The Vincibles Are Made into Mincemeat. Maybe.
THE KING WAS dreaming that there was a gala dinner at the Royal Palace. There was pomp and glamour and government cabinet members bowing and curtsying, and he was wearing his dress uniform with the diagonal silk band and his chest full of medals. And he had just explained to his dinner companion, Mrs. Strobe, that one of the medals was called the “little seahorse” when he felt something shaking his chair. And when he looked up it was that chiropractor, Tenorsen. The singing one. Hallvard Tenorsen.
“You’re in my chair,” Tenorsen said. “Move!”
The king stood his ground, but Tenorsen kept shaking and shaking.
“Wake up, Your Royalness!”
The king opened his eyes. And was looking right at Butler Åke’s face.
“You have to come, Your Royalness. Your guests have locked themselves in their room. I need the keys.”
“Locked themselves in? Why in the world . . .”
“I don’t know, but they won’t open the door. They’re planning something. I think they may have been sent by Tenorsen.”
Tenorsen! The king jumped out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe, stuck his hand down into the chamber pot next to his bed, and pulled out a ring of keys.
“Aha,” Åke said, reaching for the keys.
“I’m coming too,” the king said.
It wasn’t until they’d walked down the hall toward the guest room that the king noticed the large, rusty sword Åke was lugging around with him.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“To chop off their heads. In case they resist, I mean.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the king said, knocking on the door. “I’m sure there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Rosemarie! This is Your Royalness! What’s going on?”
No response.
The king turned to Åke. “Why did you need to go into their room in the middle of the night anyway?”
“To chop off—uh, to check if their chamber pots needed emptying.”
“Oh, right,” the king said. He found the right key on his ring, stuck it in the keyhole, and twisted. “Rosemarie! I’m coming in now!”
He pulled down on the door handle and had only just opened the door when Butler Åke rushed past him into the room with his sword raised over his head.
“Don’t . . . ,” the king said, but it was too late. There was a tearing sound as the sword sliced through the fabric on one of the comforters and a cloud of feathers flew into the air. And then another comforter. And then another.
“Butler Åke!” the king yelled.
“Butler King!” Åke mocked in return, laughed loudly and resoundingly, stabbing again and again. “I’m making breakfast, Your Royal Highness,” Åke snorted.
The king could hardly see him anymore in the snowstorm of feathers. But he could see the open window next to the bunk beds. Åke had stopped stabbing and roared a furious “Where are they, those human cowards?”
In the silence that followed, the king heard the voice of the red-haired one: “Three, two, one.”
Butler Åke stormed over to the window.
“Zero.”
“I’m going to make carpacci—”
There was a boom. The cabin shook.
“Wh-wh-what was that?” the king stammered.
Åke slowly turned to face the king. His face was covered with a layer of white powdery snow. “That,” he said, as the snow tumbled out of his mouth, “was the rebels getting away. But you’re not going to.”
“Your Royal Highness,” the king reminded.
“What?” Åke asked, more snow falling off his face.
“You forgot to say Your Royal . . .” The king was staring at Åke’s face. It was completely unrecognizable. It was black with gray hair, a prominent chin, and an open mouth with sharp, shiny teeth.
“PHEW, THAT WAS a close call,” Doctor Proctor said, pulling off his nightcap, putting on his swim goggles, and steering the hang glider around one small, solitary cumulus cloud. “Is everyone here?”
“I’m here,” said Mrs. Strobe.
“I’m here,” Lisa said.
“And I’m here,” Nilly said.
Nilly stuck his head out of the sleeping bag and looked down. South Trøndelag was disappearing behind them and below them the moonlight was glittering on snow-covered peaks and iced-over lakes. It had all happened so fast he wasn’t truly awake yet. He had just barely managed to pull on his pants and one shoe, the other was in his jacket pocket. Nilly felt for it to make sure. He found his mittens and his scarf. And . . .
“Perry!”
“What was that, Nilly?”
“I forgot Perry! He’s still back at the cabin!”
“Whoops,” Doctor Proctor said. “It’s too late to go back now. But if I know Perry, I’m sure he managed to hide.”
Nilly tore at his hair and wailed, “But what will he do without us?”
“Catch flies and steer clear of that baboon until this is all over,” Lisa said. “I promise that we’ll go back and get him, Nilly.”
“Lisa’s right,” Doctor Proctor said. “What we need to do now is get back to Oslo. Save Gregory. And the world. And then—if we haven’t been eaten for breakfast yet by that point—Perry.”
“Poor Perry,” Mrs. Strobe said. “And poor, poor Nilly.”
Nilly pulled his head back into the sleeping bag and moped the whole way, until Lisa yelled, “Look, it’s Elverum! We’re getting there!” and he stuck his head out again and looked down at the small town they were soaring over. A red stripe had appeared under all the blackness in the east. A new day was dawning. Nilly decided to quit moping. After all, there wasn’t anything they could do. You always lose something in war, but life goes on. It must go on. And the scene around them was so beautiful that there was no time to lose for those who loved life.