The Resolve to Do Business

A day had barely passed since he came home from trading Drenor for Jane, and already their son was talking of taking over a potion shop. The baron and baroness felt their heads begin to pound.

"And what whim is this, all of a sudden?"

"It's something I've been thinking about for a while."

"For a while, he says? You've no business speaking so lightly when you've never done it! Trade may look easy, but do you have any idea how much there is to worry over?"

To Luce, the words could only sound reckless. This was a son who had never even seen his schooling through, and the way he kept driving himself left her chest tight with frustration.

Blow, though, was cutting steak and lifting it to his mouth, and his thoughts had gone to the convenience store he ran in his days as Han Ji-hoo. Among the shops nearby, his had been one of the best. Plenty of customers came to it on purpose, and the rising sales had earned him more than one commendation from headquarters. Korea, besides, had been a far more convenient place than the world he stood in now. If he could let the people here taste what had been ordinary to him then, he was certain he could not fail.

"If I go back to school, it will take more than three years just to become a mage."

"And?"

"And that time feels far too precious to waste."

"So trade is a sure success, is it?"

"As a mage, I'm a sure failure."

"What is that supposed to—"

"I don't have a spirit. I failed the summoning rite."

At that, the intermittent clink of dishes died away.

"A mage without a spirit can't even be called a mage. I wouldn't manage a proper graduation, either..."

Gloom settled in Luce's eyes. It bothered Blow more than he let on, and he forced a smile, as if to soothe her.

"I saw The Raft of the Media in Splas. If I hadn't collapsed, it wouldn't have been hanging there."

"Paintings change hands. That's the nature of them."

"I know better than anyone how dear that painting was to you, Mother. That's why I want to bring it back."

"And you mean to do that through trade? Now?"

"Yes."

Luce's brow knotted without mercy at a Blow who would not yield an inch. Then his father, who had listened in silence all the while, finally opened his mouth.

"You're hoping for support?"

"A portion of what it would have cost to send me to school—"

"Blow Deblique!"

His mother cried out, her voice thick with disbelief.

"Are you truly saying you won't go back to school? Whatever else, you still have to graduate!"

"For now, I have no intention of going back. I'm sorry, Mother."

Struck by those words, Luce set her fork down on the table with a clatter.

"I've lost my appetite entirely."

With that she rose and walked out. Jane, seated beside him only because Blow had asked her to dine with them, dropped her gaze, feeling as though the fault were hers.

The baron kept his eyes on his son for a long while before his mouth opened again.

"On this, I agree with your mother."

"......"

"Drenor was yours, so I said nothing then. But to ask for the money that was meant for your schooling—this time, I cannot help you."

With that he stood, and everyone rose with him as the servants formed a line before him. The baron did not so much as glance their way before he left the dining room. The chill of it undid Jane's legs, and she dropped back into her chair.

Blow looked at her and spoke as if it were nothing.

"Finish eating. It's good."

"...Just now, you seemed a little like the young master."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Faced with a look of genuine confusion, Jane hurriedly shifted her eyes to her plate.

"It's nothing. I'll finish. It is good."

"Romang's cooking seems better than it used to be."

"Does it?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

"But what are you going to do? It doesn't look as though you'll be getting any support..."

"I figured they wouldn't."

Jane's head tilted at how calmly he said it.

"You knew they would refuse?"

"I just told them I was going into trade. If it has to be said, better to say it sooner, right?"

Even so, from where she sat, his decision to go into business was still something she could not understand. So Jane had no choice but to ask, carefully.

"Um... may I ask why you decided to go into trade, Young Master? Honestly, it doesn't seem like something you've been thinking about for a long time."

"I had a dream while I was lying in bed."

"A dream?"

"Yeah. A dream of doing business."

"......"

She had not been watching him long, but she could feel that the man before her was not the one from before his collapse. He had softened, if that was the word. And yet she found this version of him harder to grasp. Regret prickled—should she have clung to the guildmaster's trouser leg at the end and refused to let go?—and she clutched her head.

"If they won't acknowledge it, I'll just make them."

The confidence stole whatever she might have said. Jane laughed awkwardly, then sighed and pushed the rest of the steak into her mouth.

Arriving at the market in Blanya, the domain of House Deblique, Blow was walking the stalls with Jane and Hans. He had come because he thought that if he saw something, an idea might follow. Market folk doffed their hats to him, and Blow returned each greeting in turn. The moment his eyes moved on, the people of the domain tilted their heads as one, as if something were strange.

After he had wandered the market a while, what caught his eye was a heaped mound of potatoes whose price had already been cut twice. He stood there a moment, and the shopkeeper, stepping out front, bent at the waist.

"Good day, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Young Master."

"Why are the potatoes priced like this?"

"Don't even ask. This year's harvest was a complete glut. The potatoes are rotting faster than we can move them."

"I think I've heard as much."

"If they truly won't sell, I expect we'll have to throw them to the pigs."

Blow found himself recalling a line he had heard in his days as Han Ji-hoo: better nine than ten. Too much supply, and you could not defend the price—and then the producers suffered. That was how he remembered it. The potato crop across the domain looked exactly like that. Wherever he turned his eyes, potatoes were piled high.

"The merchant houses in other regions aren't buying either?"

"The other regions are in much the same state, so the amounts they're taking have dropped sharply."

"Even from Caipol?"

"Goods from the whole country do gather in Caipol. But they pass through several hands to get there, so the price will be a bit higher than it is here, on the ground."

"I see. Thank you. Give me a sack."

"Ah—truly?"

"Yeah."

Afraid Blow might change his mind, the owner hurriedly held a sack of potatoes out to Hans. Hans shouldered it and asked in a bright voice.

"Shall I load it on the carriage?"

"Yeah."

"I'll take it to the kitchen when we arrive."

"I'll be the one using them, so tell Romang not to."

Jane, startled, turned to him.

"You yourself, Young Master?"

"Yeah. I'll use them myself."

"I thought you were just going to take the potatoes and sell them as they are..."

"Why would I? Do that, and I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can't compete with the merchant guilds. I'm thinking of buying them cheap, cooking them, and selling them that way."

"The potatoes?"

"Yeah. I can definitely cut the cost of ingredients. And the starting capital is less than a potion shop would take."

"If I may ask... where do you mean to sell them?"

"It's my first time, so I should start where I know the ground best."

...Surely not.

A place rose in her mind at his words, and Jane hoped, of all places, it would not be that one.

"In front of our proud Caypol Municipal Magic School."

The moment she heard it, Jane's hand went to her forehead of its own accord.

Back at the manor, Blow went straight into the kitchen and started by peeling potatoes. Everyone there was so startled they offered to help, but he waved them off.

"I'll have to do all of it myself once I'm up there anyway."

Even so, they still looked uneasy, so he pointed at Jane, standing awkwardly beside him, and added:

"With Jane."

"True enough. If you peeled them before the journey, the potatoes would all spoil."

"Right. Anyway, if you've got advice, give it to me straight, Romang."

The request only made Romang more nervous. She swallowed dryly and could do nothing but watch his face.

"I'll try peeling one, then."

And so Blow set to peeling. He was reminded, all over again, of how convenient the tool he had called a potato peeler had been in his Han Ji-hoo days.

Once the infrastructure is in place, I could make them and supply them.

He decided to write things like that down in a notebook of their own.

He peeled several potatoes over a long stretch, but it was his first time, and far too much flesh clung to the skins. Jane, by contrast, stripped them quite cleanly. Blow couldn't help but admire it.

"You're better at this than I expected."

"I was a farmer's daughter, after a fashion."

"Now that you mention it. You were."

"That's an old story."

The air grew solemn. The first thing he had ordered the servants to do, after bringing her to the domain, was to look for her father—the gambler. But the man had squandered even what property remained and fled to another region, hounded by his creditors.

Jane's face had looked a little let down, back then.

Blow stole a quiet glance at her as she peeled.

Before long the potatoes were heaped high. Thinking he would want it, Romang set sugar nearby. Blow shook his head at her.

"I'm going to try to use as little sugar as I can."

"Ah—you said you meant to sell them, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Sugar's too expensive. I don't know how it is in Caipol, but—"

"Ah, you're right about that. Because of those Parso bastards, sugar only keeps getting more expensive."

Parso, the southern country beneath the Empire. Warm the year round, it supplied most of the sugar, pepper, coffee, and the like that reached the Serdia Empire. The trouble was the monopoly: from production through distribution, the merchant guilds there held it all. And so they twisted the prices of sugar and the other ingredients however they pleased.

Blow, about to start selling in front of the school, was thinking of food students could eat without strain. So he was bent on driving the cost of each portion as low as it would go.

He might actually have a plan, at that.

Watching him look almost convincing, Jane was privately thinking it a relief—when Romang offered a careful suggestion.

"Perhaps you might try cooking them once, first?"

"Ah, right. I think roasting would be better. What do you think, Romang?"

"I agree. Roast them properly in butter and salt, and they'll be simple, and cheap besides."

At that, Blow took up a knife at once and began dicing the potatoes, already whittled small by the peeling. Romang was aghast. She hesitated a long while before she finally found her voice.

"Young Master, might there be a reason you're cutting them that way?"

"Hm? Isn't this how you're supposed to cut them?"

"Still, if you want them to look a bit better... perhaps try cutting them once, lengthwise..."

Romang demonstrated herself. Only then did Blow remember the potatoes he used to pick up and eat in his Han Ji-hoo days.

"You're right."

"Still, since you've already cut them, shall we roast a batch?"

"Yeah."

And so, for the roughly three hours Blow spent roasting potatoes, Jane and Romang could not leave. They had to taste every batch he pulled from the heat.

Late at night. Even after Jane and Romang, worn out from eating potatoes, had gone, Blow kept roasting.

For now, there's nothing for it but to do it a great many times.

Whatever it was, keep at it and your hands learned the work—that was one thing he knew well. One, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, zero. Even those count-offs he had first met in the army, the ones that refused to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sit in his mouth, had stuck in the end. With that same stubbornness he started on roughly the twenty-fourth potato. For now, his goal was to pin the taste of roasted potato down to something he could measure.

"Did I use up the salt?"

Finding the salt cellar empty, he paused with the knife and glanced about. Then, all at once, a salt cellar shot up from below.

"What?"

Thinking it a ghost, Blow startled and flattened himself against the far wall. The savory smell of roasting potatoes spread through the kitchen. A girl with chestnut-brown hair and olive eyes was looking up at him, her face drawn tight with nerves.