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Chapter 64
Rings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches—each set with brilliantly colored jewels.
Even to Davit, they seemed far too extravagant. He almost feared he might be mistaken for a thief and hauled away.
The pawnbroker silently studied the jewelry laid out on the table.
She neither breathed nor spoke, then made a gesture toward her sign-language interpreter.
[Why is this man here?]
Davit immediately understood her signing. How could he not? Her gestures were so clear.
The interpreter, however, shook his head as if he had no idea.
Davit looked back and forth between the pawnbroker and the interpreter, unable to grasp what was going on. Was it a misunderstanding, or…?
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be here? Do you know me, by chance?”
He demanded. The interpreter flusteredly converted his question into sign language.
The pawnbroker moved her hands calmly in response.
[No. We’ve never met. It’s just that it’s been so long since a male customer last came here.]
It wasn’t without reason. Eight out of ten people lined up outside the pawnshop were women.
[You’ve brought some precious jewelry. But what do you need the money for? I don’t lend unless I know the purpose. That’s the rule of this shop.]
Now the pawnbroker skipped the interpreter entirely, facing Davit directly and signing without hesitation. She had realized he could understand.
“…I want to hire mercenaries,” Davit replied, mixing in signs.
The pawnbroker tilted her head, thought for a moment, then asked another question.
[Are you gathering mercenaries to start a rebellion?]
Davit shook his head violently.
“A rebellion? Absolutely not. There’s someone I urgently need to rescue from far away.”
At this, the pawnbroker bent her right finger and rubbed the back of it against her cheek twice.
She was asking who it was he meant to rescue.
Davit forgot to answer at first, distracted by the beauty of her movements.
The way her fingertips, palms, and wrists shifted—light and graceful, like a butterfly’s wings.
For a fleeting instant, she reminded him of someone. A blurry memory surfaced, only to be washed away and replaced with the tender image of his younger sister.
Melania.
He had no way of knowing what situation his sister was in now. If the queen had her in custody, she was likely confined to an attic or cellar of the lord’s annex on Pardon Island.
And Count Bogdan, the lord of that estate, was a man obsessed with appearances. Surely he wouldn’t, out of spite at divorcing an unfaithful wife, go so far as to marry an underage girl…
No—Davit could not be sure of anything.
“My younger sister. She’s sixteen this year.”
The queen’s ambition to shove Melania into the role of Bogdan’s concubine disgusted him. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat as he answered.
His eyes dropped to the table. His throat burned dry, as if he had swallowed a handful of desert sand.
[You have a younger sister.]
“Yes. And right now she’s in a very difficult position.”
[What kind of difficult position?]
“…On the verge of being sold off as a concubine. To a man forty years her senior.”
That was the rough age difference between Melania and the count. Saying it aloud only made him feel more sick.
The pawnbroker responded without hesitation, her hands flowing gracefully.
[Then you don’t need to borrow money from me.]
“What do you mean?”
Was this a refusal? Davit’s face darkened.
[I happen to run a mercenary guild myself. Would you like to meet them?]
Davit stared at her signing in stunned silence.
She extended her left thumb outward and tapped the back of it twice with her right palm. Then she pressed her fists together at her chest, touched fingertips together, and traced a soft inward circle, wrists meeting.
Was she truly saying she ran a mercenary guild herself?
That meant he didn’t need to look elsewhere. It was an opportunity to save time, but he still couldn’t relax.
Raising both hands, he fired off question after question in sign language:
Could the guild be trusted? Would they safely retrieve a young girl without harming her? Were they skilled in infiltration and combat? How much would it cost?
The pawnbroker answered each question calmly.
[I vouch for them. We are a professional guild, and we keep faith with our clients. We would never harm a girl. The guild master is a woman, and most of the members are women too.]
Her gestures carried a quiet confidence.
Through the faint veil, he could almost see a smile.
At last, things were moving forward. The frantic pounding in Davit’s chest began to steady.
To think salvation would come from here. He suddenly felt foolish for almost running blindly to Pardon Island.
He closed his eyes and opened them again. The underground room was still dim, yet the pawnbroker seemed haloed with light.
The interpreter, who had been silently watching, spoke up:
“Write down all the details about the person you’re looking for—her identity, physical features, current residence. Memory has limits, so having documents helps us carry out the request properly.”
His voice now sounded deeper, more menacing than before.
“…Understood. But I’d like to add one condition to our deal.”
The pawnbroker inclined her head, permitting him to go on.
Davit pointed at the softly glowing wedding jewelry on the table.
“Don’t sell these pieces for a while.”
[Why not?]
“Because I’ll come back for them before the year is out. They’re meaningful to me.”
The pawnbroker studied him for several seconds, then agreed.
The business was done.
Relieved, Davit placed his hand over his chest and bent one knee.
At the very least, he wanted to show knightly courtesy to the one who would become his benefactor.
As he turned to leave, though, something like a stone snagged in his chest.
If he returned to the lord’s manor now, he knew he’d regret it.
“…Thank you.”
His voice was low and resonant with sincerity. Without needing interpretation, he expressed gratitude by rubbing his palm over his clenched fist.
He left unsaid the words that followed in his heart: For not asking my name.
A part of him wanted to reveal it anyway. After all, “Davit” was such a common name here in Dvorka.
Once, he had believed he was the only Davit in the world.
But when war broke out and he fled the royal palace of Yorca, he realized the truth. There were Davits among the knights, in the markets, even among the children playing in the streets.
The lonely little prince who once lived locked away in the harem was gone.
Now he was just one of many brothers desperate to save a sister.
Davit looked around the pawnshop once more, then met the eyes of the woman at its center.
Though her overgrown bangs hid her gaze, he felt sure their eyes had met.
“I’ll be back, madam.”
His voice rang with determination.
The pawnbroker did not take her eyes off his retreating back until he had closed the door behind him.
