I made it through another week not buried in riches but very narrowly on the plus side, picking up the tasks no one else seemed to want.

Graveyard watch was among the duties people commonly loathed and avoided, though for no clear, rational reason. There was no risk of those taken to earth by lawful procedures coming back to haunt us. It was to keep graverobbers at bay that a watch was kept, as where a decent person saw a kinsman retired from their worldly journey, a rogue saw a treasure chest in shallow ground. But those who stooped to exploiting unresisting corpses were seldom warriors, and a watchful set of eyes with a light was typically enough to make them reconsider their plans. There was no conflict to be had.

However, the patrols paid only eight coppers a night, and my status as a maid often worked against me there. It was not deemed fit for my sex to roam boneyards after dark, and if a man was asking for the job, he would always be favored.

And soon I was back to scooping the bottom of the barrel at the Guild billboard.

That Friday, another unusual posting captured my attention.

> Subject: House Help Wanted

>

> Rank: F (Very Easy)

>

> An elderly dwarf citizen is looking for a personal assistant.

>

> The tasks include shopping for groceries and preparing a hot meal. Prior cooking experience preferred, but not required. A shopping list will be provided by the client. Please see Old Klaus at Woodrow 5 for additional details.

>

> Schedule: Today.

>

> Reward: 15 coppers.

The keyword that caught my eye was “dwarf”.

Despite the town’s position right next door to an old dwarven kingdom, I had seen scarce few of their kind during my stay. But it appeared there was at least one dwarf still left alive and kicking in the neighborhood, so to say. I believed there was a reasonable chance that this Mr Klaus had had relatives in Baloria in the realm’s heyday. He could turn out to be a vital source of information, or at least the risk was worth taking. Giving it further thought, I strongly felt I had to meet this dwarf.

Cooking experience—I had some. I wouldn’t be making much profit from this either, but, as the wise had written, sometimes you had to lose a fight to win the war.

I nudged the post off its pin and headed to the counter.

Northwest outside the town wall, but not very far off, in the shade of a group of tall firs, sat a small but stout log cabin. There were quite a few houses raised outside the wall too, but this cabin was distinctly apart from its neighbors, as if hidden away, the property encircled by a loose board fence missing a gate. A narrow footpath led through an overgrown lawn to a heavy door, onto which was fixed a brassy knocker shaped like an aggressive lion’s head biting a loop made of its own tail.

I took the gaudy ring and knocked twice. Then I stood and waited, listening to the chirping of sparrows up in the trees. And I waited long enough to begin to wonder if the resident wasn’t away. But as I was about to knock again, louder, I heard rustling behind the door and withdrew my hand. The door cracked in and in the resulting slim gap appeared the very suspicious, blue-gray eye of a dwarf. I had played down Ray’s childish fascination with dwarves, but it was truthfully my first time seeing (alive) one in person too, and couldn’t deny there was a certain novelty to the occasion.

As promised by the tales, the dwarf was short. About four feet and little over.

The quest note had described the client also as old and indeed, his short-cut hair and big beard had turned all silvery gray and thinning. But even if aged, his body was not feeble. His shoulders were broad, his hands large, and wrists like sinewy clubs.

“Yes?” the dwarf asked through the crack.

“Good morning,” I said. “Am I addressing Mr Klaus, perchance?”

“Yes, I am he. Who’s asking?”

“My name is Lunaria. I am here about the quest posted at the Guild under your name.”

The doubt in his eyes didn’t lessen in the slightest, nor would he open the door wider.

“Was there something wrong with my quest?”

“Not all. I am here to see it done.”

Mr Klaus frowned at me. “You are...?”

“Indeed.”

“I haven’t seen your face around here before.”

“Understandable. I only moved to Faulsen fairly recently.”

He was silent for a lengthy while, before awkwardly mumbling,

“You do understand what kind of job this is, right?”

“You were looking for a personal assistant, correct? I would gladly have the details, if you would be so kind.”

With some hesitation, Mr Klaus finally held the door for me and stepped out of the way. I went to stand in the surprisingly roomy vestibule so that we could discuss the specifics in appropriate privacy. A stiff, unpleasantly stagnant air greeted me, bearing the vague scent of dust, old cloth, and something rotten.

“You look a little too expensive for my purse,” the dwarf grumbled. “For a moment there, I was sure you were here for my head.”

“I assure you, retrieval of heads is not my line of work.”

“That so? I’ll tell you this right now, it’s a very plain and boring job we’re talking about. Nothing a young person would call adventurous. And I won’t be able to pay you any extra, no matter how well you do it.”

“A job is a job,” I said. “All that matters to myself is that you get what you want, the way you want it.”

The undecorated phrasing seemed to please Mr Klaus. Telling me to wait there, he let go of arguments and passed deeper into the smelly house. I noted his stride was very stiff, his back bent, as though he had pains. No wonder he needed a helper. That was likely why it had taken him so long to answer the door too.

Eventually, he returned with a small slip of paper in hand.

“I threw my hip out a while ago,” he said. “I can get around, at my own pace, but carrying anything heavy is a torment. My usual helper had a family emergency and had to skip town for a bit, hence my request to the Guild. Here is a list of the things I need. I want you to go collect them from the market and other shops, as written. The sellers already know the deal. All you need to do is show them the note and bring what they give you. You won’t need any money, they’ll bill me at the end of the month. Just see that you get everything. Is there anything unclear so far?”

I took the list, briefly looked over it, then folded it in two and put it into my apron pocket.

“I should manage.”

Mr Klaus nodded. “Good. Once you get back, I’ll also need you to cook a meal of sorts with the ingredients you were given. Just something quick and simple. My wife used to take care of the kitchen stuff, but...Sadly, she left this world ahead of me. I haven’t the skills for that sort of thing, and learning at my age—not really worth it.”

I would have liked to argue that mastering basic survival skills was never not worth it, but it was not my place to lecture the elderly.

“You may leave it to me today,” I said. “Is there anything else I should know before I go?”

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“No.” Mr Klaus shook his head, looking stern. “Just don’t try to put anything on my tab that’s not on the list, or run off with the stuff. One young helper tried that before. He was awfully sorry about what he did, after a few nights in irons. Took him a long time to pay back for it too. I didn’t wish that on him and wouldn’t want to trouble the guardsmen over something so petty, but what can you do? You’ve got to look out for your rights. Nobody else will.”

I nodded. “I will be back shortly.”

I departed from Woodrow 5, returned to the inside of the wall, and headed first to the marketplace. I was to obtain scraps from the fishmonger. From the farmers, five onions, three leeks, two large turnips, ten beetroots, a few bulbs of garlic, a bag of carrots, and a sack of potatoes. As instructed by Mr Klaus, I showed the vendors the list, and they handed me the goods without further ado. One even thanked me for accepting the job.

Everyone seemed fond of the old dwarf.

From the markets, I went to the herbalist Ridia’s shop a stone’s throw southward from the plaza. After so many weeks in Faulsen, I had pieced together a rough impression of what was where. A few times Ms Vera had asked me to pick up things for her too, if I got off earlier than she did, though she generally declined all suggestions of help.

From the herbalist, I received fresh thyme and salvia, a jar of pepper, a pack of tea, and ointment for sores. I proceeded thence to the general goods store to pick up a can of rape seed oil, hard butter, and bandages. In the next block, I stopped at a bakery to get two loaves of hard rye bread, and from there went to the butcher to retrieve cured ham and bacon, and a box of chicken bones. Did Mr Klaus intend to survive the whole month with this one delivery?

My last stop was the carpenter, Nihls, who had been asked to fix Mr Klaus’s broken cane.

“Alas, it was too far gone,” Master Nihls told me. “He wanted me to put it back together with resin glue, like that was going to work. It was a good cane, but probably more than a century old. The wood had gone far too brittle for fixing it to make any sense, so I made him a new one from scratch. Tell him it’s on me. I just hope he likes it. I tried to make it as similar to the old one as I could.”

“Was Mr Klaus a carpenter?” I asked.

“Aye.” Mr Nihls nodded. “The best. Probably had a hand in more than half the houses still standing in Faulsen. And he's a great man, even if a dwarf. When my family first came to town, he welcomed rivalry with open arms. Taught my grandfather some tricks of the trade too. A pity, he was already long retired when I took up business. Would’ve loved to learn from the master myself. Dwarves weren’t only great with rock and metal, you know? Any material we know, they could make the most of it. Bring it to life.”

By his face, I estimated Master Nihls to be in his early or mid-thirties. Which suggested it had already been close to half a century since Mr Klaus had retired. I’d heard dwarves lived longer than men, but just how long could it be?

My hands were quite full by the time I made the return trip. Thankfully, Faulsen was a small town. I wouldn’t have walked the length of Parade Street in Valengrad while so loaded.

“That was quick,” Mr Klaus said as he opened the door for me. “Did you really get everything?”

“No, only what was on the list.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pardon me, it was nothing.”

I took the goods to the kitchen. Similarly to most residences, there was one large room with a joined kitchen and dining area. I set the groceries onto the sturdy table occupying much of the floor space, and then handed the remade cane to the commissioner.

“Master Nihls sent his apologies. The old cane was beyond repair, in his opinion, so he crafted you a fresh one. He would decline compensation as well.”

The old dwarf took the cane with a sour face and turned it around in his hands.

“He needn’t have bothered,” he said and sighed hard through his big nose. “The old one would’ve served me for what time I have left. I know he meant well, but that boy is a master of nothing. This thing is no good to me.”

I couldn’t tell what was so wrong with the work. It was a tough but lightweight walking stick. But Mr Klaus put the cane away in the corner of the dining room, choosing to trudge on without.

“Mr Nihls mentioned your history with woodwork,” I said. “By the sound of it, he would gladly welcome any pointers, if you were to share them.”

Mr Klaus answered with a grunt: “Bother not your pretty little head with such things.”

He limped over to a drawer by the wall, onto which was left a browned, stained old piece of paper, and then brought it to me.

“Does this make sense to you?”

I glanced over the contents. It was a list of ingredients and quantities, most of them the same as contained in the shopping list, together with a series of steps to follow. All of it written in tidy cursive, the letters so small it was barely legible. The handwriting didn’t look like that of a male hand.

“Am I assuming too much in thinking this is a recipe composed by your wife?”

Mr Klaus made a grim face at my guess.

“It is. It’s supposed to be what we call whitewater soup, a staple of dwarf cuisine. Does it seem like something you could make?”

“I can make it, yes. Though I daresay the result will not taste the same as what you’re used to.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Do whatever you like, as long as it’s even remotely edible. Just treat the recipe as a reference, if you have no better ideas.”

“Very well,” I said and turned to the cooking alcove that extended to the right—and stopped right there.

It was a well-equipped kitchen with numerous, steel-reinforced drawers, a long table, a good brick oven with a stove, and a pair of sinks for treating dishes. All in all, the quality of construction exceeded that of Ms Vera’s battle station and endured comparison to imperial equivalents.

However, the facilities had seen better days.

The sinks were crammed over the capacity with dirty earthenware bowls and plates, wooden forks, knives, spoons, spatulas, milk jugs, mugs, tankards, trays, and whatnot. Now I had the cause behind the stink of rot that had struck me when I first entered the cabin. A veritable, steadily growing mountain of unwashed dishes, garbage, and decomposing food remains filled the kitchen from corner to corner.

I stared at that horror for a moment in silence, then addressed the old dwarf once more.

“Mr Klaus. Before anything else, would you allow me to clean your kitchen?”

“Is that strictly necessary?” Mr Klaus asked without hiding his reluctance.

“Yes.”

“No, forget about it.”

“I cannot.”

“I won’t pay you any more for doing that.”

“Unfortunate, but it has to be done either way. For my own sanity’s sake, if nothing else.”

“Can’t you just—Oh, fine, if you must.” He finally gave up. “I just hope it won’t take days. I’m hungry…”

Indeed, time was of the essence.

I had to report back to the Guild before six, after all.

It was a very sorry state the household was in. First, I needed a fire in the stove to heat water. To get fire, the furnace had to be cleared of accumulated mounds of ashes that blocked the air intakes. Mr Klaus had used buckets and improvised containers to store the excess ashes for a time, but, unable to carry them outside, had finally run out of free vessels. There was a lot of ash on the floor too.

A proper storage for the ashes had been built in the backyard, since the material served as an excellent fertilizer. I noted there were the remains of a vegetable garden behind the house too, though long abandoned. I had to run many trips around the cabin before I got to clearing the fireplace itself and the main part of the effort. Seeing a stone oven of true dwarf quality emerge from under the rubbish could have been an uplifting experience, if not for the fact that I was on a strict timer.

Next was retrieving firewood.

There was a shedful of the stuff close behind the house, which Mr Klaus had been unable to employ to the fullest due to his disability. When by himself, he had to bring in one or two splinters at a time, which had been a full-time job for him in winter. I was able to bring in a good rackful in one trip, and at long last had the makings of a fire under the stove, burning with a ravenous glee and a hum.

From a dining room closet, I found a large cauldron, thank gods too heavy for Mr Klaus to lift in his present state, the only reason why it wasn’t full of ash or garbage. I wiped it clean of dust, filled it with conjured water, and set it to boil.

While the water was coming along, I took out the waste that could be scraped off, and rinsed and sorted out the dishes, grouping them in an order easy to process. Some of the pots and bowls had rusted or decayed beyond use and had to be disposed of, but there were too many for a lone dwarf to begin with. It seemed a larger family had lived in this cabin once. What had happened to them—was none of my business.

Once the water was aboil, I rolled up my sleeves and got to scrubbing. Mr Klaus had dish soap, brushes, coarse sponge, even steel wool, and I began to think the state of his kitchen was not entirely because of old age or lack of know-how, but also plain laziness and a poor attitude towards “women’s work”.

As I worked them, the forsaken dishes told me their story, the story of one wretched old fool.

First he had run out of plates. Then he had run out of bowls. Then he reused each plate and each bowl as many times as he could, until they made him sick, and only then he would take a fresh one. After he ran out of plates and bowls, he would eat off of trays, straight out of skillets, pots, and kettles, until those as well were too filthy to suffer use. He would even try to leave the plates and utensils out on his doorstep on stormy days, hoping rainwater would wash them for him for free. All it did was lure flies and accelerate the spread of mold.

It was—too pitiful.

But since I volunteered for the job, I resolved to be thorough, as an imperial maid should.

The key was to keep your hands moving. Move your hands and don't stop, don't slow down, and don't think about pointless things, not for a blink. And so, bowl by bowl, plate by plate, spoon by spoon, I concluded my personal war against this rotten kitchen in a bittersweet triumph.