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.
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.'
