Duel Identity

Chapter 12

Megan felt her mouth drop open in a very un-princesslike gawk when she heard Leif's suggestion. It only got worse when David announced that he was ready to leave at once.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "I only showed you the false gems so we could discuss what to do about them!"

"I fear you were too dramatic, ma'am," Leif replied in his best turn-of-the-century style. "This is a development that should be investigated posthaste."

"You can't really be talking about leaving Latvinia!" Megan cried. "I won't have it! I won't allow it!"

"Won't allow it?" Leif repeated, slipping into a more modern idiom. "I think that wearing that crown may have cut off the flow of blood to your brain… Miss O'Malley."David nodded. "This is the inner circle, remember? It's not a monarchy-just four people who happened to cross this border together. We'll put it up to a vote-if you get a majority, we'll stay."

Leif could only shrug helplessly. "At a quick count I'd say the numbers aren't on our side."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Megan cried. What was wrong with these people? "You can't desert me now! Especially to run off after some bare… possibility!"

Leif shrugged. "You're the one who showed us the fake gem. I think it needs to be followed up."

"All right, then-if that's how you feel, the Graf here or Colonel Vojak can pick somebody dependable to go to Vienna."

Some nonrole-playing character, she thought. Or maybe-

"How about Sergei Chernevsky? We know he's loyal."

"You'd cheat him out of his chance to be a Hussar?" David asked with mock horror. "For shame!"

"Look," Megan snapped. "I think this Vienna thing is just a wild-goose chase. The real action is here in Latvinia!"

She tried appealing to Leif. "You threw the fact that I'm not the real princess in my face. But what about her? We still have a rescue to stage."

"So far, we haven't gotten much closer to that," Leif pointed out. He turned to von Esbach. "You and Colonel Vojak have had people out searching for some sign of Princess Gwenda. How much longer will it take to sweep the area of Grauheim?"

Von Esbach spread his hands. "It is very wild, desolate country-"

"What would you say? A week? Ten days?"

The prime minister nodded unhappily. "It could take as long as that." He pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. 'The afternoon train for Vienna departs in an hour and a half. Otherwise you must put off your journey until tomorrow."

Megan rounded on him. "You, too?"

"Their minds are made up, Your Majesty," Esbach replied gently. "I will have a closed carriage-without the royal coat of arms-ready for you within the hour. Do you gentlemen need help in packing?

"No," Leif replied. "I always keep a small portmanteau ready."

Sure, Megan thought. Given the Baron von Hengist's slightly shady past, he'd always have a bag ready to skip out on hotels or make other hasty departures.

"I, too, am prepared to travel light," David spoke up.

"Do you wish to accompany them, ma'am?" von Esbach asked Megan.

"Yes," she replied, "preferably without a brass band. Let's try to be inconspicuous."

I'll still have the ride to the station to try to change their minds, Megan thought, hiding a frown.

Even though the carriage was large, it was fairly crowded inside. Besides Megan, Leif, and David, P. J. had insisted on coming along. And then there was the beefy young soldier in the ill-fitting suit-the bodyguard that von Esbach insisted should accompany her. "The assistant coachman will also accompany you on the station platform," the prime minister told her.

Megan's fingers twitched the long skirt of the black riding costume she wore. So much for inconspicuous. They'd still be a parade, even if the brass band was missing.

Whether it was the cramped quarters, the extra witness, or just her own annoyance, Megan's attempts at persuading the boys to stay crashed and burned miserably.

David and Leif would barely discuss their decision, or any plans they might have on their fictitious trip. The more they evaded her attempts to talk, the more a nagging suspicion grew in her mind.

These guys know something they're not telling me, Megan thought.

But she wasn't going to get it out of them here and now, standing on the platform of the Herzen train station. There were two trains on the tracks, pointed in opposite directions. One had boxcars, several coaches, and a crowd bustling around it. That was the Vienna Limited. The other was a single coach with a locomotive.

Megan turned to her bodyguard, indicating the quieter train. "Where is that going?"

He replied with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. "Your Majesty, I do not know. It is someone's private train."

The equivalent of a personal jet, Megan thought, now noticing that the single car on the private train looked considerably more impressive than even the first-class coach on the Vienna Limited. Heavy velvet curtains hung in the windows, cutting off the view of an undoubtedly opulent interior.

I wonder if we royals have a train of our own? Megan wondered. Then she realized she'd probably seen it- the derailed wreck from which the real Princess Gwenda had been kidnapped.

With a little shudder, she gripped Leif and David's hands. "Be careful," she told them. A second later she felt like a fool. They weren't traveling to far-off Vienna, after all. Most likely, they'd be synching out of Latvinia as soon as the train was out of the station.

"You fellas bring us something purty from Vienna," P. J. said with a grin, shaking hands with David and Leif. Both boys bowed and kissed Megan's hand, which only made her feel more conspicuous. They boarded the Vienna Limited, to appear a moment later in the one of the windows of the first-class coach. Steam wafted along the platform as the locomotive began chuffing, getting ready to leave. The conductor cried out the Latvinian equivalent of "All aboard!" The bustle around them intensified.

Megan raised a hand to wave at the smiling faces in the window, a strange feeling in her heart. They'd told her that they'd be gone for only a week, but this felt like a permanent goodbye.

Then the train lurched into motion. P. J., ever the boisterous cowboy, ran along the platform, keeping beside the first-class carriage, waving. Megan crushed the lacy little handkerchief she'd intended to flutter in her hand.

She couldn't tell if it came from the program or from the recesses of her own brain. But she had the strangest premonition that she'd never see her friends in Latvinia again.

Aboard the train, Leif waved his farewell to Princess Megan, then laughingly waved to P. J. until the train finally outpaced him. He turned to David, who was laughing and waving as well.

David's expression became a little more serious as they sat down on plushly upholstered seats. But he still had the look of a little kid who's unexpectedly gotten out of school.

"I wonder," David said mischievously. "What do you think would happen if I came back here as a proxy and began preaching socialist revolution?"

"Going by Roberta's track record, I expect you'd probably get run over by a garbage truck in the real world," Leif retorted. "I don't know if Latvinia is bad news, but it sure as heck feels like bad luck."

"Speaking of which," David glanced around the train carriage. "When do we blow this candy stand?"

Leif frowned. He'd sort of been wondering the same thing, himself. "I suppose we ought to stick around until we reach the border… just in case this turns out to be some sort of a plot development."

He opened his traveling bag, slipping his hand inside to touch the purchase he'd made, sneaking down into Herzen before his departure. The butt of the automatic pistol felt nothing at all like the hilt of his sword. But Leif was taking no chances on being caught unarmed on this adventure.

Oblivious, David peered out the window as the city- scape turned into countryside. "We're making more speed on the rails than we could have in the car on the local roads," he said. "Not much farther to the border."

He grinned. "So, exactly how do you intend to spend your newfound free time?"

Leif shrugged. "I'm sure I'll find something interesting to do."

They jacked out right after the train passed through the border customs station. Leif blinked to find himself lying in brilliant afternoon sun. It had been cloudy in Latvinia-an appropriate background for their goodbyes. Rubbing his face, he got off the computer-link couch and began wandering around the empty apartment.

What was he going to do with his newfound free time? He'd missed lunch with all the excitement over Roberta Hendry, but when he stepped into the kitchen, he discovered he wasn't really hungry. Warming up the holo in the living room, he flicked through several talk shows, a holosoap, and finally landed on an animated show he'd been meaning to check out. It was about an aging costumed crimefighter, the third generation in the business, who wants to pass along the torch-and the cowl-to his son. But the young man wants nothing to do with chasing criminals.

The old man was definitely not pleased. His face seemed to lean out of the holo display, shouting. "You think crime will just disappear if you turn your back on it? Not in this city. So what are you going to do? Go away? Leave other people to deal with the problems? Run away with your tail between your legs?"

With a sharp order Leif cut the broadcast. This was not what he wanted to be hearing right now. He slumped back on the living room couch, staring up at the ceiling.

This is ridiculous, he thought. Sitting in front of the holo with nothing on. Maybe I should take up stamp collecting….

Abruptly Leif sat up straight. He'd thought of something to do-clearing out some of the folders in his virt- mail system. Besides messages going back and forth, that was where Leif's Net robots were supposed to dump any information they'd been programmed to pick up.

Leif had a wide range of interests, from gossip about society friends to swimsuit models. His searchbots would wander the Net, finding a print reference here, a holoclip or a photo there, and deposit their finds into folders in a variety of categories. Now Leif began going through the files, deleting the obvious junk, filing other items, putting some aside to be examined further.

When he reached the "Fencing" folder, he hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

You9 re not in Latvinia anymore, he told himself. The ceiling's not going to fall in because you show an interest in swords.

Telling the computer to open the folder, Leif shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch. There were a couple of gossipy items about adversaries he'd faced on the fencing strip, an offer for bargain saber blades- Russian steel, not the best. He deleted that.

Then came a reference to a new fencing-related multimedia display. Leif always left standing orders for his searchbots to store references to fencing in historical holodramas. Hollywood swordfights were often ridiculous-they went on way too long, and usually used techniques that would never work against a real opponent. But Leif never missed a chance to check one out.

This was something different, however-a documentary titled Fencing: From Martial Art to Sport. Leif checked the ordering information. The price wasn't exorbitant for a specialty item. In a few moments, Leif's credit account was a slight tad lighter, and the documentary was downloading.

Leif told the computer to play his new purchase. It started with a scene of fencers bouting in a modern salle. Leif made a face. These guys weren't all that good. Then the display shifted to a flatpicture engraving of an eighteenth century fencing school-the House of Angelo in London. A narrator explained that in this period, fencing was actually dueling practice. A flurry of images appeared-people from various eras getting skewered in duels.

The documentary editors were doing their best to keep the presentation visually interesting, but Leif felt his eyes glazing over as the story moved on about a hundred years, explaining how the rise of the middle class helped push the sword from its dominant position as a gentleman's weapon. Engravings and painted portraits began giving way to photographs. Leif began fast-forwarding, stopping only when he saw a saber in someone's hand.

He let the documentary run on when it discussed the influence of Giuseppe Radelli, the father of modern saber technique. But he sent the display zooming on again, slowing it to chuckle at the herky-jerky antics of a couple of fencers captured on flatfilm by somebody named Lumiere. He zipped ahead to another famous flatfilm swordfighting movie, The Mark of Zorro with a very athletic actor named Douglas Fairbanks.

Leif leaned forward on the couch. Something in that set of wildly flickering images…

He ordered the computer cue back to the earlier film, and then to proceed-slowly. He was just about to give up and fast-forward again when the computer displayed a hundred-and-something-year-old photograph. It was a short, thick-bodied guy with cropped hair and a funny- looking beard. He stood posing in an old-fashioned, almost prissy guard position, flat-footed, his free hand on his hip.

Leif knew where he'd seen that pose-and that face- before. He'd squared off against that guy in the palace gardens of Latvinia!

"Computer!" he barked, ordering the display back to that picture. "Does the presentation have any hypertext information on the subject of this photograph?

"Information available," the computer replied. Leif silently blessed the scholarly heart of whoever made this documentary. "Subject is one Louis Rondelle, French military officer and fencing master-"

Listening to Louis Rondelle's military exploits fighting German invaders in 1873, his training in the use of the sword, and the training he imparted to his students, Leif's eyes grew steadily wider.

I was lucky to get off as lightly as I did, he thought ruefully. This guy could have probably taken my head off!

He stopped the presentation, asking the computer instead to display all portraits of fencing masters shown in the documentary from 1880 to 1900, along with any hypertext biographies.

Yes-he began to spot several other familiar faces, those tough-looking guys surrounding Gray Piotr at the Latvinian court. There was another bearded Frenchman- Georges Robert Aine. A fierce-looking Italian Master glared over a bristling mustache-Luigi Barbasetti. Leif remembered another Frenchman, Augustin Grisin, for his brilliantined receding hair, his sharp eyes, and the wry twist of his lips.

Then there were the two fencing masters stripped to the waist and squaring off for a duel. One had craggy features, a hook of a nose, and muscles in his back, shoulders and arms like a woodcutter. That was Athos de San Malato. His opponent, smaller with a rounder face, curly hair, and a mustache, was Eugenio Pini.

Leif even found the face of the assassin who'd almost killed him-who was, of course, renowned for his mastery of the centuries-old art of fighting with rapier and dagger.

"Holy cow!" Leif muttered. "No wonder I got my ass handed to me in Latvinia. Alan Slaney has surrounded himself with the Murderers' Row of fencing!"