"Guess you were gettin' duded up for tonight's wing- ding." P. J. grinned broadly. "At least you didn't turn up in your nightshirt like Prince Menelik, here."
"Consider it antidancing insurance," David replied. Leif knew his friend enjoyed modern dances, but apparently David wasn't so sure of the more formal dance steps of the 1900s. And given David's previous experience with the program's lack of backup knowledge he'd run into so far, he clearly wasn't taking any chances.
"Don't be so sure of that," P. J. cracked. "Some girls might be willing to take a spin with you just to find out what you're wearing under that getup."
David turned away with a billow of silk.
If his complexion were as fair as minef I suspect he'd be blushing right now, Leif thought.
Luckily, P. J.'s teasing was ended when the head flunky again came through the double doors to thump his staff. "Her Most Serene Majesty, the Princess Gwenda," the bewigged announcer called out.
All conversation ceased as everyone in the room went into a bow or curtsy.
Leif found himself staring as Megan came sweeping into the ballroom. Was it just an inspired combination of hairstyle, makeup, and fashion that made her look the way she did in the deceptively simple white gown set off with rubies? Or was the Latvinia program adding a little glamour to its star player?
There was no way that Leif could answer the question. All he knew was that he found himself moving across the ballroom like an iron filing attracted by a magnet.
Megan was going through the usual excruciating royal formalities. When she saw Leif, she extended her hand. He made a sweeping bow, kissing the back of her white glove.
"Baron," she said in a clear voice, "the festivities will not begin until I lead the first dance. Will you stand up with me?"
"Your Majesty, it would be an honor," Leif managed to say without tripping over his own tongue.
He took Megan in his arms in the most proper manner, and the strains of a waltz began to ring out over the room.
"I figured that snob school your parents send you to would have taught you how to do this the right way," Megan whispered as they sailed across the floor. "I need all the help I can get to pull this off." All around them, other couples began to dance-with varying degrees of ability, Leif had to admit. He and Megan were acquitting themselves well.
His eyes were suddenly drawn to a dark spot in the colorful crowd. Alan Slaney had chosen a uniform of almost charcoal gray. The only trace of color in his outfit was a crimson sash across his chest. It made him look as if someone had slashed him from shoulder to hip.
Alan's-or Gray Piotr's-face was as expressionless as a statue's. But his eyes seemed to be tracking Megan and Leif as they danced.
Watch this, then, Leif thought, trying a twirl and a spin from his much-despised society dance lessons.
Megan laughed as they carried it off. "So, I guess the old saying is true," she said. "The best swordsmen do make the best dancers."
"You're not doing so badly yourself, for imitation royalty," Leif replied.
"That's just martial arts training, with a little assist from this program, not inbred grace," Megan told him. "But I admit I'm having fun. Let's try that move again- now that I'm ready for it."
It was a good evening. After his dance with Megan, the ladies of the court fluttered around Leif like a cloud of brightly colored butterflies. He danced, flirted just a bit, enjoyed the champagne, ate his way through a sumptuous feast… and soon enough headed for his bedroom in the royal tower, where he could synch out and rejoin the real world without paying for his virtual excesses.
Maybe it was because he'd been to actual parties like this one that the whole ball scene didn't have quite the effect on him that it seemed to be having on everyone else.
Or maybe he left early because he knew that royal tradition limited guests to one dance per evening with any member of the royal family.
In any event, Leif was alone as he threaded his way through the maze of passages to the stairs that led to his apartment well before midnight. He moved quietly, not wanting to draw attention to himself or his early departure. He steadied his saber against his leg as he headed up. It hadn't succeeded in tripping him up while he'd been dancing, but he didn't want the scabbard banging against the walls as he went up the spiral staircase.
That's when he noticed the figure ahead of him. At first, he took it for a servant. But why would a servant be shrouded in a heavy black cloak indoors?
Maybe it could be some sort of monk. He'd noticed that religious people in Latvinia all wore costumes with hoods or cowls. But there were no guests that he knew of besides his friends staying in the tower, and that included monks.
Only when the climber reached the second floor and stepped out, checking that the way was clear, did Leif catch the glint of light coming off whatever the mystery figure was carrying.
The gleam was in the wrong place for a glass or a bottle. It was the wrong color, too. What he'd seen was the glint of candlelight off polished metal.
Leif hurtled up the stairs. Unless he missed his guess, that cloaked person held a drawn knife-which meant that the stranger was no servant or monk, but a potential assassin!
Chapter 9
"Stop right there!" Leif roared, pulling out his saber and charging up the stairs.
Of course, the intruder did no such thing. In a swirl of cloak, he darted through the doorway leading to the second floor.
Leif was right behind him.
He's got a knife, I've got a sword, Leif thought. That gives me the reach on him.
Extending his sword, Leif moved forward to attack. But as he closed on the figure, he found that the cloak had hidden more than the assassin's identity. The man whipped up a long sword from beneath black wool garment.
Leif skidded to a stop just short of impaling himself. His opponent now held a sword-an old-fashioned rapier-extended in his right hand, with a dagger held low in his left hand. The guy looked like an illustration from a book on Renaissance sword fighting. But he also looked only too competent with his chosen tools.
People had generally stopped using those big cut-and- thrust swords by the 1700s, Leif thought. The rapier was heavier and more unwieldy than his saber. It was also a good four inches longer-something he'd have to remember in finding his distance.
Stepping quickly to the side and out of range, Leif pulled a small tapestry down from the wall, wrapping it around his left arm. He'd need the padding to help protect himself against that other blade, and he'd seen this trick used in historical adventure holos.
The only problem was that Leif didn't exactly know how to use his improvised defense, while his opponent was obviously a pro.
Can't let him set the rules, Leif told himself, popping in for a quick slash while bringing his tapestry-shielded arm up to cover his chest.
The assassin didn't respond with the back-and-forth moves Leif was familiar with from the fencing strip. Instead, his opponent sidestepped, circling, the tip of his blade coming over the top of Leif's wrapped arm. Cold steel sliced through gold brocade of Leif's uniform tunic, leaving a small, shallow cut under the right side of Leif's collarbone.
Leif gave a little yip of pain and stepped back. His adversary kept moving in a deadly crouch, constantly shifting the positions of his two blades, sometimes leading with the sword, sometimes with the foot-long dagger. His obvious skill and speed only added to Leif's misery.
Physically, Leif was okay. This was veeyar, after all, and he kept his pain thresholds set at conservative levels back in the real world. But the consequences of the cut were real enough in veeyar-and would soon affect his ability to perform well in the sim if he'd sustained enough damage. The little nick he'd taken stung like anything, but as far as he could tell in the bloodred tunic, it wasn't really bleeding-at least, he hoped not. But Leif was frankly rattled at how easily the guy had touched him.