Jane Foresti of Splas
When Blow's black carriage drew up before the manor, the servants who caught sight of it fell at once to murmuring among themselves.
Already dressed for the road, Blow had settled into the carriage with his manservant, who carried Drenor at his side.
"Blow! Where are you going?"
Luce had come running the moment she heard. She stared at him, utterly at a loss.
"To Splas."
"What...? Why?"
"I'm bringing Jane back."
"What on earth are you talking about?!"
Luce's face said she could make no sense of it at all. Then his father, who had come out with her, addressed Blow in a grave voice.
"...And how do you mean to manage that? You haven't any money."
As if he had been waiting for precisely those words, Blow flicked a look at Hans, seated beside him.
Hans hurried forward and held out Blow's sword, Drenor, for the baron and baroness to see.
Faced with a sight she could not believe, Luce covered her open mouth with one hand.
"Blow, you— you can't mean—"
"I'm going to buy Jane back with Drenor."
"Blow, you know better than anyone what that sword is."
"To me it's nothing more than an ornament, isn't it?"
"An ornament? Drenor is an ornament to you?"
"Yes."
Blow's voice was perfectly calm. At those words Slot Deblique's brow drew tight, as if the breath had been struck from him.
Was this child truly prepared to sell even that sword—the blade he had guarded as if it were his own life—and bring Jane home with the price of it?
But in his son's eyes he saw a resolve firmer than any he had ever known, and he found he had nothing left to say.
Worry won out all the same. Luce caught her son's thin arm and pleaded.
"Splas is too far. At least get your strength back a little first..."
"No. I'm going now, and I'll be back."
"Son!"
She stepped toward him as if she still could not understand. Slot took her by the shoulder and spoke in a steady tone.
"Let the boy do as he wishes."
"......"
"This isn't something we can stop."
Then, stepping forward in her place, Slot Deblique said to Blow in a firm voice.
"Come back safely. And see that you eat. You're still recovering, aren't you?"
"Yes, Father. I'll remember."
He bowed to his parents and set off without delay.
The sound of the carriage faded down the road.
Inside the manor, the maids who had been watching grew louder in their whispering.
"Did the young master cherish Jane that much?"
"Impossible. You know how he used to scold her."
One of them tilted her head, as if something did not add up.
"But the young master... doesn't he seem a little different since he woke?"
"A little, maybe. Yesterday morning I brought him his meal, and he actually thanked me for it."
"He knows how to say thank you?"
While the stir spread through the house, Blow sat in the carriage bent over a notebook he had brought along, writing one thing after another in a furious hand.
Two full days of hard travel brought him to Splas, the city that lay between Caipol, where his school stood, and Blanya, his father's domain.
"Young master, shall we rest at an inn today and call on the guild tomorrow?"
"No. Better to go at once."
Hans thought of his master, who had lain awake with open eyes through the night and only drifted off near dawn, and nodded quickly.
"I'll go and ask around."
"No. We'll go together."
It was only early autumn, yet the cold kept him coughing. At last he put into words the question that had been circling his head the whole way.
"What happens to someone sold to a merchant guild?"
"Sometimes they become craftsmen. Sometimes they work for the guild itself."
"Is that the worst of it?"
"No. The worst is a dye works, or the back alleys..."
Hans had watched his master's desperation all the way from the manor, and the longer he spoke, the more his voice dwindled.
"It's all right. You haven't done anything wrong."
"Y-young master."
"Let's go."
No one knew what had become of Jane after she was sold to the guild.
The one mercy was that she was a talent who had attended a magic school. Someone of her caliber would surely be treated decently anywhere on the continent. So the worst case had probably not come to pass. It must not have. Please, let it not have.
Blow tried to reason it through as calmly as he could, but blood welled on the lower lip he had bitten shut with worry.
Before long the merchant guild came into view. He crossed the distance almost at a run and flung the door open.
The clerk whose eyes met his took in his clothes and bowed at once.
"Good day. May I ask your business?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Whom are you looking for?"
"A woman named Jane Foresti."
"Jane?"
"You know her?"
The clerk seemed to recognize the name. Blow, suddenly urgent, pressed him, and the man answered with a formal smile.
"Jane is such a common name, you see."
"I was told she was sold here about two months ago."
"I'll have to check the records. And your name is...?"
"Blow Deblique."
At the name the clerk's eyes went wide, and he rose at once.
"A son of House Deblique?"
"Yes."
"Forgive me. I'll take you to the guild master at once."
He pushed back his chair and started up the stairs.
Following behind, Blow's gaze caught on the many paintings hung along the wall. He was scanning them when he had no choice but to stop dead before one.
"This painting..."
"Ah, Theodore's The Raft of the Medusa. Do you know it?"
Of course he knew it.
A crowd of human figures crowded a drifting raft. Most of them were sinking into despair, going mad—and yet, vivid among them, someone who had not lost hope was waving a flag. Theodore's masterpiece. Every face on that canvas, every brushstroke, lived in Blow's memory. It was one of the paintings his mother, Luce, had treasured most.
The painting Mother cherished so dearly, hanging here...
His chest tightened. But that was not what mattered now, and he quickened his steps again.
"...Never mind. Let's go."
"Yes, of course."
At the end of the third-floor corridor, the door of the guild master's office gleamed gold.
The clerk went in first. A moment later he came back out and addressed Blow with deference.
"Please, go in. The guild master is waiting."
She had barely finished before Blow Deblique threw the door open and went inside.
The guild master had the plump, well-fed look of a toad. He listened at length to the description of Jane, his eyes rolling this way and that, both corners of his mouth lifted in an easy smile.
"Jane Foresti—if you mean the white-haired Jane, then yes, I know her."
"Where is she now?"
"Well. I don't keep track of every little thing... I'll have one of the junior clerks look into it. In the meantime, perhaps a cup of tea?"
He was speaking deliberately slowly, and the reason was simple. The Blow Deblique sitting before him looked very much in a hurry. Hesitate a little, and the boy would show his hand easily enough. There would still be time to decide once that hand was on the table.
While the man was turning all this over—
Blow, swallowing his irritation, set Drenor on the desk.
Even at a glance it was no ordinary thing. The guild master's eyes flew wide.
"Th-that is...?"
"I want to trade this for Jane."
"...That's Drenor, isn't it?"
"Sharp eyes."
The proposal was absurd. Past bewilderment and into outright fluster, the guild master looked at the red-haired whelp across from him.
He knew the wastrel of House Deblique—the Scoundrel of Blanya—very well indeed. After the boy collapsed, he had sucked the family's money down like a drain, and thanks to that the guild had been able to buy priceless paintings and luxuries at prices that made no sense. When word came that he had woken, the guild master had felt a private regret.
But if the last of it was this Drenor—this famed blade said to be capable of cutting down a dragon—there could be no more perfect ending. Which was precisely why he could not help but be suspicious.
Trade this famous sword for Jane...? Why?
No matter how he turned it, the thing was beyond common sense, so the figure he arrived at was, of course, the wrong one.
"I'm terribly sorry, but... it isn't a fake, is it?"
"Hans. Draw the sword."
"Yes, sir."
The words were barely out before Hans drew the blade.
The guild master took in the graceful fall of the steel and the edge flashing in the sunlight, then shouted at a clerk in a rushed voice.
"Bring Jane!"
"Sir?"
"Right now!"
Only then could Blow let out the breath he had been holding.
Strength left his legs. He caught the chair and said,
"Mind if I sit?"
"Of course! Please, sit."
His manner entirely changed, the guild master came around and pulled out the chair, and Blow dropped into it.
"As I thought—you're unwell?"
"I wouldn't say I'm well."
"Aha. You look tired. I'll have tea brought. A-and in the meantime, might I examine Drenor?"
He asked carefully, rubbing his hands together. Everything felt like a nuisance. Blow waved him off.
"Do as you like."
Some time passed. Footsteps on the stairs, and the voices of two women, reached Blow's ears clear as day.
Drawn by a voice that was bright and soft, he shot up from his seat and flung the door open.
And there she was—the attendant he had missed so desperately, Jane Foresti, staring at him as if she had seen a ghost.
White hair, skin pale as snow, blue eyes, lips touched with pink, a straight nose, gently lowered eyes, slender wrists... The Jane he had longed for even in his dreams was exactly as he remembered her.
"Jane!"
"Blow... young master?"
Before she could say anything more, Blow, his eyes full of tears, pulled her into his arms.
He held her for a long time without letting go. Then he lifted his head, met her eyes, and spoke in a voice thick with tears.
"Let's go."
But Jane avoided his gaze and said nothing.
Startled by a reaction he had not expected, Blow took her by the shoulders and shook her.
"I said let's go. Now."
Silence again—silence that felt nothing but cruel.
Anxiety closed in, and Blow's breathing grew rough. After a long pause, Jane opened her mouth heavily.
"I'm glad you've woken, young master. But I'm content with the life I have now."
"What?"
"I'm keeping the guild's accounts. It's more interesting than I expected..."
"What are you saying?"
"I'll come see you sometime."
With that she carefully took his trembling hand and lowered it.
"I don't know what sort of deal you've made, but if I explain things to the guild master..."
She passed Blow as if it were nothing and went inside.
But what met her eyes was a sight she could never have imagined.
The guild master was going over Drenor with meticulous hands, piece by piece—the sword Blow had valued more than his own life.