I began my career the way most did, as a scullery maid.

Our merry journey from the capital of Vandalia to Ferdina with the Emperor and his grand retinue gave me a very misleading image about the lifestyle of the imperial family and their servants. Wayfaring required certain flexibility and everyone was more relaxed whilst on the road, taking things in stride. But once the sightseeing was done and over with, a starkly different reality awaited me in the luxurious palace complex.

Though his majesty had personally recruited me and I had learned from the very highest of servant hierarchy on the way, the fact gave me no special treatment, no shortcuts to success. And as soon as we were settled at home, I was sent to the kitchen.

The palace kitchen was like a factory. I had never seen anything of the like before.

A platoon of forty very intimidating men and women in white uniforms prepared the daily meals for the over three hundred and fifty court workers, the imperial family included.

The kitchen was led by a man named Marco D’Ferrere, a veteran restaurateur recruited from Lombaria. He was an enormous bear of a man with a round belly, great black mustache, curly black hair, and obnoxiously loud voice. Every minute he was awake, words spilled from him in an endless, heated stream, save only when the dinner service was on. Only then did he keep completely quiet and focused.

You could sense when Chef D'Ferrere was coming from afar, feel his overbearing aura even before you heard his booming voice. People couldn’t help but be tense and on guard in his presence, though he was never violent and I never saw him lay a finger on a person. But he was strict, a perfectionist, and wouldn’t hesitate to point out people’s mistakes in unabashed clarity.

I had no personal dealings with him, at first. He hardly noticed I existed. I started out as scullery maids generally did, helping with menial work: washing dishes, washing floors, cleaning tables, peeling potatoes, plucking poultry, taking out trashes. And my first day was a perfect disaster. The older maid responsible for my training held me back after the day and we explored the meaning of “cleanliness” until elven at night. No matter how I wiped the desks, there was always grime to be found. I scrubbed those desks even later in my dreams. I might have shed a tear or two in my weaker moments in those early days.

But after the first week, the routine ceased to seem so bad and I did what was asked of me as well as anyone else. By the time my first payday came at the end of the month, I experienced a whole new dimension of contentment. If that was to be my lot till the end of my days, maybe it wasn’t so terrible. There could surely be a lot worse.

But then Chef D'Ferrere addressed me all out of the blue.

Next to my usual duties, he wanted me to help the cook responsible for broths.

I had to learn how to use a knife right and treat and cut vegetables, onions, leeks, garlic, herbs, and all such ingredients that would be boiled to extract broth from them. It was a lot of new things to learn at a very quick pace and I was once again overwhelmed by heavy demands. The cook who supervised me was very nice and humorous, but Chef D'Ferrere would seize every free moment to come over and lecture me further in person, loud enough that everyone could hear.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, mademoiselle! What are you doing? Not like this. Do not raise your blade like that. Never-ever do that again! It makes you slow! Keep the tip to the cutting board when you move it, like this. Up and down. Up and down. Like this. Do you understand? Capiche? Let me see how you do. Yes, yes. No! No! Keep your fingers close to the blade. Closer, closer! Nonsense, you will not cut yourself. Close to the blade is the safest place to be! Believe me! I have done this for twenty-five years! You were not even born twenty-five years ago! Your mother was still a virtuous woman twenty-five years ago! Do not tell me I use the knife wrong.”

Efforts were made to adjust, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t ever seem to be fast enough, or cut cleanly enough, or stand with my back straight enough.

But somehow, a day came when we finished lunch and dinner service without anyone raising their voice at me, and life looked a little brighter again.

Until the next day.

Then Chef D'Ferrere announced the cook I'd worked with would be moved to another station and from thereon, I was responsible for the broths entirely alone.

What had required two people to do, exercising their utmost effort, I had to somehow manage now without any help.

A fresh batch of vegetable broth, fish broth, light beef broth and dark beef broth had to be made every day. Next to preparing the ingredients, I had to keep a close watch on the boiling pots and make sure they didn’t burn, or boil over, or stop boiling, but reduced properly. And by the gods, if I neglected one for even a wink. Chef D'Ferrere would be there to remind me.

“Mademoiselle! Are you asleep? Why is my delicious bouillon going over the bounds? What is that hideous mess there on my floor? Where are your eyes and ears? What are those pretty blue eyes looking at? Are you dreaming of a night with your boyfriend at work? Is there nothing but weiners in your head? You forget one more time and I will find that enfoire who wants to be your husband and put him in that pot among pork strips and bones! Yes, I will make a right soup out of him, if that helps you keep awake! Do you understand? Have I made myself very clear? Will you sleep again? No?”

As if I had time for dates.

Again and again, I would be told I was holding the kitchen back and we were going to be late, all was doomed, and our birth itself was a mistake. But through constant repetition, I was able to gain some semblance of control over my chaotic work station and felt life was becoming more manageable. And then the master would flip everything upside down once again.

Suddenly, I was moved from broths to helping at the poultry station.

Why? I couldn't comprehend.

Again, an uphill battle of learning. I had to figure out how to cut birds cleanly to pretty pieces fit to be served. How to debone bird legs, how to arrange wings. I had to learn how to stuff fowls and wrap them right. Again, endless mistakes and yelling. Why was I being thrown around like this? Why couldn't the head chef be content if I could do at least one thing right? Did he simply enjoy having someone to yell at? Or had things working out been only my personal delusion? Had I been deemed so hopeless at making broths, it wasn't worth trying to teach me anymore and I couldn’t be allowed near the pots again? None of it made sense.

Well, I would try to do better.

Surely I could do better. I couldn't possibly be one of those people, who were worthless at everything, right?

So I did my best, the same as always.

But the circus didn’t end at birds. Nor at the next destination.

As soon as I felt I was starting to get the hang of handling poultry, I would be moved elsewhere, and the same torture would to start over from the beginning. It was the longest ten months of my life. Being mentally and physically past every limit around the clock. It was infernal. From poultry to making roast. From roast to stews, from stews to soups, from soups to steaks. What were tournedos and filet mignon, sirloin and tenderloin. And then onwards to fish. I had a mountain of aquatic lifeforms I had never seen before hauled onto my desk every morning, and had to somehow turn those alien creatures into food that looked and tasted like food by midday.

From fish to vegetarian dishes. From vegetarian to desserts.

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Ten months later, I stood behind the workstation closest to Chef D'Ferrere’s own post at the far end of the kitchen, right under his evil eye, learning the art of a saucier. It was quite possibly the worst place for any living organism to be in.

Yet, to my marvel, I found I rather liked it, after everything.

I could witness firsthand what came of the broths I had learned to make in the very beginning. How the leftovers from the other stations could be utilized in bouillons, which then became the foundation of sauces. From old, new things could be created. A circle had closed, in a sense. Or, perhaps I had been simply mindbroken and adapted to enjoy my agony?

Silence and peace.

Not long after I’d found some manner of inner equilibrium amidst the chaos, his majesty abruptly sent word downstairs that I was to be trained into an imperial maid, with the end goal of making me a chamberer for either the Empress or the Crown Princess.

When he learned the news, Chef D'Ferrere took off on the spot. He marched upstairs directly into the Emperor’s office. I later learned he gave a rather passionate speech up there.

“Do not take that girl from me! You cannot take her from me! This whole kitchen will go to l'enfer if she leaves! Everything will go to dogs! C'est des conneries! Finally I find someone who doesn’t have a hand made of thumbs and balls for brains, and now you tell me she must go? This is bull and putain! I cannot run this circus anymore! I must leave here! I will resign! I will go back home to Lombaria and you must find yourself a new fat batarde to run your kitchen! A new madman to stir your soup, yes!”

After close to a year of telling me I was a menace to culture and cuisine, he now fought tooth and nail with the Emperor to keep me in the kitchen. He went where Kings and Princes didn’t dare to go and wiped the floor with etiquette. Either he was terribly brave, or terribly mad. But he was Marco D’Ferrere and everyone knew there could be no replacement for him. It was only after his majesty assured the cook that I could still help out if I wanted to and my schedule would be arranged accordingly, that the uprising was dismantled and peace restored in Valengrad.

On that day, I learned not to trust too much the words of others.

Some of us were born fundamentally dishonest.

Preparing a meal for only one old dwarf was not much of a challenge compared to a day in the imperial kitchen. With the cooking corner all clear, I considered the real work for this quest to have ended. The rest was only a casual formality, a brief meditative ceremony.

I peeled and cut the turnips, potatoes, one large onion, and a leek, and sweated them on a pan with a bit of butter.

The chief challenge in cooking lay in ensuring that every individual ingredient in a dish came out at its finest at precisely the same time, despite each of them taking a different amount of heat.

The easiest way to achieve this was to control the scale. For example, turnips tended to be softer in texture than potatoes and cook faster, so by cutting the latter into smaller pieces than the former, they would finish conveniently side by side. However, having many pieces of different sizes in your food was not considered aesthetically pleasing. That was not the way of the imperial kitchen. All the ingredients had to be of the same size, precisely, not close enough.

To ensure everything cooked properly nonetheless, you had to master the more difficult way, controlling time.

I filled a small pot with clean water and set it to boil. First I added the potatoes. After letting them boil for approximately six minutes, I added the turnips. Eight minutes later, onions. Four minutes later, the fish scraps. They were leftover cuts from fillets made for wealthier customers, and there were almost more bones than meat on them, but that didn’t make them unfit as food. If properly boiled, the bones would soften, add flavor to the soup, and were easier to chew. The fish heads included, it was as good as using broth. Lastly, a few minutes before completion, I added the fine-cut leek and a handful of finely chopped salvia. They lost flavor if left to simmer for too long.

There was no clock in the house, but that was not a problem. I had the timing in my backbone.

Thirty minutes after getting started, the vegetables had grown soft but not mushy, the thin bones had given up their hardness, and an aromatic scent drifted from the iron pot, accompanied by the smokiness of the fire. Mr Klaus had salt, so I seasoned the soup now, checked the taste, and took the pot off the heat.

The starch from the potatoes had given the soup a creamy look. With light-colored vegetables and white fish, the food’s appearance was predominantly pale. I assumed that was what gave the dish its name. Whitewater soup.

“It’s done.”

Mr Klaus had sat at the dining room table, waiting, eyes closed in thought. He now stirred with a start, blinking.

“Already?”

I filled a bowl and brought it to him with a spoon, a slice of bread, and a cup of cold water.

“Bon appétit ”

Mr Klaus frowned at me. “What’s that mean?”

“Pardon me. A slip of the tongue. Please pay it no heed.”

I thought I would hear his impressions before going to clean up, in case he ordered a redo and remained standing close by. With his large, stiff hand, the old dwarf took his spoon and regarded the meal with a complicated expression. After a moment’s deliberation, he then bravely dug in.

Mr Klaus sampled the soup with great care for a long while. Then his fist, squeezed tightly around the spoon, sank onto the table. He leaned on his elbow and began to sob, his still bulky shoulders shuddering, and tears dropping among his gray beard.

“It’s been so long…!” he grunted. “It’s been so long…since I last had food...that tasted like food…!”

Hearing it, I couldn’t help but feel a sharp wave of sadness pass through my chest, and earnestly pitied him.

“…I am sorry to hear that. Do take your time.”

I left Mr Klaus to dine in peace and went to wash the cutting board and clean the tools away.

By the time he set down his spoon for the last time, the empty bowl in front of him, he seemed more at ease, the former anxious tension about him shed.

“Was it at all the way your lady would make it?” I asked as I cleared the table.

Mr Klaus made a wry chuckle.

“No. To tell you the truth, my wife—was not much of a cook. She hated it. Her way was to put in so much spice I wouldn’t be able to tell where she went wrong.”

“I see.”

The brief smile soon faded from Mr Klaus’s pale face, which grew pained.

“You have done me great service today, young Miss. You deserve three times the pay I promised, but my pension is what it is...I can barely make the ends meet…”

I raised my hand to halt his agonizing.

“I did what I did of my own accord. As agreed, you don’t need to pay me any more than what was signed on. However, if you truly feel indebted, I might suggest a different way of reimbursement.”

The dwarf regarded me with caution. “And what is that?”

“Information.”

He frowned his bushy brows, and I continued,

“Considering your ethnicity and the town’s location, I assume you are familiar with the Kingdom of Baloria. You may also have heard of the recent collapse of the bridge in Qiln. Due to reasons, it is imperative I find a way through the dungeon. Which is why I would appreciate anything and everything you could tell me about the place. Anything you may have heard, regardless of how trivial it may seem to you.”

Mr Klaus turned to stare through the tabletop, his face grave.

“Baloria…” he murmured and sighed heavily. “Why would you ever want to go to such a place?”

“Forgive me, but my reasons are my own.”

“And there is no way I can convince you to keep well away from there?”

“I fear not,” I answered. “Either I go there armed with your knowledge, or else I go blind and ignorant. My fate is in your hands.”

The old dwarf sat in silence for a time, not a hair on him moving, as though he had turned to stone. I already began to wonder if my request hadn’t summoned such unpleasant memories in Mr Klaus that it had brought about his premature end.

Then, at last, he regained his life.

“In People’s Corner—it is a bar in town—there is a man named Selleck. Martin Selleck. He owns the place. Once, he promised me a keg of his best mead. I swore to my old lady I wouldn’t drink again, and I’ve kept my word thus far. But there is no way I’m telling such tales sober. Go turn in your quest, I’ve signed the card. Then bring that mead here, and I’ll tell you all you want to know—even though you may find it was too much.”