If Roberta had been scornful before, she got three times worse now. "Those… idiots! They have no notion of the importance of the era. For the girls, it's a chance to try on so-called 'romantic' fashions. And the boys all leap into uniforms, playing soldier. It's the same heedless imperialism that got millions killed in 1914-"
"I'll take that as a simple 'no,' then," Leif said.
Roberta's voice became suspiciously sugary. "But you, Leif… even though we weren't on the same political plane, you always liked to make things happen. I'd say it's safe to assume that Slaney doesn't know we have a history. Imagine the look on his face when you usher me in for an interview with the princess!"
Oh, it wouldn't be an interview, Leif knew. Viola da Gamba would start lecturing "Princess Gwenda" on everything she saw wrong with Latvinian society. Megan would be ready to kill him by the time it was over.
Even so, Leif couldn't quite keep the grin off his lips. Anything that might annoy the great Alan Slaney was all right with him…
The next day at the fencing salle, Alan had to crack down and make people work-everyone was talking about Latvinia and their adventures there.
Megan found herself standing in front of a mirror, working off her distraction by practicing moulinets-the deadly diagonal cuts Alan had used to harass her during their last practice. The idea was to make the cut as efficiently and quickly as possible-with perfect form. Twist the wrist, slash up with the sword from left to right. Then take the en garde stance with the blade defending the right, and slash up from there-
"You do not do it correctly," the practice partner, Sergei Chernevsky, suddenly said.
"What's wrong?" Megan asked. Sergei had been studying at the salle longer than she had. If he could give her the benefit of his experience…
"You move the blade like a modern fencer-with the flat. Listen." His blade flashed up, making an audible. whiffing noise.
"Classical moulinet means leading with the edge. You can hear the difference." His sword leaped up again, but this time there was a whistle as the blade's edge cut the air.
"I see," Megan said. "Actually, I hear." They grinned at each other, then resumed their positions. Up and around-slice! Down and around-slice!
Soon Megan's blade began to whistle instead of whisper as she got the trick of it. She also began to get a sweaty face and an aching arm. "I really, really hope this is an important move," she puffed.
Sergei's breathing was a bit labored, too. "I read about some old-time fencing masters, they would expect you to do thirty minutes' worth-moulinet with lunge."
"Great." Megan laughed. "Burn out your legs and your arm."
They resumed their practice. "By the way," Megan added as her sword whistled through the air, "I was very impressed by your uniform in the sim."
"It is the costume of the old Hungarian Hussars," Sergei replied. "Embroidered frogging across the chest, and the fur-trimmed jacket-the pelisse-worn over one shoulder."
He smiled as he swung his sword around. "The saber, you know, came from Hungary. The cavalry there adopted it from the Turkish scimitar." Sergei actually blushed. "Excuse the lecture. Back home, I went to a military school. Every cadet had to learn the motherland's glorious military history. I was always fascinated by swords and cavalry. My dream was to be a Hussar."
He brought his blade around with a flourish, slicing his moulinets back and forth, creating a sideways figure eight in steel.
"Even more impressive," Megan said. "Except that it looks like the sign for infinity."
"Let us hope Alan does not keep us that long on the exercise," Sergei said. "It is supposed to make the fingers more flexible, the wrist more limber."
"If my wrist gets any more limber, my hand will fall off." Megan glanced in the mirror, searching for their instructor in the reflection. "Where did Alan go?"
Sergei took a break, shrugging. "Disappeared, just like the kidnappers in the sim. We followed their trail right onto the slopes of the great mountain-Grauheim. But we couldn't find another trace."
Transferring her saber to her left hand, Megan shook out her right, trying to get the lactic acid out of her burning muscles. Then, gritting her teeth, she resumed the practice.
So, the guys who got the real Princess Gwenda disappeared on the slopes of Grauheim, the wildest mountain in Latvinia. Not surprising.
Especially not surprising, if Gray Piotr, Master of Grauheim, was behind the plot to steal the throne. What was Alan Slaney up to behind that monocle and mustache?
"You've lost your whistle again." Sergei's voice intruded on her thoughts.
Megan blinked, glaring at her sword as the flat whiffled through the air instead of the edge slicing. She resumed the guard position for the left side of her body, concentrating on every move.
Can't do this right if you don't think of what you're doing, she scolded herself. Fencing now. Latvinia later.
She shook her head as her blade whistled through the air.
Damn, but Alan had created a seductive little world!
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.