Eleanor coughed and spluttered for a moment in an unladylike fashion. The sugar that had gone down her windpipe burned most unpleasantly, and it took her a few moments to compose herself. There was no wine to hand, but there was a barrico of ale, so she dipped a mug and drank deeply. It was the first time she had drunk ale since assuming her pose as Eleanor de Aberville, and she had to admit that it tasted good. Eleanor finished the mug, then wrinkled her nose performatively, as though objecting to the flavor. She looked over at the remaining bon-bons with some distaste.

“Ai 'ave decidéd to share mon bon-bons wiv evairyon,” she declared magnanimously.

The melee was held in a section of the palace gardens which had been cleared for the purpose. A square had been set up, its borders marked with rope and a layer of sand spread within its confines. Seating had been erected around it to allow the great and the good to watch the entertainment. One side was reserved for commoners; by tradition, these were supposed to be the apprentices of smiths, fletchers, armorers, and other martial trades. Over the years, most of these folk had found it more profitable to ‘enroll’ burgers and other merchants as apprentices for a few days and, for an exorbitant fee, allow the merchants to hobnob with the nobility for a few hours.


"Zat must be lé fattest blaksmiv ai 'ave evair seen,” Emmaline remarked as she took her seat. Kasimir was seated beside her, much to the annoyance of a minor aristocrat whose seat he had taken. News of her meeting with the Count had obviously raised her status, however, because the young man wasn’t making an issue of it beyond a sulk.

“He does look like he could use a little time pounding iron,” Kasimir agreed. Part of the pantomime was that the merchants had to dress as the apprentices they pretended to be. To a master of disguise like Emmaline, their attempts were pitiful, as even the most authentic of them was in cloth that would cost a month's wages for a tradesman, intentionally distressed to look work-worn and shabby. She suspected part of the reason the nobles tolerated it was to laugh at their grasping inferiors.

Further discussion was interrupted as horns sounded and two men rode into the square from opposite ends. One wore the regalia of a White Wolf, while the other wore mail in the Reikland style. The latter’s armor was battered and battle-worn, and his shield, quartered with the arms of Reikland and one of the southern lords (Denbirch, or Vassalheim maybe; the numerous scuffs in the paint made it hard to tell). Each knight had a herald who announced them. The White Wolf was named Ulf Hammersmit, while the southerner was revealed to be Sir Jonas Krieger.

“Ai thought zis was supposed to bé a mel,” Emmaline whispered.

“There are several single combats first; we don’t joust like your people, not in Middenheim anyway,” Kasimir replied, a slightly skeptical emphasis on ‘your people’. The crowd cheered as a bell was struck and the two combatants charged in. Krieger held a long sword and shield, while Ulf brandished a great two-handed hammer. The two combatants thundered together, horses kicking up sand as they spurred forward. Ulf stood in his stirrups and swung an overhand blow, but Krieger raised his shield at an angle and shed the blow. The crowd were, naturally enough, partisans of the White Wolf and booed vociferously as the steeds passed one another and wheeled around. This time the horses crashed together, their momentum arrested as they reared. Blows flicked back and forth as the horses stamped and circled, Ulf using the haft as well as the head of his hammer to defend himself.

Krieger drove the lip of his shield down hard on Ulf’s thigh. The Ulrican roared and jabbed his hammer at his opponent's visor; Krieger parried, his sword flying free from his hand. He ducked down beneath a stroke aimed at his head and then shoved at Ulf with his gauntlet. The Ulrican seemed to wobble, then crashed to the dirt as his saddle slid off the back of his mount, its straps neatly severed by a small knife that glittered in the Reiklander’s hand. A roar of disapproval went up from the crowd, nobles and merchants alike. Eleanor distinguished herself by cheering and clapping with delight.

“So much for the Land of Chivalry,” Kasimir griped.

“A jen-tellman can be clevair as wéll as bravé; eet doés 'im non 'arm. Maibe you should try?” Eleanor retorted.

"You said before you wanted to ask me a question?" Kasimir asked, changing the subject abruptly. Eleanor didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes twinkling as the furious White Wolf shook his fist at the retreating Reiklander.

“Ai was goeng to ask you if you waire 'appy hair.”