A wine bottle smashed against a nose.
Mirabelle counted the cost before the liquid spilled onto the floor. It would be expensive. Anything in a bottle would. The Reitzlake branch of the Adventurer’s Guild didn’t typically do glass. It did wooden steins. And the reason was the many shards now forming a health hazard on the floor.
“[Gust].”
With a sweep of her hand, Mirabelle sent the remnants of the wine bottle into the corner beside her receptionist’s desk, joining the already substantial pile of broken everything which already laid claim to the space.
Chairs missing their legs. Tables missing half their surface. Shoes missing their owners. Anything and everything which had gracefully served as a weapon or a shield now formed a small hill of damage requiring accounting.
Mirabelle had kept a running tally. So far the cost was enough to replenish the bar. An exciting prospect. She’d long mastered every combination of cocktail that the current shelves had to offer. And while she was pleased at the texture, weight and consistency of her pina coladas, she also wished to try her hand at creating a Granholtz Sunrise.
Inversing gravity to separate orange juice from rum was one thing, but to do so using pulp as the focal point was quite another. As far as she knew, nobody had ever used fruit bits as an anchor to a reconstituted [Minor Levitate] before.
She wanted to use it as the subject for her next essay.
But first–
“[Barrier].”
Pwiisshhh.
All of a sudden, silence fell over the guild hall.
Men and women who still had their fists connected to each others’ cheeks halted, their eyes turning wide at the sight of a red dribble sliding down the invisible barrier Mirabelle had cast on herself.
One by one, they separated. Collars were fixed, shirts were tucked in and hats were fished from the communal dinner cauldron as the inhabitants of the guild hall broke into a fit of polite coughs. Eyes turned away from Mirabelle’s professional smile, none daring to match her gaze.
The fleeting homage to etiquette was unnecessary, of course.
To Mirabelle, this was simply another day as a receptionist at the Adventurer’s Guild. And here in the royal capital branch, barely a day went by where she wasn’t forced to shield herself against spillages.
No. This was all perfectly normal.
The punches. The flying bottles. The lost shoes.
What was unusual, however, was the age and status of those present.
For the first time in a year, more grey hairs than unbearded faces filled the hall. Even though everyone present was an adventurer, none had ventured out to complete a commission in many a season.
“Ahem.”
A man whose stubble had now grown white hobbled to the centre of the hall. Though exaggerated, all present parted to allow him a prominent place among the circle forming around the communal cauldron.
Mr. Quinsley, guildmaster of the Reitzlake branch, nodded at each of those present.
To some, he did a bit more.
To Ms. Howe, guildmaster of the Eisenwaldt branch, he offered a kiss to the hand. To Mr. Rolswon, guildmaster of the Trierport branch, he offered a kick to the shin. And to Mr. Harron, guildmaster of the Aquina branch, he offered a smug smile which sapped all the air of maturity a man of his seniority had amassed.
Friends. Allies. Rivals.
But all of them senior guildmasters. And here in the royal capital branch, enough had assembled for a long awaited convocation.
One hosted by Mr. Quinsley.
As both the oldest present and the guildmaster of the Reitzlake branch, he naturally served as the speaker of today’s assembly
And even if he wasn’t, he likely still would have.
“Friends new and old,” said Mr. Quinsley, his bent back slowly turning on the spot. “A rare pleasure to see you dragged from your caves after so long. To most, it’s been a lifetime since we’ve last met. And yet even that’s not been long enough. I begrudgingly welcome you to the royal capital. Don’t be concerned about the size of the hearthfires. It’s just that my hall is massively grander than yours.”
Mirabelle’s smile remained stoic even as a chorus of boos instantly filled the hall.
In moments, bottles hidden behind backs were sent flying.
Mr. Quinsley dodged them all, his hobble and stoop vanishing as the bottles landed in the communal cauldron to serve as seasoning for tonight’s dinner.
Still, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
And neither did those who threw their drinks at him.
“Mr. Quinsley,” said Mr. Tebrim, guildmaster of the Stermondt branch. “Allow me to speak on behalf of all of us present when we say we wish to spend as little time in your hall as possible. The grand size is home to so many scuttling rats that I fear for my life.”
“You’ve no need to fear, Mathias. Those rats have standards. Which is why they’re in my hall and not yours.”
“They’re in your hall because you haven’t shown your face since last winter. If they knew such a monster was skulking about, they would have fled for a different cellar.”
“A cruel proposition to lure them with your odour then, eh? They’ll be dead within a day of following you.”
“Gentlemen, please,” said Ms. Howe, who sat on the largest pile of bottles waiting to be thrown. “This is not the time.”
“Thank you, Miranda, I–”
“Silence, Mathias. I’m not speaking to you. That last bottle I threw wasn’t for Mr. Quinsley.”
“Hahhah. Looks like she hasn’t forgiven you for–”
“And you can be quiet too, Mr. Quinsley. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be gifted with a capital branch with connections alone. I certainly cannot live in a state of semi-retirement, and that means I cannot loiter either. Why in goodness were we summoned? A convocation? Really?”
Agreeing murmurs sounded within the circle. A few clinks met the floor as bottles were dropped. The time for small-talk and casual violence was over.
The convocation had begun.
“Miranda and Mathias has the right of it,” said Mr. Harron. “I thought we agreed to not waste time with meetings. There’s nothing that can be said which cannot be communicated swifter with a simple letter.”
“Not everything can be said through ink,” replied Mr. Quinsley. “If it could, story tellers would rule the world. Not kings.”
“Then why are we here? I’ve received nothing from headquarters about any great event which needs our approval.”
“And why does it take a great event to require our gathering, when we have so many regular duties which require it? While I understand your busy schedule, I understand less why it’s too tiresome to have a convocation once every … how long has it been, Mirabelle?”
“2 years, 172 days,” she replied from behind the receptionist’s desk.
“There you have it. We’re overdue. And believe me, ladies and gentlemen, nobody here has less time to avoid kicking the bucket than I do. So while I agree that formality for formality’s sake is of little use, you can rest assured that I wouldn’t invite you to gawk at my hearthfires without ample reason to do so.”
Mr. Quinsley stood higher, his stooped back straightening.
For a moment, a flash of who he once was swept across his face. A hard light shone in his eyes, drawing a few gulps as eyes wandered instinctively to the two daggers he still kept on his person even in his sleep.
“Yes … we have matters of importance to discuss,” he said, pausing only to allow his solemnity to sink into the atmosphere. “Because while you may not have received any notice from headquarters, I have. Mirabelle, please enlighten my colleagues on the matter.”
Mirabelle nodded as all eyes swept upon her.
Unperturbed by the attention of so many senior figures, she produced a letter from a drawer. One inked entirely in red.
The last of the bottles waiting to be thrown were allowed to drop.
This was serious.
“Understood ... we have been collectively informed that for the first time in over 15 years, the Adventurer’s Guild in the Kingdom of Tirea has failed to reach its regional performance criteria on the quota of lost cats rescued.”
A chorus of groans met her statement.
“I have C-rank adventurers working on rescuing lost cats,” protested Mr. Harron at once. “What more do you want me to do? Go straight to poaching A-ranks from Granholtz? It is not my fault if our crop of F-rank adventurers is markedly less proficient with cats than last year.”
“Half of my F-ranks have allergies,” declared Ms. Howe with a frown. “All of which they failed to disclose, I should add. And yet there exists no criteria for discharging an adventurer based on those grounds alone. I’m practically waiting for them to commit murder before I replace them.”
“This is outrageous,” said Mr. Tebrim. “I’ve begun subsiding all lost cat commissions with additional rewards. Has anyone from headquarters even stepped into Tirea in the last half century? With what resources are we supposed to scour more trees? Because we’re severely lacking in the most important. Adventurers. Good adventurers. Ones who don’t choose to engage in a profession explicitly requiring the rescue of lost pets despite having a fear of ladders.”
Rousy, angry agreement resounded as all shifted their blame to the senior guild leadership.
The Kingdom of Tirea was small, and while that didn’t necessarily result in a lower standard of those wishing to take up the call of adventuring, it did mean that when a poor year revealed itself, there was less room for cushioning.
Of the sea of indignation and dismay, only one face remained unperturbed.
“Then perhaps you should all improve your recruiting standards,” said Mr. Rolswon of Trierport. He sipped at an empty cup of wine. “The cats have not suddenly become more proficient in hiding. I’m afraid the onus is on you.”
Galled looks answered him at once.
Even from those whose branches resided on the opposite ends of the kingdom, none had missed how his branch had broken all known records when an adventurer had completed 76 F-ranked commissions in a single day, resulting in the stunning rescue of over 100 cats. An unprecedented feat of adventuring prowess.
However, not all the looks were of envy and indignancy. And not all had picked up their bottles again.
One among the group held a smile greater than that of Trierport’s guildmaster.
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Quinsley, his eyes twinkling knowingly. “A fine demonstration of an adventurer’s steadfast will. To have aided so many people in so little time is a commendable achievement. And to that I say–you’re welcome.”
The guildmaster of Trierport gave a chuckle. His empty cup swivelled in his hand.
“I don’t remember thanking you. But then again, not all of us are in the business of claiming adventurers from other branches as if it meant anything. As far as I know, adventurers are named so for their ability to adventure. Otherwise, they’d just be guards.”
A murmur of agreement. Mirabelle knew that the words spoken had already been exchanged before this meeting. Several times.
More than a few looks of superiority were directed at the old guildmaster of Reitzlake. His habit of poaching adventurers from other branches was as storied as his own life. And one less likely to endear himself to those around him.
Something which suited his gleeful expression just fine.
“And what fine adventurers mine are, willing to traverse to your motley branch to help fix your falling figures. Be sure to inform the hags at headquarters when they help remove whatever mould they find festering in Trierport, will you?”
“I’m sure you can do that yourself. You spend more time at dinners with those hags than you do here in your grand hall, after all.”
“Gentlemen,” stressed Ms. Howe. “My town is currently suffering an epidemic of strays. An invasion more threatening than the fae. And being reminded of this at a meeting is still wholly unnecessary. Why are we here?”
Mr. Quinsley’s juvenile smile lessened. Everyone felt the shift in the air at once.
“The reason, ladies and gentlemen, is to discuss matters of acknowledgement. It is because of this same adventurer who so generously aided Mr. Rolswon in Trierport’s hour of need that this convocation was called.”
A moment of silence met his proclamation. He continued unabated.
“We’re aware of her exploits,” said Mr. Rolswon, not begrudgingly. “Some of us more than others. She did more than rescue a warehouse full of cats. My receptionist informed me that I’d just missed her in my own hall. Frankly, it was hard to see past the Golden Prince’s flagship at my doorstep.”
Ms. Howe nodded.
“She’s been busy. I’ve received word that this same adventurer was sighted south of the Wovencoille shortly before the retreat of the fae blizzard, though she never entered my branch. Still, a strange coincidence, if it’s the case.”
“No stranger than news of her in Aquina after Duke Valence disappeared,” said Mr. Harron, glancing at Mirabelle. “Especially when she wasn’t listed to participate in the Tournament of Crowns. Let’s not be shy of the topic. The man was mad, bitter and half a day away from secession. Untold lives have been saved. And all without a reward or commission. This … ‘Juliette’. Who is she, exactly?”
“She is exactly as she appears,” said Mr. Quinsley, smiling. “A girl of uncertain origins yet of certain heart, whose sword has blazed a path of righteousness where only darkness was before … including the streets of my own city.”
Mr. Harron nodded. As did they all. Nothing else needed to be said.
“Then the next step is clear. We shall offer her the B-rank trials, as befits someone of her storied deeds. Aquina and the fae aside, her exploits in Rolstein, Trierport and Reitzlake have earned her that right.”
The words hung in the air. Yet no objections broke the silence.
Suddenly, all thoughts of complaints, of rivalry and of poaching were swept aside like the broken bottles in the corner.
To even offer the B-rank trials was a rare and precious thing, driven by timing as much as commendations. There was more than aesthetics with the rank. There was power. Few things earned the whimsical attention of kings and queens more than the ranks bestowed upon them by individuals of worth or great gatherings.
Yet not all ranks were equal. And the ones offered by a convocation of the Adventurer’s Guild were the most respected of all.
And in this, those present took their jobs with a seriousness which befitted their statuses.
There would be protests when those present were informed that the wine bottles they smashed were the last ones remaining. But as to offering that girl with eyes as focused as her sword an attempt to enter the senior ranks, not a single word of objection would be sounded.
“Then it’s settled,” said Mr. Quinsley, not hiding his satisfaction over another gamble proven successful. “We shall offer Juliette the B-rank trials.”
Begrudging acceptance came from all. Not least the guildmaster of Stermondt, who very likely wished for her to pay his own town a visit.
“And where is she now? Stermondt has a hundred issues, and only half of them are caused by the sudden influx of cats. The damnable fog refuses to shift. I swear, I’m going to start seeing people murdered and tossed down the cliff.”
“She left Trierport shortly before I did,” answered Mr. Rolswon. “Beyond that, I’ve no knowledge of her whereabouts. Though I dare say it’ll be where Mr. Quinsley can feel the most smug over her involvement.”
The guildmaster of Reitzlake made no move to deny it.
Instead, he turned his gaze towards Mirabelle and nodded.
“She is an adventurer of my branch. You may leave the matter of finding her in my hands. Or at least, in the hands of one familiar with searching her out across the kingdom.”
Mirabelle tilted her head and smiled.
The pomegranate martini she was secretly mixing with her highly controlled [Vortex] spell came to a sudden stop.
“Excuse me?” she asked, her puzzlement clear in her voice.
Mr. Quinsley nodded.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in the matter, Mirabelle. As will the kingdom’s most promising new adventurer in her trials. I’m certain she’ll be all too glad to accept the opportunity to rise in the ranks.”
Mirabelle merely smiled in response.
Just as she always did, no matter whether it was queries, documents, bottles or highly unsuitable quests to search out a lone adventurer and her travelling attendant which was hurled towards her.
“Understood, Mr. Quinsley.”
And just like always, she endeavoured to perform the role expected of her. Even if it wasn’t typically what was expected of a receptionist.
But not before adding considerably more gin into her pomegranate martini.
Even so, Mirabelle wasn’t sure it was enough.
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A wine bottle smashed against a nose.
Mirabelle counted the cost before the liquid spilled onto the floor. It would be expensive. Anything in a bottle would. The Reitzlake branch of the Adventurer’s Guild didn’t typically do glass. It did wooden steins. And the reason was the many shards now forming a health hazard on the floor.
“[Gust].”
With a sweep of her hand, Mirabelle sent the remnants of the wine bottle into the corner beside her receptionist’s desk, joining the already substantial pile of broken everything which already laid claim to the space.
Chairs missing their legs. Tables missing half their surface. Shoes missing their owners. Anything and everything which had gracefully served as a weapon or a shield now formed a small hill of damage requiring accounting.
Mirabelle had kept a running tally. So far the cost was enough to replenish the bar. An exciting prospect. She’d long mastered every combination of cocktail that the current shelves had to offer. And while she was pleased at the texture, weight and consistency of her pina coladas, she also wished to try her hand at creating a Granholtz Sunrise.
Inversing gravity to separate orange juice from rum was one thing, but to do so using pulp as the focal point was quite another. As far as she knew, nobody had ever used fruit bits as an anchor to a reconstituted [Minor Levitate] before.
She wanted to use it as the subject for her next essay.
But first–
“[Barrier].”
Pwiisshhh.
All of a sudden, silence fell over the guild hall.
Men and women who still had their fists connected to each others’ cheeks halted, their eyes turning wide at the sight of a red dribble sliding down the invisible barrier Mirabelle had cast on herself.
One by one, they separated. Collars were fixed, shirts were tucked in and hats were fished from the communal dinner cauldron as the inhabitants of the guild hall broke into a fit of polite coughs. Eyes turned away from Mirabelle’s professional smile, none daring to match her gaze.
The fleeting homage to etiquette was unnecessary, of course.
To Mirabelle, this was simply another day as a receptionist at the Adventurer’s Guild. And here in the royal capital branch, barely a day went by where she wasn’t forced to shield herself against spillages.
No. This was all perfectly normal.
The punches. The flying bottles. The lost shoes.
What was unusual, however, was the age and status of those present.
For the first time in a year, more grey hairs than unbearded faces filled the hall. Even though everyone present was an adventurer, none had ventured out to complete a commission in many a season.
“Ahem.”
A man whose stubble had now grown white hobbled to the centre of the hall. Though exaggerated, all present parted to allow him a prominent place among the circle forming around the communal cauldron.
Mr. Quinsley, guildmaster of the Reitzlake branch, nodded at each of those present.
To some, he did a bit more.
To Ms. Howe, guildmaster of the Eisenwaldt branch, he offered a kiss to the hand. To Mr. Rolswon, guildmaster of the Trierport branch, he offered a kick to the shin. And to Mr. Harron, guildmaster of the Aquina branch, he offered a smug smile which sapped all the air of maturity a man of his seniority had amassed.
Friends. Allies. Rivals.
But all of them senior guildmasters. And here in the royal capital branch, enough had assembled for a long awaited convocation.
One hosted by Mr. Quinsley.
As both the oldest present and the guildmaster of the Reitzlake branch, he naturally served as the speaker of today’s assembly
And even if he wasn’t, he likely still would have.
“Friends new and old,” said Mr. Quinsley, his bent back slowly turning on the spot. “A rare pleasure to see you dragged from your caves after so long. To most, it’s been a lifetime since we’ve last met. And yet even that’s not been long enough. I begrudgingly welcome you to the royal capital. Don’t be concerned about the size of the hearthfires. It’s just that my hall is massively grander than yours.”
Mirabelle’s smile remained stoic even as a chorus of boos instantly filled the hall.
In moments, bottles hidden behind backs were sent flying.
Mr. Quinsley dodged them all, his hobble and stoop vanishing as the bottles landed in the communal cauldron to serve as seasoning for tonight’s dinner.
Still, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
And neither did those who threw their drinks at him.
“Mr. Quinsley,” said Mr. Tebrim, guildmaster of the Stermondt branch. “Allow me to speak on behalf of all of us present when we say we wish to spend as little time in your hall as possible. The grand size is home to so many scuttling rats that I fear for my life.”
“You’ve no need to fear, Mathias. Those rats have standards. Which is why they’re in my hall and not yours.”
“They’re in your hall because you haven’t shown your face since last winter. If they knew such a monster was skulking about, they would have fled for a different cellar.”
“A cruel proposition to lure them with your odour then, eh? They’ll be dead within a day of following you.”
“Gentlemen, please,” said Ms. Howe, who sat on the largest pile of bottles waiting to be thrown. “This is not the time.”
“Thank you, Miranda, I–”
“Silence, Mathias. I’m not speaking to you. That last bottle I threw wasn’t for Mr. Quinsley.”
“Hahhah. Looks like she hasn’t forgiven you for–”
“And you can be quiet too, Mr. Quinsley. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be gifted with a capital branch with connections alone. I certainly cannot live in a state of semi-retirement, and that means I cannot loiter either. Why in goodness were we summoned? A convocation? Really?”
Agreeing murmurs sounded within the circle. A few clinks met the floor as bottles were dropped. The time for small-talk and casual violence was over.
The convocation had begun.
“Miranda and Mathias has the right of it,” said Mr. Harron. “I thought we agreed to not waste time with meetings. There’s nothing that can be said which cannot be communicated swifter with a simple letter.”
“Not everything can be said through ink,” replied Mr. Quinsley. “If it could, story tellers would rule the world. Not kings.”
“Then why are we here? I’ve received nothing from headquarters about any great event which needs our approval.”
“And why does it take a great event to require our gathering, when we have so many regular duties which require it? While I understand your busy schedule, I understand less why it’s too tiresome to have a convocation once every … how long has it been, Mirabelle?”
“2 years, 172 days,” she replied from behind the receptionist’s desk.
“There you have it. We’re overdue. And believe me, ladies and gentlemen, nobody here has less time to avoid kicking the bucket than I do. So while I agree that formality for formality’s sake is of little use, you can rest assured that I wouldn’t invite you to gawk at my hearthfires without ample reason to do so.”
Mr. Quinsley stood higher, his stooped back straightening.
For a moment, a flash of who he once was swept across his face. A hard light shone in his eyes, drawing a few gulps as eyes wandered instinctively to the two daggers he still kept on his person even in his sleep.
“Yes … we have matters of importance to discuss,” he said, pausing only to allow his solemnity to sink into the atmosphere. “Because while you may not have received any notice from headquarters, I have. Mirabelle, please enlighten my colleagues on the matter.”
Mirabelle nodded as all eyes swept upon her.
Unperturbed by the attention of so many senior figures, she produced a letter from a drawer. One inked entirely in red.
The last of the bottles waiting to be thrown were allowed to drop.
This was serious.
“Understood ... we have been collectively informed that for the first time in over 15 years, the Adventurer’s Guild in the Kingdom of Tirea has failed to reach its regional performance criteria on the quota of lost cats rescued.”
A chorus of groans met her statement.
“I have C-rank adventurers working on rescuing lost cats,” protested Mr. Harron at once. “What more do you want me to do? Go straight to poaching A-ranks from Granholtz? It is not my fault if our crop of F-rank adventurers is markedly less proficient with cats than last year.”
“Half of my F-ranks have allergies,” declared Ms. Howe with a frown. “All of which they failed to disclose, I should add. And yet there exists no criteria for discharging an adventurer based on those grounds alone. I’m practically waiting for them to commit murder before I replace them.”
“This is outrageous,” said Mr. Tebrim. “I’ve begun subsiding all lost cat commissions with additional rewards. Has anyone from headquarters even stepped into Tirea in the last half century? With what resources are we supposed to scour more trees? Because we’re severely lacking in the most important. Adventurers. Good adventurers. Ones who don’t choose to engage in a profession explicitly requiring the rescue of lost pets despite having a fear of ladders.”
Rousy, angry agreement resounded as all shifted their blame to the senior guild leadership.
The Kingdom of Tirea was small, and while that didn’t necessarily result in a lower standard of those wishing to take up the call of adventuring, it did mean that when a poor year revealed itself, there was less room for cushioning.
Of the sea of indignation and dismay, only one face remained unperturbed.
“Then perhaps you should all improve your recruiting standards,” said Mr. Rolswon of Trierport. He sipped at an empty cup of wine. “The cats have not suddenly become more proficient in hiding. I’m afraid the onus is on you.”
Galled looks answered him at once.
Even from those whose branches resided on the opposite ends of the kingdom, none had missed how his branch had broken all known records when an adventurer had completed 76 F-ranked commissions in a single day, resulting in the stunning rescue of over 100 cats. An unprecedented feat of adventuring prowess.
However, not all the looks were of envy and indignancy. And not all had picked up their bottles again.
One among the group held a smile greater than that of Trierport’s guildmaster.
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Quinsley, his eyes twinkling knowingly. “A fine demonstration of an adventurer’s steadfast will. To have aided so many people in so little time is a commendable achievement. And to that I say–you’re welcome.”
The guildmaster of Trierport gave a chuckle. His empty cup swivelled in his hand.
“I don’t remember thanking you. But then again, not all of us are in the business of claiming adventurers from other branches as if it meant anything. As far as I know, adventurers are named so for their ability to adventure. Otherwise, they’d just be guards.”
A murmur of agreement. Mirabelle knew that the words spoken had already been exchanged before this meeting. Several times.
More than a few looks of superiority were directed at the old guildmaster of Reitzlake. His habit of poaching adventurers from other branches was as storied as his own life. And one less likely to endear himself to those around him.
Something which suited his gleeful expression just fine.
“And what fine adventurers mine are, willing to traverse to your motley branch to help fix your falling figures. Be sure to inform the hags at headquarters when they help remove whatever mould they find festering in Trierport, will you?”
“I’m sure you can do that yourself. You spend more time at dinners with those hags than you do here in your grand hall, after all.”
“Gentlemen,” stressed Ms. Howe. “My town is currently suffering an epidemic of strays. An invasion more threatening than the fae. And being reminded of this at a meeting is still wholly unnecessary. Why are we here?”
Mr. Quinsley’s juvenile smile lessened. Everyone felt the shift in the air at once.
“The reason, ladies and gentlemen, is to discuss matters of acknowledgement. It is because of this same adventurer who so generously aided Mr. Rolswon in Trierport’s hour of need that this convocation was called.”
A moment of silence met his proclamation. He continued unabated.
“We’re aware of her exploits,” said Mr. Rolswon, not begrudgingly. “Some of us more than others. She did more than rescue a warehouse full of cats. My receptionist informed me that I’d just missed her in my own hall. Frankly, it was hard to see past the Golden Prince’s flagship at my doorstep.”
Ms. Howe nodded.
“She’s been busy. I’ve received word that this same adventurer was sighted south of the Wovencoille shortly before the retreat of the fae blizzard, though she never entered my branch. Still, a strange coincidence, if it’s the case.”
“No stranger than news of her in Aquina after Duke Valence disappeared,” said Mr. Harron, glancing at Mirabelle. “Especially when she wasn’t listed to participate in the Tournament of Crowns. Let’s not be shy of the topic. The man was mad, bitter and half a day away from secession. Untold lives have been saved. And all without a reward or commission. This … ‘Juliette’. Who is she, exactly?”
“She is exactly as she appears,” said Mr. Quinsley, smiling. “A girl of uncertain origins yet of certain heart, whose sword has blazed a path of righteousness where only darkness was before … including the streets of my own city.”
Mr. Harron nodded. As did they all. Nothing else needed to be said.
“Then the next step is clear. We shall offer her the B-rank trials, as befits someone of her storied deeds. Aquina and the fae aside, her exploits in Rolstein, Trierport and Reitzlake have earned her that right.”
The words hung in the air. Yet no objections broke the silence.
Suddenly, all thoughts of complaints, of rivalry and of poaching were swept aside like the broken bottles in the corner.
To even offer the B-rank trials was a rare and precious thing, driven by timing as much as commendations. There was more than aesthetics with the rank. There was power. Few things earned the whimsical attention of kings and queens more than the ranks bestowed upon them by individuals of worth or great gatherings.
Yet not all ranks were equal. And the ones offered by a convocation of the Adventurer’s Guild were the most respected of all.
And in this, those present took their jobs with a seriousness which befitted their statuses.
There would be protests when those present were informed that the wine bottles they smashed were the last ones remaining. But as to offering that girl with eyes as focused as her sword an attempt to enter the senior ranks, not a single word of objection would be sounded.
“Then it’s settled,” said Mr. Quinsley, not hiding his satisfaction over another gamble proven successful. “We shall offer Juliette the B-rank trials.”
Begrudging acceptance came from all. Not least the guildmaster of Stermondt, who very likely wished for her to pay his own town a visit.
“And where is she now? Stermondt has a hundred issues, and only half of them are caused by the sudden influx of cats. The damnable fog refuses to shift. I swear, I’m going to start seeing people murdered and tossed down the cliff.”
“She left Trierport shortly before I did,” answered Mr. Rolswon. “Beyond that, I’ve no knowledge of her whereabouts. Though I dare say it’ll be where Mr. Quinsley can feel the most smug over her involvement.”
The guildmaster of Reitzlake made no move to deny it.
Instead, he turned his gaze towards Mirabelle and nodded.
“She is an adventurer of my branch. You may leave the matter of finding her in my hands. Or at least, in the hands of one familiar with searching her out across the kingdom.”
Mirabelle tilted her head and smiled.
The pomegranate martini she was secretly mixing with her highly controlled [Vortex] spell came to a sudden stop.
“Excuse me?” she asked, her puzzlement clear in her voice.
Mr. Quinsley nodded.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in the matter, Mirabelle. As will the kingdom’s most promising new adventurer in her trials. I’m certain she’ll be all too glad to accept the opportunity to rise in the ranks.”
Mirabelle merely smiled in response.
Just as she always did, no matter whether it was queries, documents, bottles or highly unsuitable quests to search out a lone adventurer and her travelling attendant which was hurled towards her.
“Understood, Mr. Quinsley.”
And just like always, she endeavoured to perform the role expected of her. Even if it wasn’t typically what was expected of a receptionist.
But not before adding considerably more gin into her pomegranate martini.
Even so, Mirabelle wasn’t sure it was enough.
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