The Scoundrel No Longer Breaks Plates
When Blow Deblique collapsed, two feelings seized Jane at once.
The first was guilt toward him. If she had looked after him a little more carefully—or if, failing that, she had spoken honestly to their instructor, Mnevoir, before the summoning—then Blow would never have fallen.
And yet, whenever she recalled the conduct that had lived up so well to his name as a scoundrel, she also caught herself thinking he had deserved it. She knew she ought not to think so. Even then, when word reached her that he had collapsed and would not rise, it was true that a small, shameful relief had stirred in her: the thought that she might at last be free of him.
Crushed beneath that ambivalence, she barely held her days together, and in the meantime House Deblique's support for her was quietly cut off. She had come home on what was, in name, a leave of absence and, in truth, a withdrawal, and not a single person was there to welcome her.
"A total bust!"
Her father, a gambler, shouted it before she had even set her luggage down.
Fifty Serdia gold. That was the price fixed on her, and she was sold to the merchant guild.
The guild master, reading through her record, started in surprise and put a question to her.
"Third year at the magic school? Is that true?"
She nodded, and by showing him a single flame spell she was spared being sold on. She would be allowed to remain with the merchant guild. Her magic was not polished enough for the front lines, so she was sent to the guild's accounting office. Work that meant fighting numbers—she decided she neither disliked it nor found it difficult. The figures lined up before her expected nothing of her.
She had been sold into this place, and yet her heart was far easier here than in the house where every meal had been eaten under watchful eyes, and easier even than it had been under Blow Deblique. The guild master had promised, besides, that if she worked hard for about five years, he would make her a free citizen.
"Jane. Someone's here to see you."
Which was why, hearing that, she could only be bewildered. Think as she might, there was no one who would come looking for her. It would not be her gambler of a father, and it would certainly not be the friends she had made at school. They would not even know she was here. If she forced herself to name someone, there was Hervena, once a fellow attendant—but knowing Hervena's character, Jane did not believe she would come.
So when she came face to face with Blow, who ought to have been lying in bed, she froze where she stood, as if she had seen a ghost.
She looked away from the strangely tender gaze he turned on her, and the first thing her eyes caught was how thin his arms had grown. Even so, she felt little pity. If anything, now that he was awake, she thought she might finally shake off the last scrap of debt she still carried.
"Let's go."
And so, when she heard those words, she could not understand him at all. What on earth was this scoundrel saying? Blanya's autumn was certainly lovelier than Splas. That was all. Was she meant to entangle herself with him all over again for a reason like that? She had no wish to do any such thing.
She was about to beg the guild master to withdraw from the bargain—until she saw him examining Drenor.
Drenor. Blow's second self. He slept badly and clutched it in his arms all night; hadn't every servant in the house trembled in terror because of it? She remembered that fevered devotion too clearly to believe the sight unfolding before her.
"Jane Foresti. I've finished my talk with Young Master Blow Deblique."
"Yes?"
"We've agreed to exchange you for this Drenor. You've worked hard. Olivia will see to the papers."
He did not spare her so much as a glance. Nostrils flaring, he ran his hands over Drenor.
What in the world...?
Fighting to collect herself, she turned.
Blow stood there with an uncharacteristically overwhelmed look on his face, gazing at her with aching fondness. Jane did not take a single step toward him. From a careful distance, she asked her question.
"Is what he said true?"
"Yeah."
"Young Master, I was sold here for fifty gold."
"So you were."
"Drenor is a thing beyond any price. Why would you take a loss like that...? This isn't right, no matter how you look at it. It seems you've only agreed by word so far, so—"
"Jane."
He cut her off, flat and final, and turned toward the corridor.
"Let's go."
The bargain was struck. Jane had no choice but to follow. She offered the guild master one last courtesy.
"Thank you for everything."
"Yeaaah."
"I won't forget your kindness."
But he was too busy inspecting Drenor to give her any attention at all. Jane tilted her head at a clerk who met her eyes and shrugged, then followed her master out.
Inside the carriage bound for Blanya, Blow slept like the dead, every scrap of strength spent. His servant Hans and Jane sat in silence beneath a shared blanket.
A long while passed. Stars were beginning to stitch themselves across the sky when Jane, who had been staring at nothing, carefully opened her mouth.
"...How is Blanya?"
"Right in the middle of the potato harvest. The weather's been good this year, so the yield is excellent."
"The Baron must be relieved."
"Yes. In more ways than one. The young master has woken, after all. Nothing but good things ahead—though it'll take him some time to recover."
"When did the young master wake?"
"It's been about a week since he woke, and about three days since he started going about outside."
Surprise spread across Jane's face.
"What? Then..."
"The moment he could move, he went straight to Splas."
"Truly?"
"Truly. Seems a bit changed, doesn't he?"
Jane looked at Blow, snoring as if the journey had worn him out, drew her knees up, and buried her face against them.
"Honestly, I think something's gone a little wrong in his head."
"Still, if it's for the better, isn't that a relief? Lately the other servants are just as startled as I am. He doesn't seem like the young master of old."
Jane said nothing.
"Back then, truly... he was something else. When Drenor first arrived, you have no idea how everyone trembled on the inside. Now that it's gone, I feel light all the way through."
Hans was putting it as kindly as he could, and Jane had seen with her own eyes that Blow had handed Drenor over. Even so, she kept a corner of doubt in her heart.
"But... did the master say anything about what he means to do from now on?"
"Hard to say. He seems to be writing something in earnest, but he hasn't said anything clear—"
"I'm going to run a business."
At Blow's voice cutting suddenly in, Hans and Jane flinched so hard they broke into a cold sweat and met each other's eyes.
"Y-Young Master! Wh-when did you wake...?"
"From the part about me seeming a bit changed."
So he heard all of it!
Certain that disaster had arrived, Hans dropped to his knees before Blow at once.
"I'm sorry, Young Master!"
"For what?"
"I spoke above my station, saying this and that about you. I'll take whatever punishment is due."
"It's fine. You didn't say anything bad."
"R-really?"
"Yeah. I hate saying things twice, so you can stop asking."
"Thank you."
So he could tell someone not to make him repeat himself, and say it that warmly.
Jane could only stare, struck dumb. In the old days he would have slapped Hans across the face and then flown into a rage, swearing he would throw him out of the carriage.
"Jane. What are you going to do?"
"If you attend school, Young Master, I'll look after your daily needs, and if you remain on the estate, I'll serve as your personal maid."
"Then you can help me with the business."
A gentle way of speaking she had never once heard from Blow. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She stared at him with wide, round eyes, then cleared her throat.
"...Are you truly going into business?"
"Yeah."
"Then may I say just one thing?"
"Go ahead."
He had given her leave, but she had to swallow against a dry throat several times before she could manage it.
"Thinking of today, I believe it would be better if you didn't. Simply attending school would..."
"Why? You think today's deal was a loss?"
"Yes. Honestly, I do. It wasn't just anything. You traded Drenor for me."
"No."
"What?"
"I never make a deal at a loss. Never."
As he said it, countless stars were stitched through his eyes and glittering there. It was the look of a man dreaming—a look she had never once seen on him.
Inside the rocking carriage, in the moment the crisp night wind tickled her, Blow met her gaze and spoke in a serious voice.
"Jane. Go back to school."
"What?"
"It'll be hard right away, of course. But once I've established myself, go back."
"I couldn't..."
"You've always cared about research."
"That was true. But if you aren't attending school, Young Master, I have no reason to return."
"We'll think about that when the time comes."
Even his words alone were enough. Expectation bloomed in a corner of Jane's heart.
Accounting—she had studied it only briefly, and she had found some enjoyment in it. But she had never felt anything like the delight of the first faint flame rising from her own hand, or of the first time an experiment gave her the reaction she wanted. If she could feel that again—if she could leave the magic school and truly become a proper mage...
At a thought that trembled even in imagination, color rose in her face.
"Well? Sounds all right, doesn't it?"
"Even if it doesn't happen, I'll do my very best. I was sold here, after all."
"Ah. Right, that. Hans, where's the certificate I signed earlier?"
"Right here, Young Master."
Hans drew out Jane's slave certificate, the one written up at the guild, and held it out to Blow. The moment Blow took it, a crimson magic circle the color of his hair began to bloom across his right hand. Jane, who knew very well what a magic circle meant, shot to her feet in shock.
⟨ Flame Orb ⟩
Before she could stop him, a vivid red flame roared up inside the circle. The certificate in his hand turned to ash and fell.
"W-what are you doing?"
"You're not someone who was sold anymore. Do as you like."
To Jane, crying out in alarm, Blow only shrugged, then lay back down. She stared blankly at him, hesitated a long while, and at last managed to speak.
"...Shall I serve you as I did before?"
"And what was going to be different?"
"Then I was a commoner, and until just now I was a slave. It was a little different."
Blow let out a short breath of a laugh and rolled over so she could not see his face.
"Jane."
"Yes, Young Master."
"I'm sorry."
A little later his shoulders began to shake, just slightly. Seeing it, the tension drained clean out of her.
"It's all right. I..."
Hans caught her arm and shook his head. Jane stopped, and quietly closed her eyes.
Only the sound of the carriage horses striking the earth filled the silence.
After Blow Deblique woke, the first thing his mother did was summon the mansion's head chef back. Her name was Romang Greenhill. Blow had scolded her often enough, but she was still the person who had put the most food into his mouth.
Of course, to the Blow who had gone to another world and come back, the taste of food hardly mattered.
"This is delicious, Romang. Thank you, as always."
At those words Romang started so hard she could not school her face, and bowed her head again and again in apology. Blow scratched his head as if embarrassed, then shrugged.
"Sorry. I startled you."
The gentleness of it left her so dazed she nearly dropped the plate in her hands.
A short while later, when she returned to the kitchen still half out of her senses, the other servants wore expressions much like hers, shaking their heads in disbelief.
"...I was about to ask the madam if we might buy the expensive plates."
"Because the young master isn't breaking them?"
"Mm."
Laughter burst from every mouth. The kitchen, which had walked on thin ice at every one of Blow's mealtimes, had thawed completely, as if it had never been otherwise.
Just then a girl whose head barely cleared their waists—brown hair and olive eyes the very image of Romang—spoke up in a bright voice.
"Mom! The soup's all dooone!"
"Is it? Shall I have a taste? Did our Melo do well?"
"It's gonna be delicious!"
Romang stroked her daughter's hair once, then lifted a spoonful of soup and tasted it.
Melo was young to be among the servants. She was in the kitchen at all only because, when she was born, Romang had nowhere suitable to leave her and so had brought her here. From the time she could walk she had treated the kitchen as her own room, and she was doted on not only by her mother and the kitchen servants, but by Luce, the lady of the house, as well. Because of that, Melo had grown quite good at cooking—good enough that Romang, tasting the soup, praised it as rather fine.
The other servants were marveling at her skill in that same moment when a loud voice carried to them from the dining table.
"What? A business?"
"Son, what is this all of a sudden..."
At those words everyone in the kitchen craned to look toward the table. Melo, curious what the adults were seeing, stepped onto a box and rose onto her toes. Then the faces came into her eyes as well: Baron and Baroness Deblique, brows drawn tight, and Blow, who had woken not long ago.
A bad person. The bad person Mom hates.
Having studied his face, she shrank back and hid herself behind her mother. Even so, Blow's voice carried clearly enough to reach her.