Ah, welcome, fine sir, welcome! What can I get for you this good day? These croissants are fresh and luscious, just plucked from the oven. Born but minutes ago and already full and grown! The hazelnut toast is very good today, or perhaps you have come for my wife’s famous star-glazed macaroons? But no, I know that look. You have not come for the most marvelous baked goods in all Avalinece, you have come here for a story! But no worry- you shall have both; try an almodine muffin while we chat, you will find they sweeten any narrative. Just half a sisterce each.
Thank you, fine sir, very generous. Now which of my stories can I serve for you today? I assure you each one is as delicious and different as my pastries, though perhaps they are not all so sweet. A duel? Ah, sir, I fear I must beg you to be more specific. This is after all, Avalinece, City of Love, City of Romance and thus, it must follow, City of Duels. Why, the Piazza del Compo behind you sees as many as five in a month, and never less than two. Not all worthy of a tale, of course, but always good for business; everyone likes to have a sugar cookie to munch on while-
Ah yes, the story of Steinmetz’s final duel, an excellent tale! And one in which I myself play a small part, I must say. But then, who in Avalinece has not been drawn into another’s duel, eh? In any case, to understand the story of the duel you must first understand the duelists. First, Aleksandr Felignol, the Doomed Suitor. Truly he was the best of all things Avalinecean- impeccably mannered, exquisitely dressed; from a poorer family, but rich in talent. He made his living as an actor on the stage of the Lunarium, his dark tragedies and biting satires a delight to the whole city. Nor did his talents end there, for his poems appeared in several of the better gazettes, and his way with a pianoforte made him welcome at every salon. That his hair was the warm, sumptuous brown of a perfect pumpernickel, or his wit as sharp as a lemon snap, well, these things in no way harmed his fortunes. And yet, for all his devotion to the stage, to music, to the written word, his deepest love was for the daughter of the ertwshile Duke Burmelin: Angelitte.
Angelitte was and is a great beauty. Nay, an incredible one. Her long light hair as golden as the summer wheat, lips as pale and perfect as the lightest icing rose. Her eyes the deep, vibrant blue of, well, of the blueberry filling in these danishes here. Thank you, yes- the color is quite strikingly bright; a little trick of my own devising, involving egg-whites. But in any case, yes, Angelitte was a sight to behold, and it was impossible to look upon her and not be slightly smitten. The only reason she was not constantly beset by droves of suitors was her financial situation. Her father’s financial situation, really, as few men could afford to inherit the ex-Duke’s enormous family of debts, and fewer still were willing do so for love, even be it the love of the fairest of maiden in all the city (though it must be said that most of these men were foreign merchants, not truly given over to the great Romance of Avalinece.) The loss was theirs.
One suitor who was not deterred by such things, however, was Steinmetz. Now, if Aleksandr was all that was fine about Avalinece, then Steinmetz embodied all its evils. He was a nobleman of good family, and soldiered for a time in Guniere, until he was dismissed from the service, some say for the brutal punishments he meted out to his own men. He was an expert duelist, though anyone that watched him fight could see that he never dueled for honour, but only for blood- his tiny eyes sparkling with a killer’s glee, like over-sugared currants. He had something of an ape-like mien, a slight hunch and long, powerful arms, like an orang-utan. Which will be important later, but for now you need only know that he was feared and hated by the gentlewomen of the city. Despite his notorious cruelty to the maidens he paid court to, his dueling ability and family influence were such that no judge of the city had ever successfully convicted his misdeeds, and thus it was that Steinmetz was an innocent in the eyes of the law.
And this was the crux of Burmelin’s problem, for though he was not so heartless as to desire his daughter married to such a rotten apple of a man as Steinmetz, he had no hard reason to refuse his suit. And a refusal without reason can be taken as insult by a certain sort of man, and prelude to a duel. And the aged ex-Duke was surely no match for the brutal blades of Steinmetz.
And there you have all the ingredients arrayed before you; I need hardly spell out how they fell together; how Steinmetz maneuvered the former Duke into giving insult, how Aleksandr offered himself as Burmelin’s champion, hoping to win Angelitte’s heart, and how these two opposite sons of Avalinece came to face each other in this very piazza. Yes. Now, the next part of the tale will go best with a cheese brioche.
Excellent, yes? My wife made them this morning, she has a positive gift for briochery. Yes. In any case, when the day of the duel dawned, the piazza thronged with onlookers; Felignol’s admirers and supporters, a small crowd of Steinmetz’ toadies, and a larger crowd of his enemies, who hoped against hope that the villain would take the worst of things today. I was a younger man then, but I still remember the charge in the air, the excitement, the hum of voices like the rumble of clouds before a thunderstorm. I didn’t have this fine shop then, just a stall in the Piazza, and with the buzzing crowd I quickly sold my entire stock for the day, and was able to join the audience. I had even placed a bet or two on Aleksandr, though Steinmetz, of course, was by far the favorite.
Aleksandr was the first to arrive, clad a deep purple suit the color of marionberry, his cuffs large, white, starched affairs, and the metal studs of his dueling vest so polished that they sparkled like spun sugar. His rapier was the same way- so bright it might have been forged from glass- long and sharp as a frosting icicle, perhaps even an inch or two longer than a standard blade. He favoured the crowd with a few flourishes and passes, ever the showman.
Steinmetz arrived soon after in his black carriage, henchmen and lackeys perched on it and atop it like crows. The man himself dropped from the coach like a toad, dark hat pushed low over his face like a sloppy chocolate cap on an unleavened muffin. He wore the perpetual sneer that had long since replaced the face he was born with, and his skin was the uneven, sickly pale of spoilt milk.
Even before he raised his head he had his weapons in hand, two short, stout daggers, thick and broad, like wedges of cheese. Brothers to hand axes, they were, and the secret of Steinmetz’ dueling success. I can see by your own fine rapier hilt that you know most duels go to the quick- a broadsword might be stronger, even deadlier, but it is too heavy, too slow to block the nimble rapier hits that win matches. Now Steinmetz’ squat blades were heavy for their size, but still as light as full rapiers, and once he started whipping those long, long arms about he was easily quick enough to intercept an incoming blade with a jarring parry, then follow up with a quick swing from the other knife. They called him the Terrier, because his cuts tended to be shallow, bloody affairs, and in a full duel it often took several, if not a dozen such wounds before an opponent would yield. In particular, Steinmetz loved to counterattack his enemy’s sword arm- it was a close target for his short blades, and he like to watch his foes grow visibly weaker and defenseless as the match progressed.
This is why he frowned when he finally lifted his cowpat cap and saw Aleksandr’s large starched cuffs. Though any armor besides the dueling vest was forbidden in a match of notice, it was not unheard of for a young duelist to receive a good luck gift of jewelry from his loved one- a large medallion that might happen to hang just above the heart, say, or an unusually thick bracelet or two. Who knew what might lie between those starched folds and Alexsandr’s fragile skin?
But Steinmetz shrugged off his discomfit the way a pig shrugs off mud, and stalked into the Piazza. The officient greeted them both, his apple-red robes bright in the noon-day sun, checked cap of office like a pie crust atop his head. He assured the participants’ familiarity with the rules of conduct, and the completeness of their legacy instructions, then retired to the sidelines to observe the duel.
Aleksandr started off strongly, quick and confidant, trying to use his superior height to advantage. His footwork marked him as a disciple of the Astrologic Circle school of fencing, though he had clearly added a few flashier techniques from his acting career. Too many, it seemed, as it soon became clear to the onlookers, and Steinmetz, that Aleksandr’s main strength as fighter was his stylish bravado- he was making no headway in piercing Steinmetz’ guard, and he kept missing opportunities by relying on flashy, exaggerated attacks. Sensing that he had overestimated his opponent, Steinmetz risked a quick rush forward, batting aside Aleksandr’s rapier and raking his second knife across the taller man’s wrist. We heard no clang, no clash of metal, and when Aleksandr’s bright white cuff began to turn a bright, brilliant, strawberry red, we knew that Steinmetz’ knife had cut through more than cloth.
Emboldened, Steinmetz fell into his usual attack style, head low and arms reaching forward, he looked like some kind of dark, giant crab, scuttling across the dueling ground. His knives did their work, and Aleksandr’s blade always seemed a bit too slow and, as the duel wore on, his arm too weak. Even the attacks he caught on his guard pierced him before he pushed them back, and all too soon his fine purple suit was hanging from him in tatters, the white cotton beneath soaked that same brilliant strawberry- the same red that spattered the cobbles, that ran down Aleksandr’s sleeve, over the fingers of his sword arm. He looked a pitiable sight, wavering and staggering, and Steinmetz’ cruel grin was lemon-sour as he swung back his arms to deliver a powerful cymbal swing attack- then stopped in mid-motion, suddenly confused and off balance, his currant eyes wheeling wildly, trying to focus on the tip of Aleksandr’s rapier that rested lightly against his throat.
Aleksandr himself stood straight and tall, strong and focused, for all that he looked as if he’d just crawled out the wrong door of the slaughterhouse. And as Steinmetz recited the litany of surrender in a rather strangled, disbelieving voice, the crowd realized that their master actor had just given them his finest performance. Steinmetz was so ashamed at having been duped before the whole city that he took his carriage straight to his estates in the Veien provinces, and has not been heard of since.
My role? Well, where do you think Aleksandr got his dozen strawberry foldovers, each one stuffed with the brightest, most vibrant strawberry filling in all Avalinece? Not every baker can craft a pastry that slim and supple, I promise you! In fact, I have a few here that I baked myself just this morning, five for a piaster.
Yes, you can see how that color might fool anyone. Yes, of course Aleksandr still won the duel, it was a cheeky bit of trickery, but not actually illegal. Stage blood would never have been permitted, but food has been allowed on the dueling ground for centuries- ever since the heyday of Swaggering Jack, who liked to outfence opponents while eating a sandwich. In fact, I have it on good authority tha- oh, I see. Yes, well, you’ll notice I called him the Doomed Suitor, not the Doomed Duelist. You see, the first thing Aleksandr did after he and Steinmetz had both signed the standings ledger was to search the crowd for fair Angelitte. And there she was, resplendent in a rather lowcut cornflower blue gown, laughing and cheering. And Aleksandr moved to embrace her, which an outlander might find odd, as Aleksandr was still stained crimson from head to toe, but in Avalinece it is not uncommon for young ladies to embrace their bloodied champions forthwith, whatever garments they might be wearing. For what gown, dress, or bodice could show that one is loved better than the blood spilt in the name of that very love? Yes, it does sound a little strange when you explain it out loud, but it’s a practice of long standing in the city, and the fact that Aleksandr was covered in strawberry blood rather than his own did nothing to dissolve that tradition.
Alas, what Aleksandr did not know was that Angelitte was… susceptible to certain fruits, they caused her to itch, and swell, and turn a variety of unsightly colors. Once when she was but a child, a simple sip of strawberry cordial caused her throat to swell shut- she could barely breathe for the better part of a day, and could not talk for near half a week. So the moment she felt Aleksandr’s arms upon her, his jam soaked body against her skin, why, she screamed like she’d been stung, or stabbed, and ran from the Piazza at full tilt, gyrating and flailing as she tried to wipe herself clean with her sleeves at the same time. Aleksandr was stunned, and confused, and heartbroken. They say he packed up that very night and took to the road. Last I heard he was headlining a rather prestigious playhouse in the Upper Ghant. I suppose someone could have explained Angelitte’s condition to him, someone in the food crafts industry who had seen such things before, but I, alas, was busy collecting my winnings from several different establishments about the city. They weren’t outrageous but they were substantial, enough to open this shop, buy some fine clothes, and, when the time came, to make a down payment on Duke Burmilen’s debts. Yes, Angelitte! As you have discovered yourself she has a rare talent for baking , and, as it turned out, a small soft spot for bakers. Though of course I always to have to make the strawberry foldovers myself. The peach ones too, which are even trickier, but it’s a small price to pay, to be wed to fairest, wisest, most wondrous lady in all of Avalinece.
There now, you shouldn’t let your mouth just hang open like that. One of these pear cakes will fill it nicely; two for half a mark.
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