Baking Duel (2)
Silence swallowed the kitchen whole. A unanimous verdict without a single dissenter—utterly devastating. Stunned by the brutal outcome, Pierre muttered in a daze.
"......Impossible."
With trembling hands, he snatched up a piece of my bread from the table and shoved it into his mouth.
"......!"
His mustache twitched like it was having a seizure.
Yeah, it'd be shocking.
The sticky dough he'd mocked as "starch paste" had worked some kind of magic in the oven. He'd taste every bit of it on his tongue.
"Th-this can't be...... How could something like that dough produce this flavor? It's physically impossible!"
Pierre suddenly shoved his plate away and glared at me.
"Fraud! This is blatant cheating! You must've mixed in some special drug you prepared beforehand!"
"......What?"
"That water you added to the dough earlier...... You spiked it with some weird drug, didn't you?"
Snickers erupted among the kitchen staff at his baseless accusation.
"He was the one who mocked us earlier, saying to add water however we wanted."
"Yeah, the guy who couldn't even get the hydration right and called it paste is complaining now?"
"Sent from the ducal house, my ass. Can't win fair and square, so now it's all about drugs?"
"A drug that makes bread taste good? As if the alchemists could whip that up!"
Pierre's face flushed beet red, like an overripe jujube, under the cooks' open mockery. He looked ready to burst.
"Y-you...... How dare you! How dare you!"
Pierre hurled his chef's hat to the floor.
"I can't work here after this insult! I'll go back to the ducal house and report every bit of this count family's rudeness!"
Thud, thud, thud!
He stormed out with noisy footsteps. The stunned cooks watched his retreating back in bewilderment. No one had imagined he'd quit on the spot like that.
Head chef Marco approached me, flustered, and bowed his head.
"Young master, I apologize. As head chef, I should've managed Pierre better, but......"
I waved him off dismissively, cutting him short. What was this, the army? Taking responsibility for the whole unit?
"No, I should be the one apologizing. I ruined the kitchen atmosphere."
"......Pardon?"
Marco's neck stiffened rigidly. His eyes shook violently, like an earthquake had hit.
Was it that shocking to hear the word "apologize" from thug Taylor's mouth? And this was just the beginning.
"More importantly, if Pierre runs off to the ducal house like that, it'll be trouble. They sent him as talented staff, and he felt insulted enough to leave."
"Y-yes, exactly. The ducal house might see it as a challenge to them."
"Yeah...... probably."
I brushed the flour off the worktable casually and replied flatly.
"But it's fine. I've got it all figured out."
"Pardon?"
"Rina, grab some stationery and a pen. ......Huh? Where's Rina?"
My personal maid was nowhere in sight. She'd been there during the tasting, hadn't she......?
I had another maid fetch the paper and pen instead. Marco still looked confused, tilting his head.
"Young master, why do you need stationery and a pen......?"
"Letters travel faster than people anyway. I'll make sure mine arrives before that idiot Pierre even crosses the ducal threshold."
"!!!"
I'd even calculated that Pierre would storm off in humiliated rage.
If he got there first and twisted the story in his favor, as Marco pointed out, it could sour relations between the ducal house and our family.
But if I sent a messenger bird or something to deliver my letter ahead?
And if Pierre showed up spouting lies to screw me over, unaware of that?
Pierre, you'll be digging your own grave.
No matter how skilled a baker he was, tricking a noble house with his silver tongue wasn't a light offense. Especially against a ducal house? He'd be lucky if it ended with just losing his tongue.
"Anyway, don't worry about Pierre—I'll handle it. The real issue now is we have no baker, right?"
"Th-that's true, but......"
Marco hesitated, eyes darting around without committing.
Our household wasn't huge; one baker was plenty.
I scanned the assembled kitchen staff right away. Kitchens like this always had at least one apprentice handling grunt work over actual cooking.
My gaze landed on a young girl in a grimy chef's uniform.
"You there."
"Eek! Y-yes, young master!"
The girl flung herself flat on the floor. She was skin and bones, pitifully thin, with her orange hair in a ponytail. Young, dirty clothes—definitely 100% apprentice.
Perfect. You're it.
"What's your name?"
"H-Hanila, sir!"
"Good, Hanila. From now on, you're the count family's exclusive baker."
"P-pardon...?!"
Hanila's eyes bulged like they might pop out. She stared at her soot-stained hands, stammering.
"I-I've never even properly handled dough! If I bake, something's bound to go wrong!"
"It's fine. I'll teach you everything. Just follow my instructions."
"But......"
"Don't worry. It'll be easier than the grunt work you've been doing. And isn't learning to cook what you want?"
"W-well......"
At my question, Hanila glanced nervously at the other cooks.
I remember being an apprentice too—that anxiety's all too familiar.
What did kitchen apprentices dream of? Peeking over shoulders to learn cooking, eventually doing it themselves.
I was just speeding that up for her.
"Stop worrying about glares. We can hire a dozen apprentices like you in the territory. But exclusive baker? This is your one shot."
"......"
"What'll it be?"
"......I'll do it."
"What? Speak up—I can't hear you."
Hanila squeezed her eyes shut and yelled.
"I-I'll do it! Trust me with it—hoeek!"
"......R-right."
Her enthusiasm went a bit overboard with that squeak, but I let it slide. Her face had already turned beet red before I could even comment.
"Marco, no complaints about my pick?"
"None, young master. We can always find another apprentice. But...... are you sure? You teaching her baking yourself?"
"Doesn't bother me."
A half-discarded son of the family anyway. Noble heirs got etiquette, politics, history, music lessons as standard. Not me—total free agent.
"I've got time to burn."
"I-I see...... But young master, where did you learn all that? Even you, head chef, seemed shocked by those techniques."
"Oh, that?"
I fiddled with some flour on the table, brushing it off vaguely.
"Picked it up here and there at social gatherings and such. Nobles love bragging about their family recipes."
"Ah...... I see."
Marco nodded, convinced, and I rolled up my sleeves.
"Questions over. Let's start."
"Pardon?"
Hanila stared up at me blankly.
"Clean the dough board first. Hell training starts today."
"H-hell...? But you said it'd be easier than grunt work......"
"Less thinking, more moving!"
"Yes, sir!!"
A few days later.
Pierre, in his chef's uniform, arrived at the ducal mansion. It was a short carriage ride from Duilstar County.
Still fuming, he huffed and puffed.
A dapper elderly gentleman in a fine suit appeared before him.
"Pierre? What brings you here?"
"Steward, I was insulted at the Duilstar count's household."
"Insulted, you say? What kind?"
"Their young master claimed I couldn't bake, then mocked my bread as tasteless in front of the cooks and servants!"
Recalling that day, Pierre's face flushed red again. But the steward remained utterly calm—Pierre was too worked up to notice the disconnect.
"I'm the baker sent by this Auguste Ducal House. Even His Grace the Duke tasted my bread and was pleased. Insulting me is the same as insulting the count—"
"Who says I was insulted?"
"......H-His Grace the Duke?!"
Clack.
Startled by the footsteps, Pierre prostrated himself.
A portly middle-aged man descended the central staircase. But his snake-like eyes held no warmth, belying his plump exterior. This was the master of the house: Auguste Duc.
"I got a letter from Taylor. Said he beat you in a baking duel, unanimous verdict?"
"Th-that wasn't a proper duel!"
"What makes it improper?"
"The judges were the count family's cooks and servants. Of course they'd side with their young master!"
"Strange."
Tap, tap.
Auguste tapped the letter with his finger.
"The bakers' identities were kept secret. Judgment based purely on taste."
"......That."
"Is the letter lying, or are you?"
Pierre trembled like a cow before the slaughter. Incoherent mumbling, cold sweat beading on his forehead, eyes still shaking wildly.
No one could miss who was lying.
Auguste sighed and shook his head.
"Pierre, you poor fool."
"P-pardon?"
"Did being the ducal baker make you think you were ducal?"
Auguste patted Pierre's shoulder pityingly a couple times.
"You thought you could lie to me and get away with it?"
Snap.
At Auguste's finger flick, armed knights closed in on Pierre like they'd been waiting.
"To the underground dungeon. Verify the letter...... then handle it as you see fit."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"W-wait! I must've lost my mind. Your Grace, Your Grace—!!!"
The knights dragged Pierre away.
Baker or not, lying to a noble was grave. In this feudal society of oaths to lords, it was betrayal.
His execution was sealed with Auguste's casual "handle it."
The steward bowed low beside Auguste.
"The fox tried borrowing the tiger's roar and lost his mind."
"Fox? Too generous. That idiot's not even a fox."
"Haha, well said, Your Grace."
"Oh, and steward."
"Yes?"
Auguste called him with an inscrutable expression.
"Send Blansien von Auguste to Duilstar County on the next rest day."
"On a rest day, Your Grace?"
"Yes. She's nominally engaged to Taylor, after all......"
He glanced where Pierre had been hauled off and muttered.
"I want to hear about that baking duel from my daughter."
Pierre's reaction suggested he'd truly lost a fair contest. Otherwise, he'd not have paled at the mere mention of Taylor's letter.
That raised a question.
Did thug Taylor really win without tricks?
"Curious. Luck of the thug...... or has he been playing thug all along?"
Auguste had never been one to tolerate mysteries.