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."