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!"