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!'
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.'
