Jean Erhardt was born Jean Fiev in a small village within the Joachim Empire. He was abandoned in front of a tavern. Had he been a common babe, his brief life would long have ended. He was fortunate. The tavern owner took a liking to his golden locks. The owner took him in and gave him bread, along with the name Fiev. When Jean turned fourteen, the owner sold him.
Jean’s first owner was a slave master. The slave master collected children of the poor, of those with no parents, of foreign prisoners. He then graded them accordingly and sold them again. He recognized the value of Jean’s golden hair and blue eyes at once.
The boy was quickly given the highest grade. There was no way to know whether it was a blessing or a curse, but Jean was beautiful. Owing to this beauty of his, he was well-fed and well-clothed. His master, a man of trade, taught him simple manners, along with the late teachings of serving someone in bed. Jean learned how to give pleasure to ladies of high nobility. He learned how to speak like an aristocrat. Table manners and horse riding were taught just as well.
It was the winter before he turned fifteen when Jean was sold to the House of Erhardt. The Duchess of Erhardt had a pair of silk gloves on her hands and an ermine wrapped around her neck. They said she was in bad health and in need of a child servant to keep close to her at all times. However, her seeking was in deep secrecy, and everyone knew why that was. Everyone knew the true reason behind the discreetness.
Jean was able to put his knowledge to use before the turn of the year. He was green and clumsy, but the duchess cherished even that lack of experience. She was very fond of the boy. She was as fond of the boy as a duke was fond of his maid being bedded by his peasant.
“Lord Jean.”
‘The catamite of the House of Erhardt.’
He remembered the lazy gaze that landed on him. The catamite of the House of Erhardt. He also remembered the conviction in the voice. The voice was so sure Jean was the boy once called that way.
“Lord Jean.”
Jean moved his gaze. A servant stood awkwardly before him.
“The duke summons you, my lord.”
The servant spoke, hunching in intimidation. Jean stared at him silently. Jean sighed. There was only one reason why the old duke would call him. And Jean was not in the mood to listen to the grand tale of why the old man needed more gold for his gambling.
“The factory commander owes me a sum. Seek it and give it to the duke, and tell him I shall pay him a visit tomorrow, that I am much too tired to be in his presence today.”
The gold which the duke sought was but a trifling sum to Jean. It was much easier for Jean to throw him a bone ahead and save himself the trouble of having to face the old man. Or so he thought when he remembered the ashen eyes that bore into him. Ah—Jean lifted his hand.
“No. A moment.”
The servant bowed, stopping himself in the middle of turning his back. Jean rose.
“I shall visit Father myself. You can leave.”
He picked up the coat he was just putting down. The duke’s chamber was on the topmost floor of the mansion. As he slowly climbed up the stairs, he articulated the questions in his head.
“Ah, Jean. You’ve come.”
Jean knocked and entered the chamber. The Duke of Erhardt, sitting by the window, greeted him with enthusiasm. The table was a mess from the burnt ash of tobacco.
“I was told you sought my presence, my lord.”
Jean responded docilely, concealing his true intention.
“Yes, yes. I assume your matters of trade are all fine?”
The Duke of Erhardt had long missed the social gatherings of nobles. The rumors said that he was greatly shocked by the death of his son, who perished from a fall from horseback. People whispered that it was the reason why the duke was averse to leaving his mansion. However, it was far from what Jean had witnessed himself. Jean took a seat from across the duke. He glanced at the table again. The fawn tablecloth, riddled with ashes, was not level. There seemed to be something underneath the uneven fabric surface.
“I am ecstatic that you are bringing the name Erhardt to its former glory—”
Jean lifted the edge of the table fabric with the tip of his finger. The duke stopped speaking.
“My lord.”
Slowly, Jean flipped the cloth. The fabric gradually revealed what it had been hiding underneath. There were cards. The disorderly sight told Jean that the duke had hidden them in haste.
“Have you been wagering again?”
“Jean. Spare me a moment, please. You see—”
“So you have.”
The duke fell silent. The man had lived fifty-odd years of his life as an aristocrat. He was not used to being scolded. Jean let go of the cloth he’d been lifting with the tip of his finger. The fabric flapped, falling back to its place.
“Is it in the nature of nobles to know not how to command the self?”
The Duke of Erhardt had been consumed by wager even before the demise of his heir, Johnny Erhardt. Be it the games of dice, cards, or horse racing, the duke was impartial to all wagers. He did not show himself in gatherings of high nobles not because of the shock of his son’s death. In truth, it was due to the accumulation of his debts from wagers, which had swelled to such a considerable sum that he could no longer manage. Yet, the duke was unable to forgo his games of fortune. It had nothing to do with the sadness of losing his son.