armor.
I wonder if the girls will find it scratchy when I dance with them, he thought.
Instead of boots, he had on lightweight dancing shoes. And, of course, there was the ceremonial sword at his side. That might make for a bit of a handicap while he was swirling around on the dance floor.
Satisfied by his brief inspection that the sim had taken care of all the necessary preparations for his appearance at the ball-he backed the inspection up by a quick look in a wall mirror-Leif continued on to the royal ballroom. Several harassed-looking flunkies, dressed in even louder silk outfits and larger powdered wigs than those he'd seen previously, stood outside the door.
One carried an ornate wooden staff with silver fittings. 'Sir,' the head flunky said in tones of rebuke, 'Her Majesty will appear in moments.'
'Then I suppose you'd better announce me immediately,' Leif replied in his haughtiest tones.
The doors flew open, and the lead flunky stepped inside, thumping the staff on the floor. 'The baron Al- brecht von Hengist,' he called out.
Leif stepped into the ballroom, to find himself confronted with a much more colorful assemblage than he'd expected. The ladies' gowns were even more flamboyant now than they'd been during the day, colorful concoctions of silk and lace that showed off shapely bare shoulders and a king's ransom worth of jewels. Apparently every male with any kind of military connection had a dress uniform of some sort and had dragged it out for the occasion. No two seemed to be the same, and Leif's crimson-and-gold number seemed quiet and tasteful compared to some of the getups around him.
If I really wanted to stand out around here, I should have worn a nice, simple black-and-white tuxedo, Leif thought as he walked through the thronged nobility. No, this ball was white tie. He'd need to wear a formal cutaway coat here, and he hated those things. The tails always made him feel like Jiminy Cricket. He imagined that the historical version of the rig would be even more uncomfortable than the modern version. He was glad he'd stuck with his uniform.
Leif caught a familiar face in the crowd. David Gray stood impassively in gorgeous silk robes, with a uniformed P. J. standing beside him. Actually, P. J. was chatting with three or four court cuties while David pretended to pay no attention to the by-play.
'Hey, there, baron,' P. J. called out, doing his best imitation of a Texan abroad. 'Thought you were going to miss this hoedown. Were you visiting your old girlfriend in the hospital?'
'What? Who? Where?' Leif asked.
'You didn't hear?' P. J. chuckled. 'Your lady friend- Violin or whatever she calls herself-tried to stir up the peasants again. This time she didn't get dumped in horse flop. She was wavin' the red flag of revolution-literally, ya' know-and darned if a lightning bolt didn't come down and get her-ka-ZAP!
'Frankly, I thought her speeches were electrifying enough,' David said dryly. 'Apparently, the monarch really does rule by divine right around here.'
'I'm afraid no one told me about this,' Leif said. It sounded as though the Latvinia program had some serious responses built in to deal with people who tried to mess with the basic concepts of the sim.
'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!
