I brought my attention now to the quest board, from which the early takers had had their pick. There was still a thankfully generous catalog to choose from.

“May I undertake more than one quest at a time?” I asked Ms Vera before I left her. It was a very basic point, but I had never thought about it before.

“Sure you can,” she answered. “But a fair word of warning there, Ms Maid: most tasks come with a time limit. If the schedule says, ‘today’, and you don’t turn it in by the time the bureau closes doors at six, you will have failed the quest, even if you completed the task. Sucks, but rules are rules. We charge a twenty copper-penalty for every failure, and, depending on the task, the client may pursue additional compensation. Picking the board clean and failing everything is the speediest way to debt slavery that I know. Those papers are serious business. Even if you’ve got big pockets, failing repeatedly can get you banned from the Guild. As I said, we have a reputation to maintain. This is not a shelter for jesters.”

“I am well aware,” I said and headed across the hall.

If possible, I wanted to get the hardest part out of the way and begin with the required D-rank assignment.

Quests of E and below typically involved gathering materials, were safe for everyone, and paid little but reliably. The letters began to near A only when wild animals and monsters became involved. Beside the higher bounty, a D-rank beast could yield rarer materials, the sale of which provided the main bulk of one's income. There was the possibility of dying too, but I couldn’t shy away from fighting, knowing there was a dungeon to be conquered. Warming up against a more conventional target would have been ideal for my purposes.

However, reality refused to cater to my needs there.

“…”

I looked over the board carefully from side to side, again and again, but had made no mistake.

There were no A-rank tasks. No B-rank tasks. No C-rank tasks. Not even one D-rank hunt. The bills dotting the board were all marked E or below.

What had from a distance looked like a cornucopia of adventure turned out to be only a handful of close to identical tasks posted repeatedly.

For instance, a dyer in town wanted sixty bundles of firecups, but sixty was deemed too much for one person to gather in a day, so the task was split into three quests of twenty bundles. One brave could tackle the task repeatedly, or else share it with others. The dyer wanted many kinds of flowers, and a lot of each.

What were the other assignments like? A carpenter working on the furnishings of a new house wished to commission six chairs from a helping hand. The pay was quite good, twenty-two coppers per chair, the time limit by Friday. The rank was E. My utmost respect went to the artisan who could fashion six chairs worth sitting on in four days. It was undeniably beyond myself, even if I had the necessary tools, materials, and a workshop—which I didn’t.

There a smallholder seeking help with their vegetable garden. What “help” meant, technically, was not specified, only that assistance was wanted “ASAP”, took the whole day, and paid eleven coppers. One meal was to be included, which probably lowered the payment. Rank F.

I was not getting rich quickly, that was for sure.

No one required monsters slain. There were no quests involving the dungeon either, at present. But the materials that could be procured therein were already worth a lot more than standard E-rank rewards. If only I could go there…

But even if I were to sneak past the guardsmen, I wouldn’t be able to cash in anything salvaged therein. The Guild could tell where the goods came from, and also that I had no right to be there. And Faulsen was a small town. Even if I sold my loot to an independent vendor, the word was sure to get around. Trying to circumvent the Guild rules would get me banned for certain, which would seal my fate.

Having concluded that there were no realistic shortcuts to success, I could only take what was available. I took the dyer’s post. I knew what the firecup looked like, at least. Twenty bundles for twenty coppers—not rich, but it sounded like easy money. With the bill in hand, I returned to the line and Ms Vera.

“This town has no trouble with monsters, does it?” I asked her when my turn came.

“Didn’t you know?” the attendant nonchalantly answered as she stamped the bill as accepted. “Surface monsters and animals have this one thing in common: they both fear the presence of purebloods. None will come within ten miles of an active dungeon, unless they’re tougher than whatever’s in there. We rarely have a problem with anything from outside.”

“I see. I didn’t know that.”

“Then you’ve learned something new today. Rejoice. And good luck with your quest. Twenty bundles may seem like a small number, but I wouldn’t underestimate gathering if I were you. And don’t be late. The time limit is when the bureau closes at six tonight. I’m not paying your penalty, and you have no money. You already owe me and then you’ll owe the Guild too.”

“So I've been told, thank you. Any idea where I should look for the flowers? You may remember I’m not familiar with the terrain.”

Ms Vera rolled her eyes. “Off to a brilliant beginning, are we?”

She rubbed her forehead for a bit, apparently thinking hard, and not used to it.

“Head north where the hills grow higher. There’s an old forest there. Grim Oak Grove. But don’t go between the trees. Follow along the edge of the wood northeast. There aren’t many flowers anywhere this early in spring, but they start to bud sooner on high peaks where sunlight lingers. And hurry! Before the others pick the fields clear. The slower you are, the farther you’ll have to look for more, and you won’t make it back on time.”

“Thank you. I shall endeavor to make haste.”

“Then why are you still standing there? Chop-chop.”

I bowed my head in a gesture of earnest gratitude. It was not part of Ms Vera’s job description to hold my hand like this, but she did, as much of a bother as she made it seem. Without her, I would surely have been lost, and so could easily forgive the attitude.

What manner of measurement was a “bundle” and what did the commissioner expect to receive when such was demanded? Had the imperial capital been my birthplace, my bind would have been even more severe than it was. Thankfully, it had been the rural town of Hallast where my brother took me on that fateful winter day, and the toils of the simple folk of the land were not altogether strange to me.

A bundle, or a furl, or a wad, was a poorly defined measure, but not entirely up to personal discretion.

As a rule, it was the amount of plant stalks you could fit in the circle formed between your index finger and thumb, with the fingertips barely touching. You might point out that a man’s bundle would then be starkly different from a woman’s, but picking flowers was not a male-dominated field. The lofty duty to sort and tie bundles generally fell to women, and everyone adopted the tacit understanding not to make your bundles grossly huge. It was one of those things self-evident to every peasant, though there were never hard numbers for it.

I worked numbers now, as I faced the grassy slopes Ms Vera had pointed out for me. A surprisingly steep, grassy descent fell a long way westward, and upon the mellow-capped ridge winding northward lay a dense wood. The trees were short with heavily overlapping canopies, the underside in deep shadow even in the middle of the day. Grim Oak Grove, Ms Vera had called that wood, but they weren't oaks growing there. The name of that species of trees was not known to me.

As instructed, I didn’t go into the forest, but followed along the treeline, looking for flashes of red in the grass still dry and trampled in the wake of the retreated winter. Underneath the surface layers, you could barely glimpse the strips of pale green life pushing through. I had put my faith in Ms Vera’s tip and ran straight here from the town at full speed. It seemed I had beaten my more modestly paced colleagues to the punch, since none were in view. Or maybe their regular spots were elsewhere?

For a moment, the dreadful possibility that the tip had been false troubled my thoughts, but not for too long.

To my surprise, there actually were firecups. At first, it had seemed nothing fresh was abloom yet, but as I investigated closer along the side of the hills that faced the warm afternoon sun longest, I spied indeed small, red flowers braving through the old, dead grass, on their thin, soft stalks. It was the deep, vivid red of the petals that had given firecups their name. There was no live flame involved. Squinting your eyes, you could just about picture them as embers smoldering on the dry earth. The blooms were dried over weeks, then powdered and used to make dyes and paint, and alchemists added them to concoctions of varied effects. I was not an alchemist and didn’t know any better.

At any rate, it was the flowers the client wanted, so there was no point in taking those with the buds still closed. Once the stalk was cut, they would never open, even if put into water at home. But the stems had to be included, since carrying the flowers without crushing them was impossible otherwise. They had to be retrieved with great care, cut close to the ground, so that the maximum amount of moisture would be preserved in the frame of the flower. Cut too close to the bloom, the petals would wilt in a moment and be reduced to garbage.

The flowers were still young and thin. By my estimate, between 30-40 stalks went into a bundle. In other words, I needed to pick up approximately eight hundred firecups today to meet my quota of twenty bundles. No, I would have to harvest a few bundles extra, in case some ended up damaged and rejected by the Guild.

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Over an hour had already burned away before I even got started. It was half past nine, and I had not one full bundle. I had to play it safe and save an hour for the return trip and turning in the goods too. If it took me half an hour to gather one bundle and I couldn’t pick up the pace, I was looking to finish the day with the grand total of sixteen bundles. Four short of the request.

In short, my failure was set in stone as soon as I began.

Ms Vera had been right. What a deceptively small number it was, twenty.

I doubled my efforts, lowering my standards for quality as I went, but couldn’t possibly gather the flowers any faster than my eyes could find them. They grew in sporadic clusters, far apart along the vast slope. The land was still too cool and dry for them. Until the spring rains came, until the summer heat came, and the flora stirred to action in earnest, making but twenty bundles was a lot asked even of a legendary hero.

I kept at it, as futile as it seemed. What else could I do?

I crawled and hopped around like a moron.

My hands grew clumsy and weary, unused to such fiddling. My fingers trembled, knowing how by each passing second spent aimlessly fumbling around, my already meager odds of success drifted further away. It was like trying to catch colorful smoke that dispersed as you reached for it. Dread rose in a thick lump up my throat. Though we’d had breakfast not even three hours ago, the watery oatmeal didn’t carry me very far. I was hungry and light-headed.

Still I kept at it.

If I went back defeated and in debt on the very first day, Ms Vera would undoubtedly cast me out.

What would I do then? Go from door to door, a beggar pleading for scraps? Me, an imperial maid? As if I could! What else then? What else was there? Kill the guards and break into the dungeon? Pray I could somehow survive among monsters and find my way through the unexplored districts without any supplies, or backup from the town? It was madness. What would I eat there? Goblins?

My fingers plunged into the cold grass and dirt and stopped, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw hurt.

Why was I struggling so pathetically like this? Cutting my way through Baloria, when picking flowers was too much? Was I sane?

Wasn’t it time I admitted the truth? Somehow rising from this pit of poverty and returning home was a fantasy. I was a foolish, deluded woman with surreal ideas about her own abilities. I had served a family which the masses revered as something above human, and had begun to think I was the next thing from gods myself.

I sat down on my knees and drew out my dagger.

The perfectly balanced, gold-etched dagger of weisteel. 14.9 inches. 0.77 pounds. Personally gifted to me by the Emperor himself. My reward for concluding my training as the finest of the maids of my generation. Be it academics, or close combat, or magical aptitude, none of my peers could rival me. And where did that bring me? The hero’s mentor—laid low by flowers. The gods had spared me as a child for this? From créme de la créme to cul de sac!

I ought to end it, before I would disgrace myself and the house of Ferdina any further.

Daylight flickered on the bright blade and stung my eyes.

The cloud coverage had grown frayed. Passing rays of sunlight speared the hills and the woods and the blue mountains ahead. It was suddenly warm and getting warmer. A large toad leapt in the grass a bit to my left. Probably lost from the woods. It was a sleek, green toad, bouncing amid small flowers, burning red flowers swaying in the gentle breeze, with their petals spread wide open to embrace the sun. Suddenly the land was resplendent with color everywhere I looked. I breathed in deep of the clear mountain air, the familiar, stark air of my childhood, and it tasted unbelievably good. Slowly, trying not to make a sound, I set down the dagger in the grass, and rose onto the balls of my feet, just about enough to bring my stiffened knees up from the land—and then lunged at the toad, catching it tight between my palms.

There was my lunch.

It was a day too beautiful to die.

A quarter hour before six, I returned to the Guild. All was quiet in the hall. I strode across the floor to Ms Vera behind her station opposite the entrance. It was as if she hadn’t moved an inch from there this entire day, though that was obviously only an illusion. She wasn’t reading anymore and looked only eager to go home, impatientlly drumming the tabletop with her fingers, frequently stealing glances at the large clock on the side wall. Upon seeing me, a rather stunned look came to the clerk’s lively face and her wolf-like ears shot straight up. As I came closer, she stood and already opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it, and reluctantly sat back down.

What an amusing person.

“Good evening,” I greeted her, stopping in front of the desk.

“And?” Ms Vera grunted without returning the greeting, her face a little red with anticipation.

“I've completed my quest and would like to turn in the requested materials.”

The furian bounced up now again and leaned far over the desk.

“Are you serious!? Did you actually get it done? Did you do it right? Do you even know how to tie a bundle? If there are any unwanted weeds mixed in, they will be rejected! You know that? Don’t try any tricks now! Old Mim’s got sharp eyes! Looking to scam the appraiser is a more serious offense than only failing a quest! You could lose your license! Better admit outright, if you couldn’t do it!”

“I am perfectly aware of the conditions,” I said. “I did pass the basic training. As said, I’ve met my quota, and am ready to turn them in.”

“Well, it’s your funeral…Geez.”

Ms Vera led me to the appraisal station at the side, where the old woman was going through the day's inventory. A woman shorter than either of us, with a great, graying bun on the back of her head, mean eyes, and rounded, brass-framed spectacles.

“This is Mimosa, our chief of staff and head appraiser,” Ms Vera introduced.

“That would be ‘Mrs Rheynes’ for you,” the old woman corrected, addressing this to me. Not that I had any intention to get casual with her. She had such an air, much like old Augustine, our own chief of staff. Though not nearly as well-fed.

“Let us see what you have then.”

At the senior clerk’s request, I opened my backpack and proceeded to unload the bundles of firecups onto the desk. There were twenty precisely, not one more and not one less. Mrs Rheynes examined them one by one. Her face didn’t look terribly pleased, but in the end, she said,

“They are very clean and pretty bundles. Only, the older ones have begun to wilt. Too much time has passed since you picked them. We’re going to have to give the commissioner a discount for those and deduct two marks from your reward. These come to eighteen coppers. I recommend wrapping them in paper and keeping them in shade next time so they keep their shape better.”

“Where might I procure paper for that?” I asked.

Mrs Rheynes counted eighteen marks of copper on the table, in three five-mark coins and three plain marks, and said with a little smile,

“Your problem, not mine.”

Ms Vera, who for some reason had insisted on watching the proceedings from the side, now smoothly stepped in and parted seven marks from my reward.

“And these I’ll take for your upkeep today. Thank you~!”

Mrs Rheynes didn’t bat an eye at that. Did she already know about our arrangement? But why would Ms Vera have bothered sharing such personal details, if she was prepared to cast me out today? You don’t suppose she might have allowed me to stay, even if I failed?

No, I had to be reading too deep into it.

Feeling like a bone picked clean, I swept the remaining copper into my pocket.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

You pile them up, pebble after pebble, until you have a mountain.