by Tom Clancy
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.”
Chapter 7
Megan had gotten as far as the French doors to the courtyard before the Graf von Esbach caught up with her- and gently stopped her.
“Your Majesty,” he said softly, “it would be most improper for you of all people to witness that duel.”
The background knowledge programmed into the sim backed him up a hundred percent. Duels were supposed to be private affairs-audiences were frowned upon. Female audiences were especially frowned upon, although there were a couple of scandalous historical references. But for a member of a royal house to involve him- or herself in such an irregular affair . ..
In properly old-fashioned terms it just wasn’t done.
Megan’s initial response was the urge to yell “Frack that!” and go to back up Leif, regardless of the consequences.
But then, she wasn’t really Megan O’Malley in this here and now. She was in a sim, playing Marguerite O’Malley, adventurous society girl masquerading as Princess Gwenda. Marguerite would never use language like “Frack that!” And the real princess wouldn’t be caught dead at a duel.
Standing beside her, the older man watched the duelists head off for the walled garden. Then he glanced at Megan. “You and the baron… is it a matter of the heart?”
Megan shot the old guy a look that could have scorched off his side whiskers. “We’re just friends,” she snapped. Then, in a lower voice, “If I were the real princess-”
“I would never have dared to ask such a thing,” von Esbach finished for her in equally quiet tones. “However, dear lady, I am fighting for the life of my country. So I will risk an impertinent question if it will help discover a weakness to be defended.” He nodded toward the garden. “Even as our antagonist seeks out any weaknesses he can exploit.”
Megan’s hand went to her mouth. “That man who challenged Leif-the baron-”
“One of Gray Piotr’s creatures.” Von Esbach almost spat out the word. “He’s an unknown foreign adventurer, given rank in our army by the Master of Grauheim.”
The prime minister bit off any further words as Gray Piotr himself approached. Once again he seemed to be scanning Megan with his monocle. Searching for signs of weakness?
“Your Majesty,” Piotr murmured. “You left the court in such haste that many were surprised. Some even thought you were going off to witness the vulgar spectacle outside.”
Oh, Vm sure your stooges are even now spreading that particular bit of dirt, Megan grimly thought.
She looked hard at the face, so like the Alan Slaney she admired … and yet so different.
“You can tell the court that I shall return-”
When I’m damn well good and ready, a rebellious voice piped up from the back of Megan’s head.
“Presently,” she finished aloud, deciding a more diplomatic tone was appropriate.
Then she ruined the effect by gasping as the gate of the walled garden swung open. Four men were carrying another. And even at that distance, she could make out the red hair on the lolling head.
“Is he-?” She couldn’t force the words out.
Gray Piotr’s mask of aristocratic irony cracked. He muttered some sort of command, and everything around them-the palace corridor, the courtyard outside-went gray. Beside them, Graf von Esbach stood frozen like a store mannequin or some hyper-realistic statue.
“Don’t worry,” Alan said-and it was Alan speaking, not Gray Piotr. “I’m just freezing the sim for a moment. It’s hard to play a character and get all the information you want.”
His face got a distant look, as if he were listening to a faraway voice. “You’re friend’s fine. No blood shed- he j
ust got knocked unconscious. In fact, that’s a simulacrum they’re carrying. The real Leif synched out.”
His smile of relief turned less pleasant. “So did Roberta Hendry, after her curtsy showed off more than she intended. The Viola da Gamba leaving the court is just a simulacrum, too.”
He waved an arm at the scene. “I thought you’d like to know that everything’s okay. This is just cleaning up the set.”
Alan readjusted his monocle, and Graf von Esbach and everyone else came back to life. But a thoughtful frown remained on Megan’s face all the way back to the throne room.
Megan had a different reason to frown during the next night’s fencing practice. She was working with Sergei again, against the antagonist in the mirror-her reflection. They were practicing footwork and unexpected moves, one calling out orders as they both moved. “Advance! Retreat! Lunge!” Sergei called out.
Attacks with the point of the saber were valid in historical fencing, but hard to pull off successfully. By the time an attacker closed the distance, an alert defender could usually parry. A point attack was a trick that had to be pulled sparingly, at the right time .. . and at the right speed. Megan hadn’t expected Sergei’s command, and bobbled as she thrust.
Sighing, she tried to do better with her next movements. “Retreat! Pass to the rear!” This was another tricky move. The standard fencing retreat was the reverse of the advance-pushing off on the forward foot, gliding the rear foot back about a foot and a half, then matching the movement with the forward foot to retain the en garde position. The movement was harder than it looked, because it had to be done smoothly, without making her weapon jump around. The passata was even stranger, a crablike quickstep executed at ninety degrees to the way she was used to walking. Megan’s sword point wobbled as she tried to move and guard herself at the same time.
And they weren’t even trying to do it quickly yet!
Sergei let her retreat a few more times, then began directing a new advance on the mirror. “By the way,” he said as they took a brief rest, “I was approached to betray you yesterday.”