Won't You Call It a Draw? - 4
Humming along to an AI-generated song, I found myself arriving at our destination before I knew it.
Monaco — a tiny sovereign nation nestled within France itself.
"My father — the one I have now — used to tell me all sorts of stories. Things my late grandfather used to say."
Janette stepped out of the car with a soft tap, her voice tracing old memories. The car was parked a reasonable distance from the building we were aiming for.
The Casino de Monte-Carlo, in Monaco's Monte Carlo district. Today's destination was the basement beneath it.
I asked, "There's a black market here?"
"Yes. On the surface it looks quiet — like the place is simply closed for the day. But apparently they operate every single day."
A black market never knows when a customer might show up. That was why they kept their doors open daily, ready to receive anyone who came. Thanks to that, I could sell my goods quickly and without much trouble.
The funds were off-the-books money whose origin I could never disclose, which made official channels all but impossible. Besides, thinking of it as selling my own belongings left me with little hesitation. It wasn't as if I were fencing artifacts stolen from a museum. And I was hardly pure myself, so any revulsion toward black markets had long since worn thin.
As Janette liked to say — unless you crossed a line, it was fine. That held true for her as well. Looking only at her name and reputation, she seemed the type who would never tolerate anything so unsavory. But I knew she was more flexible than she appeared. Just as I was. Just as our children had been.
"They're diligent, at least."
Marie climbed out behind us and heaved a sigh as she lifted a bag. As a high-ranking Awakened, she showed no sign of strain under the weight.
Let me carry that.
No. You just keep your hands free and take it easy, Ji-hyuk.
Exactly. Stay still, stay comfortable, and leave it to us.
The exchange from a moment ago drifted back through my mind, along with that oddly soothing feeling of being treated like a newborn. This wouldn't do. I gave my head a light shake and cleared the thoughts away. We were about to enter a black market — tension was in order.
"How do we get in?"
"You give a hand signal to the CCTV at the front entrance. They don't look at faces, so just cover up like this."
Janette pulled a black mask from her pants pocket and slipped it on. With the bag strap hooked over her wrist, she didn't seem particularly inconvenienced — only burdened by the weight. Marie and I watched, then put on the masks we'd been given earlier. We genuinely looked like thieves.
Janette bound her hair carefully and tugged a hat down low. Between the mask and the brim, deep shadow swallowed her face. At that level, it would take real effort to identify her.
With Janette in the lead, we climbed the casino steps. She stopped before the main doors, set the bag down for a moment, and raised both arms high. She formed rings with her thumbs and index fingers, then pressed the edges of both hands together.
"Someone will come soon. There's always a person watching the front entrance."
She picked the bag back up and waited. One minute. Two. Several minutes of silence settled around us.
Here they come.
Click. Click.
It wasn't my imagination — footsteps approached from inside the building. Dull yet sharp. Dress shoes, by the sound of it.
"Welcome. This way, please."
A man opened the door and received us. Smooth build, glasses — an elderly gentleman with the air of someone out of a film. Janette nodded silently and flicked her eyes toward us, as if to say, just follow quietly. Marie and I trailed after them without a word.
We went to a corner of the casino, then to a cleaning closet tucked further still — until the old man opened the door of a cleaning supply cabinet. Crazy. He pressed a red button set into the side panel. An elevator motor hummed, and the wall itself parted open like a pair of great double doors.
"Please step aboard."
Ding! An elevator glowing with warm orange light slid open with a cheerful chime, and the old man invited us in with a flourish — the same natural French he'd used to greet us.
A nod. We all stepped inside, and the elevator began its descent, a low whirr accompanying us. After only a few seconds, it chimed again. Judging by the travel time, we weren't going terribly deep.
"We have arrived. Please enjoy yourselves."
The doors opened with the old man's voice, and a broad space washed in yellow light received us. Gambling tables for cards were scattered about the way they might be in any casino. Vendors had set up stalls around elegant glass display cases. It felt like a lively marketplace that had somehow stayed orderly.
"I hear gambling is mostly done customer-to-customer," Janette said, glancing around. "A lot of the stalls belong to independent black-market dealers. The market itself also runs official auctions."
It was so loud and vibrant that hearing her at all took effort.
"Amazing," Marie said. "I've never been to a black market. It's fascinating."
"I can imagine."
Janette nodded in sympathy. I was so astonished myself that I nearly lost the power of speech.
"But is it really all right for the Saintess to visit a place like this?" Marie tilted her head. "A black market is a black market for a reason."
A perfectly fair question.
"Surprisingly, they don't deal in human trafficking or narcotics. Being a black market, they do sell illegal goods — specter materials, weapons, that sort of thing — but they keep to a certain line. That's why it's tolerated."
"So you're saying it's fine?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to call it fine. But Awakened and high society visit often enough that it's relatively safe. Confidentiality is one of the most basic rules here."
"Follow me."
Janette scanned the area, then strode off with the ease of someone who had been here more than once.
Antique Section
We passed the luxury goods area, the section for weapons and materials made from specters, and several others before arriving at the antiques. Stout brown walls stood like freestanding signs, marking the boundary between zones.
"There are more Awakened here than I expected," Marie whispered, looking around. Unlike the other sections, this one was quieter — though with the masks on, hearing anything clearly was still difficult.
"It's a black market. Bound to happen. I noticed plenty of people who looked Awakened myself."
I answered in a similarly low voice and kept moving, two paces behind Janette.
Expensive stuff everywhere here, too.
True to an antiques market, every kind of object was on display — from everyday odds and ends to instruments and works of art. In sheer variety, this section might have been the best in the whole black market.
"Hello."
Janette stopped in front of one of the stalls. It was glass-fronted like the others, but the display cases behind the counter sat completely empty. The man minding it was a small, white-haired old man.
"Hmm? Welcome. Though… that voice sounds rather familiar…"
He tilted his head. The natural French marked him as a local.
"Does it? It's a common enough voice. That happens."
Janette's tone sharpened slightly, as if fencing with him. She knew the old man and was pretending not to. He kept shooting her puzzled looks.
"Fair enough. Just because something feels familiar doesn't mean digging for identities is allowed. Against the rules."
After staring at her a long moment, he nodded, the look of a man who had decided further prying wasn't worth the effort.
"And the people behind you — friends as well?"
His gaze turned on Marie and me. Calm, sharp — the eyes of an appraiser sizing up merchandise.
"That's right. We came to sell something together."
"Good. Let's see it, then."
He gave the counter a light tap, and it ballooned in size almost instantly — from a modest stall surface into something as broad as a billiard table.
Whoa.
I stood frozen with my eyes wide. Meanwhile Janette and Marie carefully set their crossbody bags on the counter. The weight made them land with a soft thud, stirring up a thin puff of dust.
"Hmm…?"
Ziiip. As the two women opened the bags and laid out the contents, the old man's eyebrows twitched — the look of a man on the verge of a powerful revelation.
A coin purse. Plates, forks, knives — an entire set of tableware. Everyday sundries arrayed in neat rows. It made for quite the spectacle.
"Where on earth did you get all of this?"
"The source can remain confidential, so I'll spare the details."
Janette answered as the old man's voice trembled. Marie and I were little more than decorative fixtures at her side.
"Ah… right. Forgive me. That isn't the important part. In any case — you want these appraised?"
Instead of answering, Janette glanced at me. My turn to step forward. Fair enough. I was the owner of these pieces, after all — I knew their value and their purpose better than anyone.
"So you're the owner, then," the old man said.
"I am."
"Do you know what they are?"
"Most of them are pieces used at court during the reign of Louis XVI. The money and sundries, of course, weren't exclusive to the palace."
I answered as though I knew everything, and the old man let out a long, low hum.
"They could be forgeries, you know."
"I'm certain they're genuine. No age manipulation, no counterfeits. And you already had a fair idea at a glance, didn't you?"
I prodded him lightly with the words, and his expression flickered. Like any black-market dealer, he'd clearly been planning to pull a fast one.
"Mmm… still, an appraisal is in order."
"Of course. Please begin."
I took a small step back, and the old man sighed as he dug through his pocket, producing a small cylindrical loupe of the sort I'd often seen on television. He pressed it to his left eye and sank into the work, examining every coin in the purse, every fine corner of every object without missing a detail.
"…Hoo."
Roughly forty minutes, give or take. After a long silence, a heavy sigh escaped his lips.
"All genuine. Truly astonishing."
He lifted his head and met my eyes. Now that he himself had confirmed their authenticity, it was time to talk price.
"The condition isn't bad at all, given the age — they were wrapped in cloth — and the historical value is excellent. Especially this score."
He pointed to a thin sheaf of aged, yellowed paper. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. A score commissioned from the greatest musician of the age, a man I had known in my youth.
"Yes. A Mozart score. Unpublished, at that."
"Indeed. This alone would make any number of enthusiasts salivate. You could ask several hundred thousand euros and still find a buyer."
Classical specialists tended to have money. To people like that, an unpublished Mozart score was treasure itself. Plenty of them would throw their hands up even past a billion won.
"What figure did you have in mind, sir? For everything together."
I cut straight to the point, and the old man nodded. He had clearly done the math while appraising.
"A clean one million euros."
"Too low. Raise it a little."
One million euros was a little over a billion won. Selling to the rich and vain would fetch far more, and this old man was clearly wealthy himself. I resolved to squeeze a bit more out of him. Even without any expensive jewelry in the lot, it looked like we could clear a million euros easily.
"One and a half million. One and a half million euros."
"Still low."
"I just added half a million! And that's still not enough?"
"Still low."
The old man made a strangled sound, his lips trembling. He looked like a man being shaken down by a thug, and it clearly didn't agree with him.
"Two million. Two million, then."
"Not enough."
"Wait a moment."
I had been repeating not enough like a broken doll when Janette sidled up and whispered,
"That's double the original offer. He's wealthy, but you've pushed it too far. This is an absurd increase."
She was entirely right. My own heart was racing.
"In my eyes, it's still not enough. Higher."
Even so, I said it with perfect calm. Marie and Janette, who had drifted to my side, both went pale with shock.
"You son of a—! Never mind the rest — most of the metal pieces are oxidizing! The silver tableware especially! Restoration alone will cost money! I'm offering this price with that in mind! Be satisfied with three million euros!"
I hadn't known that. The old man finally snapped, neck tensed, eyes bulging as he poured out complaints without pause — a born orator. And still: three million euros. Roughly more than four billion won.
This was the place to stop. Failing to account for oxidation was my own oversight; I had nothing to say about that. And since Janette had approached him first, he was unlikely to be a swindler.
"Very well."
I nodded, and the old man exhaled a long breath and sagged, as though every last ounce of strength had left him.
"You insufferable man! Payment will go through the private bank the black market operates. A fee will be deducted, so keep that in mind."
Still sighing, he pulled out his phone. From the way his fingers moved, he was placing a call. A moment later, a connection sound crackled from the speaker.
"It's me," he said. "The deal's done — send someone over. We need to process the formalities."