The word is still used colloquially for an unspecified but presumably low amount of money, sometimes modified to a very small amount ("lille skilling"). (taken from Wikipedia)
Å gud: Oh, God.