The Universe Twister (9 page)

"Say, Nicodaeus," he murmured thoughtfully, "he's good!"

"I told you he was a winner, Lafayette. But if, as you said, you're better—"

"Look, ah, maybe I was hasty." He watched as the count described a lightning series of figure eights, finished with an elaborate
redoublement
and lowered his point with a calculating glance at O'Leary.

"Go ahead," Nicodaeus whispered. "Show him a little swordsmanship. It will give you a psychological advantage if you can slice yours a hair closer to the test pattern than he did."

"Ah, look here, Nicodaeus, I've been thinking; it wouldn't really be fair of me to show him up, in front of his friends."

"He'll have to take that chance. After all, he was the one who insisted on the meeting."

Alain's seconds were nodding now. They turned and started across toward O'Leary.

"Nicodaeus!" O'Leary grabbed his second's arm. "This isn't going just the way I'd figured. I mean, I assumed that since Alain—that is, I don't see how—"

"Later." Nicodaeus disengaged his arm, strode across, engaged in deep conversation with his two opposite numbers. Lafayette hefted the sword, executed a pair of awkward thrusts. The weapon felt as clumsy as a crowbar in his cold-numbed fingers. Now Alain stepped forward a few paces and stood waiting, his slim blade held in his bronzed fist as lightly as a bread stick.

"Come along, Lafayette." Nicodaeus was at his side. "Now, I'll hold a white handkerchief between your crossed blades . . ."

Lafayette hardly heard Nicodaeus, who was talking rapidly as he urged him forward. Perhaps if he fell down, pretended to hurt his knee . . . no, no good. Maybe if he sneezed—a sudden attack of asthma—

It wouldn't do. There was only one course left. Damn! And just when he'd started having a good time. But it couldn't be helped. And this time it had better work. O'Leary shut his eyes, conjured up the image of Mrs. MacGlint's Clean Rooms and Board, the crooked hall, the cramped bedroom, the peeling, stained wallpaper, the alcove, the sardines . . .

He opened his eyes. Nicodaeus was staring at him.

"What's the matter? You're not sick?"

O'Leary snapped his eyes shut, muttering to himself: "
You're asleep, dreaming all this. You're in bed, feeling that broken spring in the mattress—the one that catches you under the left shoulder blade. It's almost morning now, and if you just open your eyes slowly . . .
" He opened one eye, saw Count Alain waiting ten feet away, the rank of expectant faces behind him, the stone wall looming above.

"
It's not real
," he hissed under his breath. "
It's all a fake, an hallucination! It isn't really here!
" He stamped a boot against the stone paving. "
This isn't real stone, ha ha, just imaginary stone. I'm not really cold; it's a nice night in August! There's no wind blowing . . .
"

His voice trailed off. There was no use in kidding himself: The stone was solid as ever underfoot. The icy wind was still cutting at his face like a skinning knife and Alain waited, light glinting on the naked steel in his hand. Nicodaeus was looking at him concernedly.

" . . . instructions," he was saying. "Well, do the best you can, my boy." He took out the white handkerchief and flapped it.

"It's the distractions," O'Leary mumbled to himself. "I can't concentrate, with all these people watching."

"Gentlemen, on guard!" Nicodaeus said sharply. Count Alain raised his sword, held it at the
engagé
. Dumbly, Lafayette stepped forward, lifted his heavy blade, clanged it against the other. It was like hitting a wrought iron fence.

"Say, just a minute!" O'Leary lowered his blade and stepped back. Alain stared at him, his black eyes as cold as outer space. O'Leary turned to Nicodaeus. "Look here, if this is a real duel, and not just a friendly lesson—"

"Ha!" Alain interjected.

" . . . then as the challenged party, I have the choice of weapons, right?"

Nicodaeus pulled at his lower lip. "I suppose so, but the meeting has already begun."

"It's never too late to correct an error in form," O'Leary said firmly. "Now, you take these swords—primitive weapons, really. We ought to use something more up to date. Pistols, maybe; or—"

"You demand pistols?" Nicodaeus looked surprised.

"Why not pistols?" At least—O'Leary was thinking of the princess's eyes on him—he wouldn't look as silly missing with a pistol as he would with Alain chasing him around the courtyard slashing at his heels.

"Pistols it is, then," Nicodaeus was saying. "I trust suitable weapons are available?"

"In my room," O'Leary said. "A nice pair of weapons."

"As Sir Lafayette desires," one of Alain's seconds was saying. "Subject to Count Alain's agreement, of course."

"I'm sure the count won't want to chicken out at this point," O'Leary said. "Of course pistols are pretty lethal—" he broke off, suddenly aware of what he was saying. Pistols?

"On second thought, fellows—" he started.

"I've heard of them," Alain was nodding. "Like small muskets, held in the hand." He shot O'Leary a sharp look. "You spoke only of cold steel when you goaded me to this meeting, sirrah; now you raise the stakes."

"That's all right," O'Leary said hastily. "If you'd rather not—"

" . . . but I accept the gage," Alain declared flatly. "You're a more bloodthirsty rogue than I judged by the look of you, but I'll not cavil. Bring on these firearms!"

"Couldn't we just cut cards?" But Nicodaeus was already speaking to a mop-haired page, who darted away, looking eager.

Alain turned his back, walked off a few paces, spoke tightlipped to his seconds, who shot back looks at O'Leary. He shrugged apologetically, got scowls in return.

Nicodaeus was chewing his lip. "I like this not, Lafayette," he said. "With a lucky shot, he could blow your head off, even if you nailed him at the same time."

Lafayette nodded absently, his eyes half shut. He was remembering the pistols, picturing them as they lay snug in their jeweled holsters. He envisioned their internal workings, visualized the parts . . . His ability to manipulate the environment seemed to come in spells, but it was worth a try. Tricky business, at this range. He felt a reassuring flicker, faint but unmistakable—or was it? Perhaps it had just been a gust of wind.

The boy was back, breathing hard, holding out the black leather belt with its elegant bright-work and its burden of long-barreled pistols.

"I'll take those." Nicodaeus lifted the guns from the page's hands, crossed to the waiting count and offered both pistol butts. Alain drew one from its holster, hefted it, passed it to his seconds, who turned it over, wagged their heads, muttered together and handed it back. O'Leary took his, noted distractedly that it was a clip-fed automatic with a filed front sight. It looked deadly enough.

"What distance is customary, Lafayette?" Nicodaeus enquired in a whisper.

"Oh, about three paces ought to be enough."

"What?" Nicodaeus stared at him. "At that range, no one could miss!"

"That's the idea," O'Leary pointed out. "Let's get on with it." He licked his lips nervously, hardly hearing as Nicodaeus instructed both combatants to stand back to back, their weapons held at their sides, and at the signal to take three paces, turn and fire.

Alain stepped into position and stood stiffly, waiting. Lafayette backed up to him.

"All right, go!" Nicodaeus said firmly. O'Leary gulped, took a step, another, a third and whirled, raising the gun.

Alain's weapon was already up, pointed straight at O'Leary's heart. He saw the count's finger tighten on the trigger at the same instant that he sighted on the white blob of the other's shirt front and squeezed.

A jet of purple ink squirted in a long arc, scoring a dead center hit as a stream of red fluid from Alain's gun spattered on his own shoulder.

"I got you first!" O'Leary called cheerily, snapping another shot that arched across to catch Alain on the ear. It was a good, high-pressure jet, O'Leary noted approvingly. It followed the haughty count as he reeled back, played over his face and down the already empurpled shirt, and piddled out just as Alain, in retreat, collided with his own startled seconds and went down. The crowd, in silent shock until then, burst out with a roar of laughter, above which a distinct titter from the direction of Princess Adoranne was clearly audible.

"Well, I guess I win," O'Leary lowered the gun, smiling and taking the accolade of the crowd. Alain was scrambling to his feet, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He stared at his violet palms, then with a roar leaped at his second, wrested the sword from the startled man's grip and charged.

"Lafayette!" Nicodaeus roared. O'Leary looked around in time to see his rapier flying toward him, hilt first. He grabbed it and brought it up just in time to receive Alain's onslaught.

"Hey!" O'Leary back-pedaled, frantically warding off the count's wild attack. Steel clanged on steel as the bigger man's fury drove O'Leary back, back. His feet stumbled on the uneven pavement and the heavy blows numbed his arm, threatening to knock his weapon from his grip. There was no question of counterattack.

A mighty chop sent Lafayette's blade spinning. He had a momentary glimpse of Alain's face, purple with ink and fury, as he brought back his blade, poised for the thrust.

There was a flash and a resounding clong! as something white shot down from above to strike the count's head, bound aside and smash against the wall. Alain dropped his sword, folded slowly, knees first, and slammed out flat on his face.

A fragment of the missile clattered to O'Leary's feet. He let out his breath in a hoarse gasp, stooped and brought up the shard. It bore a familiar pattern of angels and rosebuds: the chamber pot from his room.

He looked up quickly, caught a glimpse of a saucy face, ringed with dark curls, just withdrawing from a darkened window.

"Daphne," he muttered, "nice timing, girl."

* * *

Back in the ballroom there was a great deal of hearty laughter and congratulatory slapping of Lafayette's back.

"As pretty a piece of foolery as I've seen this twelve-month," chortled a grizzled old fellow in pale yellow knee pants and a monocle. "Young Alain's had it coming to him, what? Bit of a prig, but a trifle too stout a lad to bait!"

"You handled the situation nicely, my boy," Nicodaeus nodded sagely. "A fatality would have been in rather bad taste, and of course, you've made your point now, statuswise."

Adoranne came up, looking prettier than ever with her cheeks pink from the cold air. She put a hand on Lafayette's arm.

"I thank you, noble sir, for sparing the count's life. He's learned a lesson he'll not soon forget."

A sudden loud shriek rang out across the crowded ballroom floor, followed by the piercing accents of an angry female voice. At this new diversion, Lafayette's circle of admirers broke up and moved off craning their necks to make out the source of the outbursts.

"Whew!" O'Leary looked around for a waiter and lifted the ninth—or was it the tenth?—brandy of the evening from a passing tray. "Adoranne," he started, "now's our chance to get away from the mob for a minute. I noticed there's a nice garden outside."

"Oh, Lafayette, let's discover what it is that's set the duchess to clamoring like a fishwife spoiled of a copper!" She tugged at his hand playfully. He followed as Nicodaeus moved ahead, calling for way for her Highness.

"It's a chambermaid," someone was passing the word. "The saucy minx was mingling with her betters, wearing a stolen gown, mind you!"

O'Leary had a sudden sinking feeling. He'd forgotten all about his invitation to Daphne. The petite chambermaid, transformed in rose-colored silk set off by white gloves, silver slippers and a string of luminous white pearls, defiantly faced a bony matron buckled into stiff yellowish-white brocade like a suit of armor. The latter shook a finger heavenward, her neck tendons vibrating like cello strings, the coronet atop her mummified coiffure bouncing with the vigor of the verbal assault.

" . . . my girl, and I'll see to it that after the flogging, you're sent away to a workhouse where—"

"Ah, pardon me, Duchess," O'Leary stepped forward, winked encouragingly at Daphne and faced the incensed noblewoman. "I think there's been a slight misunderstanding here. This young lady—"

"Lady! I'll have you know this is a common servant girl! The audacity of the baggage appearing here—and in
my
gown! My seamstress completed it only today."

"You must be mistaken," O'Leary said firmly. "The dress was a gift from me and I invited her here."

Behind him there was a sharp gasp. He turned. Adoranne looked at him, wide-eyed, then managed a forced smile.

"Another of our good Sir Lafayette's jests," she said. "Be calm, Veronica dear; the girl will be dealt with."

"No, you don't understand," O'Leary protested. "There's been a mistake. I gave her the dress this evening."

"Please, noble sir," Daphne broke in. "I . . . I'm grateful for your chivalrous attempt to aid a poor servant girl, but it's no use. I . . . I stole the dress, just as her ladyship said."

"She did not!" Lafayette waved his arms. "Are you all out of your mind? I tell you—"

The duchess pointed a skeletal finger at a decorative motif on the bodice of the gown. "Is that, or is that not, the crest of the House of High Jersey?" Her voice was shrill with triumph.

"She's quite right of course," Nicodaeus muttered at O'Leary's side. "What's all this about giving her the dress?"

"I . . . I . . ." O'Leary stared from the duchess to Daphne, who stood now with downcast eyes. A suspicion was beginning to dawn: somehow, his ability to summon up artifacts at will wasn't quite as simple as he'd thought. When he had called for a bathroom, he'd gotten a tub—complete with occupant—transferred, the girl had said, from her garret room. And when he had ordained a dress in the closet, he hadn't created it from nothing; he had merely shifted the nearest available substitute to hand—in this case, from the wardrobe of the duchess.

"I'll pay for the dress," he blurted. "It's not her fault. She didn't know it was stolen—that is, I didn't steal it—not really. You see, I invited her to the party, and she said . . ."