Duel Identity

Chapter 6

For about the fifteenth time since he'd synched into Latvinia, Leif tried to readjust the uniform he wore. It wasn't that the crimson-and-gold jacket and light gray trousers didn't fit him. It was more that the perfectly tailored uniform fit a little too well. The cavalry trousers tucked into knee-high boots felt more like ski pants-or possibly like a pair of tights. His memory of that exposed feeling, a natural result of taking lessons at his mother's ballet school, was one of the few unpleasant ones he'd taken from his stint as a boy dancer. The pants he had on now were what they'd have called spray-ons way back in the disco era. Skin tight and a bit too blatant. And his Hussar-style jacket only came to his waist. In this 1890s style, he felt as though everyone was checking out parts of him that guys didn't generally show off in public in the year 2025.

But it was the wish of the princess that he become an honorary member of the Royal Guard, complete with fancy uniform and a sword at his side. Leif suspected that Megan took a secret glee in seeing him prancing around like this. P. J. had adopted the uniform, too, with the addition of his cowboy hat. David-or rather, Men-elik-had flatly refused to wear the rig, preferring his royal robes.

Unfortunately, Leif didn't have any native dress to use as an excuse to get out of this costume. He wouldn't see Megan until the royal court late in the afternoon, so he'd decided to spend his free time exploring the palace and trying to get used to his new clothes.

And there had been one other piece of business. A note had come from Viola da Gamba, just arrived in Herzen, asking her old friend Hengist to help her get an interview with Princess Gwenda. As he'd promised the night before, Leif had passed along the request to the Graf von Esbach and the royal appointments secretary. They had assured Leif that his friend would be received at court that very day.

The good effect of the day's wanderings was that Leif had a much better idea of the geography inside the royal palace. On the bad side of the ledger were the several duels Leif had witnessed. The would-be swordsmen had ranged from merely incompetent to dangerously inept. One duelist had lost control of his saber during a wild slash and sliced into his own leg.

Leif had offered a little first aid with an improvised tourniquet-and began to appreciate why the code duello required that a physician be on hand. Unfortunately, these amateurs hadn't taken that elementary precaution. Leif had managed to keep the failed swordsman "alive" until medical help had arrived. But he suspected this guy would spend most of the beta-testing period of this sim waiting for his wound to heal.

Strolling along, hand on the hilt of his own blade, Leif shook his head. It was just as well that Alan Slaney hadn't included an actual Ostwald in his sim. If it came to out-and-out war between the two vest-pocket states, there wouldn't be enough officers to lead that Latvinian army-too many of the players would have put themselves on the injured list with stupid sword tricks.

At last the time came for royal audiences. Leif marched to the entrance of the throne room, where he found P. J. and David already waiting.

P. J. gave him a grin as big as Texas. "You look like the doorman for a very expensive, but slightly kinky, hotel," he told Leif.

"Can it, cowboy," Leif replied. "Keep in mind you're wearing the same uniform. Have either of you caught up with Meg-the princess-today?"

"I saw her briefly, when I regretfully declined to wear that insane costume," David said. "She was halfway through a royal makeover-I can hardly wait to see the final results."

When Megan arrived, accompanied by the Graf von Esbach, Colonel Vojak, and a company of guards, Leif could see what David meant. Megan's usual cloud of dark curls had been coiled carefully around her head, and a diadem of gold and jewels sat above her forehead. The style suited her all too well. She was a knockout. She wore a magnificent low-cut off-white court gown and a stern expression on her features-the result of royal cares… or maybe annoyance at the enforced changes in her look. Megan had never been a silk-and- ruffles kind of girl.

The bewigged flunkies threw open the throne room doors, and the court sorted itself out. A few changes had been made, including the addition of a simple seat on the step below the royal throne. That was where Megan sat. Von Esbach, Vojak, David, Leif, and P. J. took positions to the right of the throne. Gray Piotr and a knot of his tough guys stood off to the left.

Another flunky who looked like a refugee from Colonial Williamsburg stood by the door, brandishing a large parchment scroll. He raised it and began speaking in German, announcing people as they came to be presented at court.

After several ambassadors had bowed to the princess, the name of Viola da Gamba was announced. Roberta Hendry swept into the throne room with all the poise that life as a jet-set debutante had given her. She wore a plum-colored velvet riding suit with a matching hat set at a perky angle-and a smile of triumph as she looked at Alan Slaney. The Master of Grauheim-not to mention the creator of Latvinia-was not pleased to see her in the royal presence.

Roberta stepped to the dais where Megan sat. "Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to visit Latvinia, and a privilege to be in your presence." She sank into a graceful curtsy, but her tone was almost challenging as she went on. "I hope to discuss the true state of the realm with you-"

Then disaster struck as Roberta came out of her curtsy. Although she must have practiced the move a million times in dance classes and at debutante balls, the heel of her boot caught in the hem of her riding habit's skirt. Roberta rose to a ripping sound-and her velvet skirt crumpled gracefully down until it was merely a purple ring around Roberta's ankles.

The color of the young woman's face almost matched the hue of her clothing as she stood in front of the assembled nobility in jacket, ascot, and a pair of shapeless lilac bloomers.

Some gallant soul-one of the diplomats, no doubt trained to meet social disasters-leaped forward with a cape to cover Roberta's humiliation.

Leif couldn't help himself. He burst into laughter, turning to pass a quiet comment to P. J. "It's a shame about those bloomers, really. Roberta's got a pair of legs worth looking at."

He was laughing again when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Sir," a harsh voice said in French, "must you add to this young lady's embarrassment?"

Leif turned to confront a guy who might as well have had the title "Villain's Henchman" embroidered on his chest. The Frenchman was shorter than Leif, thick- bodied, with a head like a cannonball. His haircut was more like a shave job, but he boasted luxurious musta- chios over his close-cropped beard. He wore a plain gray and green uniform with officer's insignia, and he had a soldier's air of command.

Just one look, and Leif disliked him immediately. "I think it would be hard to go beyond the embarrassment the young lady has brought upon herself," he said coolly, turning away.

Again he found that hand on his shoulder. "It is not appropriate for a gentleman to make such a remark."

Now Leif was getting angry. "Why don't you mind your own business instead of my manners?"

The Frenchman looked up into his eyes. "Because you obviously need instruction."

Leif's hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. "And are you going to give it to me?"

"Right now would be opportune." The Frenchman pulled out the riding gloves tucked into his saber belt and threw one at Leif's feet. "Name your seconds."

For a second Leif stood with his mouth open.

Oh, wonderful he thought. I've gotten myself into a duel He turned to his friends. David wore his scimitar, but P. J. was weaponless. For him an affair of honor would be settled with an old-fashioned Western fistfight. "I'm afraid my friends are ignorant of the conventions-"

The Frenchman turned to a young Hussar officer. "You-be his second."

The big, gorgeously uniformed young man blinked in shock, then presented his hand to Leif. "Sergei Cher- nevsky, at your service."

Another officer was drafted to officiate over the meeting, as the code duello demanded. Moments later the duelists and their seconds were heading out a pair of French windows into the long shadows in the palace courtyard.

"The walled garden over there will serve the purpose," said the officer now running the duel. "We'll have no glare of dying sunlight. But we'll need a physician- ah, Herr Doktor Fleischer!" The officer turned to Leif. "Doktor Fleischer is the army surgeon."

Leif nodded. "We've met." This was the medical man who'd been called to stitch together the unfortunate duelist he'd patched up so recently.

Now it might be Leif's turn….

The doctor took in the advancing party and gave an "oh, no, not again!" headshake.

"You have your bag, Doctor? Excellent! Then let us proceed before we lose the light." The military man led the way into the garden.

Numbly Leif slipped out of his coat, handing it to David. Things were moving so fast! While the seconds prepared a space, he began warming up as if this were a fencing bout, jumping up and down, stretching his muscles. He held the blade over his head, bending it. Then he settled into a fencing stance, making quick, flashing moves with his blade, limbering up his wrist and fingers.

"Most athletic," the Frenchman said dryly. He stood perfectly still, executing multiple moulinets with the heavy cavalry saber. To Leif, it looked more as though his opponent were leading a band instead of getting ready for a deadly fight. Well, he looked as if he knew what to do with the sword. And the guy wasn't even breaking into a sweat.

Leif's mouth suddenly felt dry.

At least we'll do better than those other idiots I've seen playing at swords, he promised himself.

The Frenchman ceased his warm-up cuts. "Are you prepared, m'sieur?"

Leif nodded, afraid to trust his voice.

The officiating officer stepped up. "Gentlemen, present your weapons, please." The pre-duel inspection was quickly accomplished. "Step back, please."

Leif went into his usual offensive guard position, free hand held loose at his side, his arm slightly bent to present the blade toward the Frenchman's eyes.

His opponent's free hand was fisted on his hip as he took a very erect, almost prissy pose, his arm almost at a right angle, holding out his sword.

The officiating officer drew his own saber, placing it between the crossed blades of the two antagonists. He raised his arm, separating the blades for a moment. "Al- lez. R he cried. "Forward!"

Leif felt a moment of confidence. The Frenchman's stance could be a textbook illustration of the old- fashioned way of doing things. The placement of the blade left part of the guy's arm exposed! Leif moved to attack, going for a cut at that arm. The Frenchman merely stepped aside, not even bothering to parry. Nor, however, did he riposte.

Well, Leif thought, he fs got a big hunk of metal to move. He continued to play his athletic game, moving back and forth, feinting with the blade, not initiating any contact with the other man's steel.

The Frenchman stood as if his feet were rooted to the ground. Leif came forward again. This time his opponent's saber moved-and with blurring speed. The back end of the Frenchman's blade beat against Leif's sword, disrupting his move, then the point of the enemy's saber flew at Leif's face. It could have cut him, leaving a disfiguring scar or worse. Leif's opponent was merely demonstrating a possibility.

Leif desperately backpedaled, pulling back his arm and blade, astonished. In two whistling moves the Frenchman had derailed Leif's attack-and presented a much more pointed threat.

How can he be so fast? Leif asked himself. And with that huge, old-fashioned cavalry saber?

With a chill he realized that his champion-grade competitive fencer muscles couldn't move this heavy steel that quickly.

Still, he stayed with his weaving movements.

Float like a butterfly, he thought, and hope for a chance to sting.

The Frenchman suddenly advanced, swinging another lightning circular cut at Leif-a moulinet. Leif tried to parry, but the other sword was so fast-the tip of cold steel just barely caressed his cheek. It could have been another devastating cut, if the Frenchman had followed through. But this had been merely a test. And Leif had failed.

"You could, perhaps, use schooling in more than manners," the Frenchman told him.

Leif didn't answer, saving his breath for his running game. It had always worked for him before, tiring out the other side.

But this opponent didn't run. He stood easily, his sword flicking back and forth, the point always in Leif's face. Leif tried to parry, to engage the other man's blade. But the point seemed to leap away from his deflecting attempts.

Leif was beginning to sweat. How could his opponent do that? The guy wasn't even extending his arm!

Then the Frenchman was coming forward, his blade flashing in multiple moulinets. Leif was driven back, managing to parry the first two. False attacks, he thought. He's still testing me.

The third blow, however, was completely unorthodox. Leif nearly staggered, leaping back after the flat of the Frenchman's sword heartily tapped against his thigh.

"Your low line is weak," the Frenchman said, as if he were a fencing master.

Leif almost opened his mouth to yell foul-the conventional saber target is anything from the waist up. But he closed his mouth with a snap as an unwelcome piece of information popped up from the sim programming. In this era the front thigh was indeed a valid target.

He was startled-no one had ever attacked him there with a saber. Leif was also feeling a little afraid. He'd plunged into this against an unknown opponent. And now it seemed he also didn't know the rules.

Well turnabout is fair play, he thought, leaping in with a looping cut for the Frenchman's extended leg.

Instead, his antagonist's blade tapped against his forearm-another potentially devastating stop-cut, if the Frenchman had swung in earnest. "Touche," the bearded man announced, as if they were indeed on a fencing piste.

Leif desperately worked for distance, now. He needed the space for a running attack-a fleche. He flung himself at the Frenchman, deliberately letting himself go off- balance as he advanced in a giant step. But his target was nowhere near his blade. The Frenchman neither attacked nor defended-he merely stepped aside. Leif stumbled to a stop, to find that his opponent had swung around, giving him a very Gallic shrug. "You missed."

Now Leif lost it, hurling himself forward into another running attack, sword raised for a head cut. This time, he thought, the guy wouldn't move away!

The Frenchman didn't. He moved forward, into Leif's attack, his blade across his body, parallel with the ground. Neither the Frenchman's point nor the sharpened edges of his saber threatened Leif…. But the metal guard that protected the swordsman's hand was in a direct line with Leif's jaw. There was no way to stop, to turn away. Running full-tilt, Leif rammed into the equivalent of brass knuckles backed by a very muscular arm, shoulder, and body.

"Better than killing you, puppy," the Frenchman said.

Then it was lights out for Leif.

Leif opened his eyes with a wince, finding himself on his computer-link couch in 2025 New York. "Ouch!" he muttered. "Knocked right out of the sim!"

Gingerly he rubbed his temples. His head throbbed a little, but it wasn't as bad as the headache that came with a system crash.

Of course, that didn't factor in the hit his pride had just taken-

Leif didn't have time to fret over that for very long. The communications chime sounded from his computer. Someone was calling. He responded, and Roberta Hendry's furious face appeared in holo projection. "That was a lousy thing you did, Anderson," she accused. "Setting me up like that."

"Setting you up? Me?" Leif said in confusion. "Not bloody likely-unless you think my idea of a big payoff is getting my butt kicked. I had words with one of Gray Piotr's goons"-better not to say what it was about, he decided-"and found myself in the most one-sided duel-or fencing match or whatever you want to call it-of my life."

Roberta calmed down slightly as she considered what Leif had said. "It has to be Slaney, then, who set me up," she finally said viciously. "That worm has always hated my politics-he thinks they're a stain on his little aristocratic fairyland." She gave Leif a sidelong look. "And it would seem that sword-boy has some sort of problem with your fencing reputation. Could it be jealousy?"

Leif shook his head. "Two completely different styles-they don't even intersect. Slaney and his friends are essentially academic-preserving the old forms that aren't used much anymore. I'm into the sport end-you know, competition."

"Maybe that's exactly what he sees you as," Roberta cut in, "Competition. Does he know about your championships?"

Thinking about the enormous database form that he'd filled out, Leif could only shrug. "Yeah, I'm sure it got mentioned somewhere in the character profile. But, still-"

Roberta, however, had heard everything she wanted to hear. She leaned in towards her system pickup. "I've got friends on the national board of AHSO-at least my parents do. We shouldn't let Slaney get away with this. A strong enough protest to the right people would get Latvinia shut down."

Leif couldn't believe what he was hearing. "For what?" he said, pouring cold water on Roberta's idea. "You could have suffered an accident. And I didn't have the brains to check up on the guy who called me out. Neither incident can be pinned to Slaney, and they're hardly mortal offenses even if we could prove he was behind them."

He shrugged, suddenly wondering how Megan would feel if somebody pulled the plug on Latvinia. "Besides, it's just a sim-a fantasy."

On the other side of the connection, Roberta had calmed down a little-not necessarily a good sign. She had gotten over getting mad. Now she was into getting even. When she answered Leif, every word seemed to come out like a drop of venom.

"Maybe that's what Alan Slaney needs to learn," Roberta said. "That his fantasies can have real-life consequences."