An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Chapter 30 – The Citadel of Lava

At the center of Iscrimo sat the heart of the ancient volcano. A massive lake of lava endlessly bubbling to the surface, the flood of which was only held at bay by the hundreds of canals directing the molten rock throughout the city. Jutting out of the center of that lake of hellfire was the l'Insieme, an ancient castle of obsidian pillars and marble statues which towered over the rest of the city, connected to the mainland by only a thin basalt bridge.

In ancient times it had been a fortress that the Volans had used to fight the Dwarves and later the Horrors. It was then used as a palace for the local governor, until the empire fell and the city declared itself a republic, whereupon it was then converted into the imposing Town Hall of Iscrimo.

And so it was named l'Insieme Fuso di Iscrimo, the Fused Council of Iscrimo.

At least, that’s what the plaque next to the entrance says.

“I cannot believe we have to wait in line for this,” Chiara grumbled, glaring with narrow eyes at the crowd of people in front of them, as though that would somehow make the line move faster. “We are wasting so much time.”

“It’s just until we get to the guardpost,” Lorenzo consoled her, in a way that would have been more reassuring if they hadn’t been there an hour already. “We’re almost there, just be patient.”

“I am being patient,” she ground out through the scraping of crystalline teeth. “I am being very, very patient.”

Palmira glanced up at them, checking to make sure that Chiara wasn’t about to kill anyone, before tuning the two of them back out and turning back to the plaque. It was one of several they’d passed so far, each with some new fun fact about the city written alongside a carved diagram. This one showed a scaled down version of the l'Insieme fending off an army of dwarves, the humans looking suitably heroic and the dwarves suitably monstrous.

‘Query,’ Malocchio spoke up, turning her attention to the cursed mace on her waist. ‘We are confused. Are those creatures on the picture supposed to be dwarves? They do not look like the ones We have seen before.’

Palmira glanced back at the plaque, squinting at the carving. There was no color and it was so small that it was hard to tell, but she was pretty sure they were dwarves, what with them being short and all. Sure, they had what looked like flaming eyes and claws, but that was probably just the artist trying to make the dwarves look bad. Or maybe these were supposed to be Horrors, not dwarves, and she’d just assumed?

Dang it, now she was confusing herself.

“Morte, am I seeing things? Those are supposed to be dwarves, right?”

“…Eh? Maybe?” her staff gave the impression of shrugging. “I mean, they look kind of like Horrors to me, but they could also be dwarves. Hell, if you squint they could even just be humans. I don’t think the artist really knew what they were going for here.”

Palmira frowned, only to nearly jump as Chiara grabbed her elbow, dragging her forward as the line surged again.

With one last scowl back at the unclear plaque, she put it out of her mind, instead following the others as they slowly made their way to the front of the line.

It wasn’t until the sun began to dip below the mountains that they finally made it to the guardhouse, a set of two black towers and a solid basalt wall that blocked the l'Insieme off from the rest of the city. The guard who waved them forward was, ironically, a dwarf, who took them in with narrowed eyes.

“State yer name and business, brats,” the dwarf demanded briskly, glancing them over. “Why are ye visiting l'Insieme Fuso today?”

Lorenzo stepped forward, showing the guard the coin Lenna had given them. “We’re here to meet with Andrea del Loretti, on behalf of Dante Cadorna of the Rosa Dominae for the purpose of the recent… uh… incident. We’re gathering information for the trial, so that we can clear our guildmaster’s name.”

The dwarf gave them a single raised eyebrow, before stepping back and whispering through one of the tower windows. After a swift back and forth, something was exchanged through the window and he turned back to them, handing Lorenzo three thin silver necklaces.

“These will get ye into the l'Insieme,” he told them. “Make sure ye wear them at all times, or else ye’ll be arrested and most likely executed for trespassing. Immediately head in and speak to a servant inside, and don’t go anywhere unaccompanied, or else ye’ll be arrested and likely executed for trespassing. And for the love of all that is holy, ask before leaving to use the restroom, or else ye will be arrested and likely executed for trespassing. Ye understand me?”

“We understand, thank you,” Lorenzo nodded, handing the necklaces to the two of them.

“Ye’d better,” the dwarf grumbled, before waving them in. “Just head on in, the necklaces will open it for ye. And make sure ye return the necklaces back here, or else—”

“Let me guess,” Chiara rolled her eyes. “We’ll be arrested and executed?”

“Nay,” the dwarf shook his head. “Just executed. Now, get a move on! There’re people behind ye and I was supposed to go home two hours ago!”

Getting rushed forward, the made their way to the great black wall that blocked off the bridge. At first it looked like nothing would happen as they came up to it, but once they were within arms reach of it the stone shifted, opening up into three holes just barely big enough for them to walk through. Once past, they sealed just as quickly, leaving only the lone bridge in front of them.

The bridge, it should be noted, did not look particularly safe. It was a thin strip of basalt which stretched from the l'Insieme to where they stood, barely wide enough for two adults to walk side by side and lacking any handrails to stop people from slipping off. It’s one saving grace was that it was obviously well maintained, though a closer look saw that it was sloped somewhat, likely in an attempt to cause anyone who moved to quickly to slip off into the molten stone below.

Crossing the bridge to the fortress might have been a more harrowing endeavor for someone not immune to lava. As it was, Palmira found the experience somehow relaxing.

Her friends were not quite so calm.

But finally they made it to the other side, passing beneath ancient basalt doors larger than the inn they were currently staying at, engraved from top to bottom with the severe faces of ancient Volan legionaries which glared down at them like a council of angry gods.

Once beyond the statues’ ancient judgment they arrived at the foyer of the l'Insieme. It was a massive, vaulted room, the dome above held aloft by columns of exquisitely crafted silver statues of men in agony, piling on top of each other’s shoulders in a cacophony of heads and limps. Beneath the dome were towering stained glass windows which depicted the history of the city, from the slaying of the first Dwarves to the war with the Horrors and the later war against the Feyfolk. At the back of the foyer was a mural depicting a Volan legionary devouring a dragon, lava drizzling from where he bit down to pool on the floor in a way reminiscent of blood.

There were many things running through her mind upon seeing that mural, but despite everything else, she couldn’t help but wonder…

“Do you think dragons taste good?”

Chiara turned away from the mural to look at her. “What.”

“Surprisingly enough, no,” Morte answered her. “You’d think it would taste like any other lizard—a little gamey, sure, but fine enough—but no! The main issue is that they’re inherently magical creatures, so they’ve always got this nasty kick to them. Plus they’re hell to cook, what with being immune to fire, so you’d have a better time marinating them in lime juice then trying to cook them traditionally. Unless you’re doing it for bragging rights, it’s just not worth it.”

“What. Why do you know that?”

“Huh,” Palmira shrugged, putting that information with the rest of the obscure facts she learned from Morte. “Neat.”

“Excuse me,” a young man with skin as pale as chalk walked up to them. The pitch-black formalwear he was draped in was almost fine enough to draw attention away from his horrible eyeliner. “Are you here with the afternoon tour? We apologize, but that’s been cancelled due to the… situation… that has developed. We are willing to reschedule, if you’re willing to wait until this whole situation has blown over.”

Lorenzo, after a moment of confusion, shook his head. “Ah, no, we’re here to meet with Signora Andrea dei Loretti,” he flashed him the stamped coin, plastering a winning smile on his face. The other man spent a moment longer than he needed to staring at that smile, before finally turning to look at the coin.

After a moment a small frown grew on his face, before he smoothed it out with a nod. “Of course, Signor, Signorine, if you would follow me.”

The servant dragged them through dozens of equally ostentatious hallways, before finally they were ushered into a side room to, once again, wait.

Chiara looked about ready to murder someone. Probably the servant, if he didn’t stop staring at Lorenzo’s butt.

The waiting area they were led to wasn’t half as grand as the foyer, though it was still fancier than anything the guild could’ve done. Even this ‘small’ room was larger than half of their guildhall, decorated in the same darkly depressing architecture as the rest of the building, the grandest of which was a life-sized marble statue of a dwarf atop a mountain, whose heart was pierced by a gushing fountain of lava which illuminated the otherwise dark room.

Seated in the waiting area were an elderly noble lady with an entourage of servants cluttering up the space, a portly merchant in silks in the corner reading a thin book, and a blood red dragon so big only its head could fit in the room.

With the elderly lady and her countless servants taking up the majority of the space, the trio immediately made a beeline for one of the few unclaimed seats along the edge, the three of them squeezing into a slightly too small couch next to the dragon.

Chiara and Lorenzo almost immediately got into a heated argument of what sounded like the latter trying to convince the former to once again be patient. Palmira, shoved to the side of their little bench, ended up within arms-reach of the dragon’s head. Giving it a glance out of the corner of her eye, she noted its fabulous hat and extravagant dress-collar, before looking away and awkwardly trying to pretend it wasn’t there. After all, it was only polite to mind your own business in a waiting room, even when the person sitting next to you was snoring so loudly you could feel your ribcage rattle in your chest.

“Huh,” Morte muttered. “Is that a red dragon? You don’t normally see those this far south. I wonder if he’s a tourist?”

“Morte, please,” she muttered as quietly as she could.

‘Clarification,’ Malocchio spoke up, sounding slightly confused. ‘This is too big to be a dragon. It must be something different.’

“I’m sorry? Too big for a dragon? Haven’t you ever seen—huh, I suppose you haven’t. Have the only dragons you’ve seen so far been the drakelings?”

‘Confusion. There are other types?’

“Huh. Yeah, kid, there are. I guess this is also your first time out of the city too. I’m a bit surprised you haven’t had any other questions.”

‘Indifference. Ignoring minor aesthetic differences, a city is a city. We have been slightly warmer since arriving, but that is all.’

“So you care about dragons but not distinct architectural and cultural styles? You really are a little kid.”

Any further conversation was cut off by the head of the dragon shuddering next to her, a single flickering eyelid opening to glare down at them.

“Please, little boy,” the dragon suddenly rumbled with the twang of some incomprehensible accent. “Cease thinking so loudly. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Palmira jumped in her seat, head snapping to the dragon in shock. “You can hear him!?”

“Little boy!?” Morte yelped in full offense. “I am not little! I am a perfectly average sized skull, thank you very much!”

“All of you humans are little to me,” the dragon yawned, the mere opening of its mouth causing the temperature of the room to raise several degrees. “But I suppose you cannot help it. It is in your nature to be insignificant, after all.”

“Big talk coming from someone who’s an endangered species!”

The dragon’s glare turned heated, and in that moment Palmira made a split second decision that she wouldn’t be getting killed because of her staff’s big mouth. Flipping him over, she shoved his skull beneath her chair, before trying to make herself as small and pitiful as possible.

“I’m so sorry, Signor Dragon,” Palmira hurriedly apologized. “Please don’t take it personally, my staff’s just a dumbass who can’t keep his mouth shut. I’ll be sure to properly punish him later.”

“MRGHLFFLNAFF!” Morte’s mangled voice came from beneath the chair as he pretended she’d muffled him. “MGRAFT!”

“Shut it,” she hissed, knocking his skull against the floor.

The dragon apparently found that amusing, chuckling lowly, the sound like the chittering of a thousand insects burrowing through her ribs. “Your pitiful apology is accepted, child. But I would make certain you know who it is you speak to. I am the Great Ticino, Minister of the Canton of Le Colline. So, tell me, who are you? What reason do you have for sitting in my presence?”

“Um, well, I’m Palmira,” she nodded at him awkwardly, “And I’m here because this was the only seat left?”

The dragon—Ticino—somehow managed to give her a flat look. “I have eyes, child. I meant why are you here, in this room, today?”

“Oh!” Palmira winced, her hair momentarily lighting up in embarrassment. “I’m here about the, uh, the death of the late Duke. Our guildmaster was framed for the murder, see, and we’re trying to clear his name.”

The dragon stared at her unblinking, not a single muscle moving. And then, finally, he laughed. A deep, guttural sound which instantly drew the attention of everyone in the room.

Palmira, flinching at the sudden attention in the room, leaned away, pressing into a confused Chiara’s side in an attempt to seem smaller.

“Ah… Child,” the dragon finally calmed down, his eye staring down at him with something that could almost be called sympathy. “Let me save you some of your precious, limited time. You will not find your answers here. Just leave, and save yourself the hassle.”

She flinched again, staring back in confusion. “Wait, how…?”

“Minister Ticino,” the servant stepped into the room, getting the dragon’s attention. “She’s ready to speak with you now.”

“Finally,” he rumbled. Then he did… something.

The dragon’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his jaw opened so wide that his nose tapped the ceiling, allowing his tongue to roll out over his immaculately jagged teeth. A wet gurgle roiled up from the back of his throat, rumbling closer and closer until a bloody shadow emerged from beneath his uvula. The shadow coalesced into something vaguely humanoid, before color and life bled into it in waves. Within seconds, a well-dressed human man stood upon his tongue, draped in robes of red scales and topped with a fabulous red hat.

“Ugh,” the man grumbled, bringing up a hand to work at his jaw with an unsettling series of cracks. “I do so despise this form. Why you humans insist on living in such miniscule hovels is beyond me.”

With that said, the newly formed man finished adjusting his flesh, before stepping out of the dragon’s mouth, following the visibly shaken servant out of the waiting room.

The dragon, it should be noted, was still there, its mouth still open and unmoving, releasing a noxious stench into the room.

“…Well,” Morte finally broke their silence. “I didn’t know they could do that. You learn something new every day!”

Palmira ignored him, instead holding a flame to her nose, trying in vain to hold off the stench with smoke.

If he wasn’t going to extrapolate on that, couldn’t that self-righteous bastard have at least closed his mouth before leaving!?

--

Eventually, finally, the three of them were called into the backroom, passing by Minister Ticino, whose body looked half faded into shadow. He passed them with nary a glance, either ignoring or ignorant to the glares they were sending his way.

Once they were through the door, they were taken down a series of even more hallways, two flights of stairs, and one more hallway, before they at last arrived at a surprisingly ordinary door squished between two statues of men crucified in agony.

“Please leave all your weapons outside before entering,” the servant told them, stepping in front of the door. “I will watch over them until you are ready to leave.”

“Huh, I’m surprised we didn’t get told to do that before now,” Lorenzo frowned, before pulling out a series of knives from increasingly obscure places. Chiara simply handed over her rapier, while the servant took Morte and Malocchio with a grimace. Morte bemoaned being abandoned in the back of her mind, while Malocchio proved why he was her favorite by keeping his eyes closed and pretending to be just a normal mace.

“We know what adventurers are like.” Somehow, the tone the servant took when saying that made them uncomfortable, despite not knowing why. “And regardless, the l'Insieme has its own ways of protecting us. This is merely an extra precaution due to… recent events.”

“I see,” Lorenzo grimaced, pulling the last knife from his shoe and placing it on top of the ankle high pile he’d amassed. “Well, that should be the last of them.”

“Excellent,” The servant gave them a swift nod, before gesturing to the door. “Signora Loretti is waiting for you inside. Please, do not waste her time.”

With that they were ushered in, Lorenzo swiftly taking the lead just as they’d prepared. Palmira stepped behind him to the left, grateful that her mask meant nobody could see the burning hatred she was directing at the woman.

Signora Loretti’s office was of a more reasonable size than the previous rooms, though no less extravagant. Loretti herself sat behind a beautiful red cedar desk, well maintained and covered with various statues of incredible artistry. To her left a large window dominated the wall, opening out to the lava lake below, light shining through despite the late hour thanks to the lake of lava just below. The rest of the walls were decorated with some of the best paintings from some of the best artists in the world ranging from centuries old classics to some that she recognized from sketches in Lenna’s workshop.

“Welcome,” Loretti smiled at them, her expression as soft as her eyes were sharp. “I apologize for the wait, I’ve just been so busy lately, you understand? Please, take a seat and get comfortable. You’re here for Dante Cadorna, correct?”

“Yes,” Lorenzo nodded. “We’re representatives of the Rosa Dominae Guild, here on behalf of our Guildmaster. In case you weren’t informed yet, he’s been wrongfully accused of murdering the late Duke, and we were hoping you might be able to shed some more light on the subject.”

Chiara ignored her offer of seating and instead walked off to the side while they were talking, absently looking between the paintings to hide her scowl. Palmira instead sat down next to Lorenzo, forcing her hands beneath her legs to stop her from instinctively trying to strangle the woman.

Huh, maybe it was a good thing that she’d been forced to leave Morte outside.

“Ah yes, I heard about that,” she shook her head. “It’s such a shame that a young man of noble blood could have ended up in such a situation. Tragic, really.”

Lorenzo leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “So you agree he’s innocent?”

Loretti rolled her eyes, giving him a patient smile. “Boy, everyone in the city knows he’s innocent. No idiot would have been so bold as to be at the scene of the crime the moment it happened, especially not someone with followers loyal enough to be tearing up the city searching for clues of his innocence. No, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then why was he arrested?” Lorenzo frowned, confused. “Surely, if it’s that obvious, they wouldn’t have even bothered with that, right?”

“Because they needed to arrest someone,” she sighed patiently, as though speaking to a particularly slow child. “And nobody in this city cares enough about the Dukes enough to put any real effort into an investigation. This was obviously an assassination, the murderer covered his tracks well enough that the meagre investigation didn’t turn up any clues, and so they arrested the first suspicious person they could get their hands on to take the blame. This isn’t about justice, young man, it’s about—”

“You said ‘his,’” Lorenzo cut her off, narrowing his eyes at her from across the desk. “Why did you say that? How exactly do you know the gender of the assassin?”

There was a flash of something behind the woman’s eyes, before she closed herself off, frowning in confusion. “I’m… sorry? I didn’t mean anything by it—I just said ‘his’ because it’s just what I defaulted to, I suppose. You know, you don’t know who someone is, so you just default to saying ‘him’ or ‘his.’ There’s really nothing special about that.”

“Really?” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Because I assure you, Signora, this is not my first language—and when I studied it, my teacher specifically told me that Alovoans, especially, female Alovoans, will default to saying ‘her’ and ‘she’ over male pronouns.”

Loretti’s face grew increasingly closed off, a dark look beginning to settle across her face as she glared at him. “What, exactly, are you implying, child?”

Lorenzo locked eyes with her for a moment, before glancing off to the side with a shrug. “Nothing, I suppose. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws. You’ll have to forgive me, it’s been a long day, and I’m not at my best right now. I guess I just came off a bit more judgmental than I meant too.”

The woman blinked, clearly thrown off, before she recomposed herself admirably. “…Of course. I understand, you must be quite exhausted. I can only imagine the stress you all are under right now.”

“Excuse me, Signora,” Chiara chimed in at that moment, pointing to one of the paintings on the wall. This one showed the Daughter rising from the grave with the Longinious in hand, the spear which killed her still wet with her own blood as it dripped onto the heads of the groveling masses at her feet. “Is this a work by Lenna di Vittoria? I think I recognize the composition. I can’t even imagine how much it must have cost.”

Palmira frowned, confused. What was she doing?

“Indeed it is!” Loretti smiled, obviously happy to have changed to a safer topic. “And much less then you’d expect,” she lied through her teeth, as the three of them knew she was Lenna’s Patron. Was that not well known, or was she just trying to make herself look more impressive to the foreigners? “It’s quite the beautiful work, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Chiara gave the woman a pleasant smile, which instantly told Palmira it was fake. Chiara never smiled pleasantly. “Whenever I find works like this, I feel the need to take the time to admire them. They have such a bold composition!”

“That they do!” Loretti’s eyes glimmered, her smile shifting to something that looked a little more real. “Are you interested in the arts as well?”

“Of course! In fact,” Chiara stepped forward, slipping something out of her pocket and placing it on the desk. As her hand moved away, she revealed a small yet incredibly lifelike crystal mouse. It was curled up on itself with its tail in its mouth, tiny ruby eyes staring vacantly out into the world. “Take a look at this! It’s something I made myself out of pure diamond. I enjoy making them, but I unfortunately never seem to find people wealthy enough to buy them.”

Loretti leaned forward, running a long black nail along its crystal spine. “Pure diamond, you say? What a beautiful work of art. Say, what’s your name?”

“Chiara, Signora.”

“Chiara. How quaint. Well, Chiara, I have an offer for you. After you lose your current job, why don’t you come work for me? I’m certain I can put your talents to much better use.”

“Why don’t I set you on fire?”

Lorenzo slapped a hand over her mouth a moment before Chiara’s could, the both of them giving her a panicked glare. Palmira ignored them, instead directing her own glare at Loretti, filling it with as much loathing as she possibly could.

Not that the woman could tell, what with the mask and all.

“I apologize, Signora,” Chiara replied through clenched teeth. “My duties to my Famiglia are too important for me to give up right now. Your offer is certainly generous, but not currently viable.”

“Another time then,” she shrugged breezily, leaning back in her chair.

“However, as an apology—or, perhaps, a sample—why don’t you keep the mouse? I’m certain you could put it to better use than I could.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” Loretti picked it up daintily, before moving it further down her desk, away from them. “But since you’re so interested in my art, why don’t I show you some more of my collection? I’m positive it will inspire you to even greater heights!”

They didn’t get any more information out of her after that. No more slip ups, no more shifty glances, not even anything else about the trial. Just art, art, and more art for the rest of their time in her office. It was, infuriatingly, actually kind of interesting.

But eventually their time was up, and with an air of exhausted resignation, they were escorted out of the l'Insieme and back into the city, having accomplished barely anything the whole day.

Yet despite that, Chiara's small, smug smile never left her face.