The Price of Each Finger
The man raised his hand. His pitch-black gauntlet drew an imaginary line from the duke’s eyebrow down to the bald man’s crown, the edge of his hand held flat. Even sitting casually on the corner of the carriage, Nyx Farrow’s eye level matched that of most Endel men, yet the pimp—who stood rigidly upright—was a fraction taller. The man was pointing out that slight difference in height.
Neither Tichite nor the pimp could grasp his intent. Only the knights reacted, their faces paling as they scrambled to obey.
“Hey, we should’ve done that sooner… Knees. Get his knees down. Hurry up. What are you waiting for?”
They urged one another in a chaotic flurry before pressing down on the gleaming bald head. The pimp instinctively twisted away, resisting the forced kneel, but it didn’t last. A knight kicked the back of his knee with brutal force. The heavy man crumpled with a thud.
Only then did the duke shift in his seat, as though conversation might finally be possible. He leaned forward with elbows braced on his thighs and gazed down at the man now kneeling in stunned defeat.
He spoke shortly, bluntly, with a hint of irritation.
“How much.”
“…Pardon?”
“I said, how much do you want.”
He wanted the man to stop wasting time and just name his price.
The pimp was startled at first, but he quickly slipped into the shrewd mindset of a merchant. Nobles seemed to have a very different sense of money than commoners, so greed flared—he would wring out as much as he could while the chance lasted.
“T-two hundred henny.”
“Two hundred henny?”
The sum was ten times what anyone expected. Desidero frowned, utterly unimpressed. The pimp clearly meant to begin negotiations there, but the attempt struck him as both irritating and laughable.
Tichite, meanwhile, went deathly pale. It was more money than she could earn in a lifetime of backbreaking labor. There was no reason for nobles to accept such a loss on her behalf. She knew she held no such value—not as a laborer, not as a whore. When the hope of escaping the pimp’s grasp shattered, she lowered her head in despair and let silent tears fall.
“Desidero.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Everyone present thought the demand absurd. The onlookers sneered; the person in question despaired. Only Nyx Farrow remained perfectly serious.
“Do I even have that much on hand right now?”
The duke paid little attention to wealth, leaving all financial matters of the duchy entirely to Desidero. As a result, his understanding of his own assets was nearly nonexistent. For any expenditure, large or small, he always consulted his younger brother.
Yet his tone carried none of the anxious scrabbling ordinary men felt when digging through empty pockets for bread. Instead, one sensed the easy confidence of a privileged class that had never truly worried about money.
Desidero very nearly let loose a scolding, but he caught himself—too many eyes were watching. He replaced his usual sharp tongue with the measured speech of a loyal steward and answered.
“…Cash reserves are limited, but we should be able to find luxury goods of equivalent value.”
“Is that so?”
The duke replied in a tone that suggested he found the news rather convenient.
“Where?”
“In that carriage. The second luggage wagon.”
“Bring him. Tell him to choose for himself.”
With that, Nyx waved his hand dismissively, as if the matter were already settled. Even though he was offering goods instead of coin, there was no trace of apology or awkwardness in his voice. Naturally so—the duke would not be trading chickens or eggs for Tichite Ranlam.
“Look around until you find something you like. Don’t be shy about taking enough to feel satisfied.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The duke issued the order to one of his servants, who bowed deeply in compliance.
The outrageous sum he had tossed out so carelessly had been accepted without hesitation. A bright smile bloomed across the pimp’s face—the first time any of them had seen him look so pleased.
Tichite’s mind swirled with shock and confusion. Was this man truly willing to give anything at all to pay for her body?
She looked up at Duke Farrow in a daze. It felt so much like a dream that she thought, If I had a guardian deity, this is exactly how he would appear.
The black armor looked impossibly valiant and bold. He was nothing like the ridiculous helmet-headed man she had seen a week ago. The petty, unsightly person who had recoiled from a female doctor was gone. In his place stood a hero straight out of legend.
Yet at the same time, fear gripped her. She had suddenly fallen into overwhelming debt to someone she barely knew. The thought of whether she could ever repay such enormous expectations left her feeling lost.
But Tichite was overlooking one important fact. Only a week earlier, the duke had scattered every last coin of the prize money he won at the ham party joust into the air. He was not the sort of man who regretted unplanned expenses.
“Why is he going this far for that woman?”
“They say she’s a doctor.”
“More precisely, a pharmacist.”
“She’s the one who will cure His Grace’s illness.”
A few of Duke Farrow’s close aides whispered among themselves. They had all been astonished at first, but soon they simply accepted it.
Nyx Farrow had always been generous when it came to investing in people. He regularly sowed monetary seeds among his vassals and reaped loyalty in return. That was how the man secured young, passionate, and devoted subordinates.
Today, however, was the first time they learned the same method could be applied to a woman.
“Ah, one more thing.”
The duke stopped the bald man, who had been eagerly hurrying toward the luggage wagons.
“Now that I think about it, there is something on my side that feels rather shortchanged.”
The man who had just told them to take without restraint seemed to have found something he wanted to point out, triggered by his own words.
“After all, I’m paying a very high price.”
His gaze fixed on Tichite’s fingers—the ones the pimp had trampled. They looked swollen, possibly broken, in any case far from unharmed.
The man rose from his seat and strode forward, iron boots crushing the grass with every step. Then he lowered himself in front of the woman and knelt on one knee.
Steel fingers that carried no trace of body heat lifted her hand as though examining it. Just as Tichite had once touched his fingers in the same careful way.
Wearing armor always increased the man’s confidence. It allowed him to pretend nonchalance even while touching a woman’s fingers.
Through his visor, Nyx studied her swollen digits. They were still small and delicate, the lack of strength in them almost heartbreaking.
“Looks broken.”
“Pardon? Broken? No, that can’t be. I didn’t step on them that hard…”
“It is broken.”
The man’s suppressed rage finally exploded. His previously loose tone grew tight and hard.
“You bring merchandise to sell for money and dare put a defect like this on it? Right in front of me?”
The pimp’s heart plummeted. He frantically searched for a way to appease the customer. The best way to soothe someone unhappy with a defective product was, of course…
“I-I’ll reduce the price. Ten henny. How about I deduct ten henny?”
“Is that what each of your fingers is worth?”
The duke answered with cold sarcasm. He set Tichite’s hand down, rose to his feet, and turned toward the pimp. Then he lifted the man’s finger as if it were a damp rag.
A large, fleshy hand. The kind Nyx could be utterly merciless with.
“No discount needed. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll give you plenty of compensation, so feel free to take more than two hundred or not—whatever you like.”
There was no time to ask what he meant. The moment the words left his mouth, the duke seized the man’s finger and snapped it backward, against its natural bend. The scream came before the pimp even understood what was happening.
“Aaaagh!”
“Two hundred ten.”
“Argh!”
“Two hundred twenty.”
One by one, the duke meticulously broke the man’s fingers. It was a simple task. All he had to do was press down hard enough for the nail to touch the wrist.
“Young master! Your Grace! I’m sorry, Your Grace—aaack!”
“You said ten henny per finger. Count them yourself from now on.”
“I was wrong— it hurts, it hurts, please, aaah!”
“Two hundred thirty. Can’t you count?”
“Forgive me, I beg you, please forgive—ugh…”
“Two hundred forty.”
Every time the price rose by another ten, a sickening crunch echoed as another bone snapped. The joints that had given up on staying in place lost all strength and hung limp.