Free Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air by Melissa Scott, Jo Graham

Fillipini’s discreetly pointed chin, and saw one of the young Soviet fliers slumped low in his chair in the darkest corner of the room. “Drunk.”
    “Quite possibly,” Fillipini said, “and, again, Signora, I do apologize of asking, but perhaps a lady’s voice, in his native tongue?”
    “Native tongue?” Stasi repeated.
    “I believe your charming husband said you were Russian?” Fillipini smiled nervously.
    “Did he?” Stasi matched him tooth for tooth, a sure sign she was rattled. “I’m sure he meant Austrian! I’m Austrian, darling.”
    Fillipini looked confused. As well he might, Lewis thought, and cleared his throat. “If the man’s drunk — you should probably find some of his own team.”
    “Ah.” Fillipini looked from one to the other as though he was certain his English had failed him.
    “Austrian,” Stasi said firmly. “Not Russian.”
    “Ah,” Fillipini said again. “Well. Then you will not speak Russian to him.”
    “Is that their team leader?” Lewis asked. “By the orchestra?”
    “Perhaps?” Fillipini straightened. “That would certainly be the best. Excuse me.”
    He bustled off, and Stasi let out a long breath.
    “Problem?” Lewis looked around for either Mitch or a waiter, but neither was in signaling distance, though Mitch was getting closer to the bar.
    “And how. I don’t speak a word of Russian, darling. I’d never get by with it for a second with any actual Russians.”
    “So what have you been doing?”
    “I just speak Czech and nobody knows the difference.”
    “Do you speak Austrian?” Lewis asked.
    “German, darling. Austrians speak German — well, not to hear the Germans tell it, but I speak German like a duck.”
    “Ducks speak German?”
    “It’s a saying.” Stasi looked as though she really wanted that glass of champagne. “I’ve got to tell Mitch he can’t say I’m Russian —”
    The music stopped, and they both clapped, Lewis glancing sideways to see Mitch finally returning with the three glasses of champagne.
    “Darling,” Stasi began, but Lewis saw Alma and von Rosen coming back to the table, and shook his head.
    “Trouble?” Mitch asked.
    “Later,” Stasi said, and downed half her glass.
    Von Rosen handed Alma to her seat, and lifted a finger to summon a waiter with a tray of drinks. Lewis accepted one, feeling that he’d earned it, and Stasi swallowed the rest of her drink. “Mitch, darling, let’s dance.”
    Mitch blinked, but rose obediently to his feet and let her lead him toward the dance floor. Alma gave Lewis a sharp look, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She relaxed and he turned his attention to von Rosen, hoping that this conversation wouldn’t lead into deep waters.
    T hat’s it, Mitch thought. I am officially the gawking American. The ballroom glittered with light, the enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal, and more torchieres flared from every wall and pillar, also wired for electricity and hung with glass. The women in their sleek satin and diamonds were just as glittering, and the number of men in full dress uniforms was a little alarming. It was just that most aviation research was funded by the military, he told himself, but he couldn’t help being aware of the number of medals worn by men who were otherwise in civilian formal wear.
    The French ace Vuillemin, now a senior commander of the French Air Force, caught his eye, the scarlet sash of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor bright across his perfectly tailored coat. While they were in Hawaii, the Lodge had managed to stop a plot to use the Legion of Honor to find and influence its members, past and present, and Mitch looked away before anyone noticed him staring. If the conspirators had managed to control Vuillemin — and who knew how many others in positions of power all over Europe — it didn’t bear thinking about.  The Lodge had blocked that path from ever being used, and that was something he could be proud of.
    He