Duel Identity nfe-12 Read online

  The oven bleeped, signaling that its heating job was done. Leif removed his dinner, juggling the hot container until he got it emptied onto his plate. Then, blowing on each forkful, he began shoveling the food into his mouth.

  There was supposed to be a big feast during the ball tonight. One of the big nightmares about the Net had been the specter of people jacked into fantasy worlds, forgetting reality for so long that they starved to death.

  Built-in safety features would keep that from happening, but there was a big difference between starvation and missing a meal. On the other hand, Leif knew from personal experience that eating virtual food instead of the real thing would leave him with a ravenous case of the munchies when he synched out. Better to feed his face now than wait until later and get socked.

  He took another look at his watch. There was still a little time before the ball was supposed to begin. All he'd miss would be the boring last-minute preparations- hair-combing and so on. Leif finished his hurried meal at the kitchen counter, washing it down with a glass of juice. Then he washed his dishes, made a quick pit stop in the john, and headed down the hall to his bedroom.

  The computer-link chair by the window here was the same top-of-the-line model as the one back home. Leif bypassed it to set the room's air-conditioner for low- no sense freezing in reality while he was in Latvinia. Then he took a moment or two to carefully calibrate the chair. It had been a while since he'd used it, and he didn't want to be dealing with implant pains when he arrived at the ball.

  That should do it, he thought, finishing his minute adjustments. He settled back into the comfortable upholstery, let his eyelids come together, and gave a mental command to synch straight into Latvinia.

  Leif opened his eyes to find himself walking down a palace corridor.

  Nice to know Vm on time, he thought, pausing for a second to lean against the tapestry-covered wall and let the brief twinge of static in his implants die away. Vm already on my way to the ball.

  Leif looked down at the conservative uniform he'd chosen to wear tonight. No super-tight riding pants tucked into tall boots this evening. He was wearing a dress uniform military tunic and gray trousers with gold piping down the seams. The jacket was bloody-nose red, with enough gold braid worked into the chest to qualify as light 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!

  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.

  Got to be careful, he thought, watching the smooth, quick movements of his opponent's two blades. The point of that long rapier seemed almost alive, questing around in front of his face. Be very careful, he reminded himself.

  Sweat must be leaking into that little cut. The stinging was getting even worse. And the last thing Leif needed right now was a distraction.

  There! Was that an opening? Leif tried to seize the initiative with another attack. The assassin's rapier parried Leif's blow, while simultaneously his dagger streaked for Leif's stomach.

  Again, Leif was forced to backpedal before the guy sliced him a fresh belly button. That hadn't been an opening, it had been an invitation, suckering Leif in.

  Leif was suddenly reminded of his disastrous duel with the hard-faced Frenchman.

  Oh God, it's happening again. I've really stepped in it this time, Leif thought, watching his opponent's sword advance, then pull back while the dagger came forward. And it's pretty damned deep.

  He saw another possible opening, but shook his head. Another trap. The assassin's style seemed based on the idea of preempting any attack with an even more aggressive move. Leif wasn't eager to fool with that hair- trigger again-at least not by himself.

  "Ah-guards?" he called, trying to keep the desperate tone out of his voice. "Guards? Is there a guard around? I could really use one right now."

  No answer-unless you counted the fact that the assassin was pressing Leif much harder. Apparently, the passive testing-offering openings-was over. Now the man's two blades were attempting to get through Leif's defenses-his shorter sword and the fabric wrapped around his left forearm.

  It was like a nightmare! Leif couldn't even engage his opponent's blade. Whenever he tried to put his saber against that damned rapier, the assassin's blade somehow eluded him, always coming back in line to attack.

  The point bored in again, and Leif tried a circular parry, hoping to deflect the rapier while bringing his own point into position to attack.

  It was as if the intruder were reading his mind. Their blades never touched, the rapier's point moving in a counter-circle to keep Leif in danger.

  The nick Leif had taken felt as if someone were dabbing it with acid. Could the point of his opponent's sword be smeared with poison? No, it was just good, honest sweat, pouring down his chest-and unintentionally rubbing salt in his wound. That was the least of Leif's problems. Sooner or later one of the attacker's weapons would penetrate Leif's defense. And that meant that shortly, Leif himself would be penetrated by either forty or twelve inches of cold steel. Each time he managed to evade an attack, his adversary was moving in, the point of the rapier coming closer, and closer, and closer.

  Every instinct
was screaming at him to run, but there was no way he could turn his back on this killer, even in veeyar. He tried a desperate improvisation, unwrapping some of the tapestry around his left arm and flapping it in the assassin's face.

  Maybe I can put a little distance between us, Leif thought just as he collided with an old wooden chair.

  Every once in a while a thronelike chair or heavy trestle table was stationed along the corridors, maybe for variety in the scenery. It was just Leif's bad luck to blunder into one of them now.

  The assassin leaped forward to finish the fight.

  A blast of thunder nearly deafened Leif. But he wasn't so out of it not to notice his attacker suddenly flying back, tumbling like a marionette with all its strings cut.

  Leif glanced over his shoulder to see Sergei Chernev- sky. The Russian boy was in his usual Hussar's uniform, but instead of his sword, he held a huge, old-fashioned revolver. That was the source of the roar that had nearly taken out Leif's eardrum. "What-" he began.

  "I took the guard duty tonight," Sergei explained. "I get to see enough diplomatic balls. Maybe I find something more interesting, instead." He gestured toward the flattened assassin. "Like this."

  Saber back at the ready, Leif approached the man in the black cloak. The rapier lay a foot from one hand, the dagger even farther away. His former adversary didn't look as though he'd be getting up anytime very soon.

  Leif kicked the weapons out of reach, then cautiously prodded the prostrate form. The cloak shifted, revealing a neat hole in the intruder's chest. Leif didn't want to see where the bullet came out. Probably not a pretty sight.