An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Chapter 33 – The Trial (Part 1)

In a distant valley, darkness spread. A creeping miasma, consuming forest and stone alike with a slavering black death.

High above, the sun shone bright in the cloudless sky, beams of its light futilely fighting to pierce the unnatural gloom. Between, clinging to the frozen summits of the surrounding mountains, scarlet dragons glared down with their many eyes, daring the miasma to rise any higher. But for all their bravado, not one descended.

And so, the darkness spread.

At the heart of the unnatural darkness stood a Demon. Not a Monster nor a Lord, but one of the few remnants of that ancient and doomed race. Her many putrid eyes watched the skies, the valley, and even buried places far below. Licking bloody lips, she glared at the villages of men and dwarves who fled to the peaks, to hide beneath the wings of their draconic overlords.

Still, no matter her horror at leaving the mutts alive, she did not turn to attack. Instead, she stuck to glaring, piercing their minds and reminding them of who is was that marched beneath their feet.

A deal had been struck, and so she would hold. For when all else was lost, it was only your word that mattered. And her people had lost too much to give even an ounce more.

In formation around her, ten Black Knights kept pace, an honor guard loaned by the Traitor Knight to act as both shield and noose. Beyond them, countless monstrosities marched, a grand army kept in line by her will alone.

It was a powerful force, but only one of many. The remaining Demon Lords squabbled too much for such things to be common, but today was a special day. It would be a reminder to the mutts of the east, that they would not stop until the Last Tyrant was dead, and the world returned to its true benevolent rulers.

And it would be glorious!

Then the army rounded a bend, and for a moment, everything stopped.

In the distance, toothpick thin against the baby blue sky, a Fragment of Babel rose tall. A beautiful white line, rising high in defiance of the heavens.

“Oh Lord,” the Demon whispered, falling to her knees. “I beg your forgiveness. Our Ambitions did falter, and we were cast from the heavens for it. But we have learned our lesson, and so do I swear, Never Again. Oh our Lord, oh our Slave, may you watch over us as we reclaim our rightful place, and avenge the deaths of you and all who have fallen to the monsters who inhabit this wretched world. Oh our Lord, do watch me, if no one else, as I spread your forgotten name once more.”

Her prayer finished, the Demon rose to her feet. Around her, the ten knights removed their swords from her neck, and resumed their formation around her.

But she didn’t care. All her eyes remained locked onto that beautiful Fragment. A remnant of a glory she had never known, but one she swore in her heart of hearts she would one day help create.

But that day was not today. For deep in the mountains, monsters marched. And the darkness of Hell followed with them.

--

Dante’s trial came all too soon.

Unfortunately, it was set to occur in the morning, so they hadn’t even had any time today to prepare before they were shuffled off to the Palazzo di Diritto, the Palace of Law which sat in the oldest part of the city. The building was an old Volan basilica, refurbished to work as a court of law in the modern day. And unlike the l’Insieme, there were no faces carved into the marble to glare down at them. Instead, they were painted.

They were shuffled through the marble pillars and chipping frescos to the courtroom—a surprisingly small room at the back of the building—and told to sit in the rows of pews which occupied the center. The guildmaster was sent to the front to stand on an elevated platform alongside Teresa, who would be representing his interests in this trial. The rest of them filtered in behind him, all except Johanna who was waiting a couple buildings down with their weapons in case they needed to flee the city.

Hey, it was always good to have backup plans.

Palmria adjusted her mask as she sat down. The rest of the people in attendance had already arrived, with the defendant being the last to enter as was tradition. They watched their procession in contempt, and that pissed her off.

In a way, this whole situation pissed her off. Not simply that the guildmaster was being framed, but this whole sham of a trial in general. It was unfair, biased, near pointless, and literally everyone was trying to frame somebody else instead of trying to find the real culprit.

It was still more than the little girl who killed the last Duke would have gotten had she stayed, and it was that which stoked her anger more than anything else.

Not that she had much to do with it. The anger fed a nervous energy, which led to wandering thoughts that just made her angrier. It didn’t help that she’d had to leave behind Morte and Malocchio, leaving her alone with her thoughts for the first time in weeks.

Glancing around the room to try and take her mind off the upcoming trial—a tough ask, given she was in a courtroom—she let her eyes jump from important looking person to important looking person, only vaguely aware of whom some of them were.

The most imposing of them were the judges for the trial who sat at the front of the room, the Podesta of Iscrimo in the center with two Rettori on either side. They all wore fine black robes lines with different colors, barring the Podesta’s which was pure black. Behind them a massive painting sprawled across the entire wall, showcasing the trial of Saint Margaery as she received a revelation of divine knowledge in law from the Goddess herself, before using it to destroy the demon who was impersonating an old Podesta. While once it might have been a beautiful piece, it was centuries old by this point and was clearly lacking the depth and anatomy she’d seen in more modern works like the ones Lenna made.

Instead of the painting her eyes constantly drifted down towards the Podesta. Unlike the Rettori—who were all obviously humans—the Podesta could barely be called a man anymore. His skin had hardened into black basalt, and his eyes now churned with lava. Draped in the black robes of the judge, it was only his molten eyes that stopped him from appearing as a shadow.

Their eyes met, and she swiftly turned away, before remembering that she was wearing a mask. Heating up in embarrassment, she instead turned to the side, to look at the man they were here to frame.

It was the first time she’d ever seen Ado Visconti. The first time many people in attendance had seen him, she imagined. She wondered if he resembled his uncle, but with the amount of makeup he’d plastered over his face it was impossible to tell. He lounged along the east wall with the rest of the nobility, and though he took up the traditional position of the wronged party he couldn’t have looked happier.

She could imagine why. Though he hadn’t been crowned yet, he was now the most powerful man in this city and answered only to the Empress. If she suddenly came into that amount of power she’d probably be ecstatic as well.

She couldn’t wait to rip it away from him.

“Hey,” Chiara grabbed her hand, dragging her attention over to the half-elf. “Stop staring. Even with the mask you’re being obvious.”

“…Sorry,” she winced, pulling her hand back.

Chiara frowned at her. Opening her mouth she looked like she wanted to say something, only to be interrupted.

Church bells rang, the echoing cacophony loud enough to rattle her ears. Eight times they rang, and it was all she could do to settle herself as she counted down the bells.

Then the ceiling above them began to shift. With the grinding of stone on stone it opened up, near tripling the room’s height and revealing countless citizens crowding around the edges of the roof to watch the trial below.

Great. She’d hoped this would be a private trial, but she supposed the murder of a Duke was the kind of thing that was always going to be made public.

As the ceiling ceased moving a slightly quieter wave of noise followed it, the many common citizens above chatting amongst themselves. Some pointed down, smiles on their faces as though everything that happened below was just a show for them.

She supposed in some ways that’s all it was. A show by the new Duke to clean his hands of his cousin’s death.

The Podesta—who had up until this point been still as a statue—suddenly shuddered, the small motion somehow managing to draw the eyes of the room. With a small sigh he raised a shaky hand and slowly snapped his fingers three times, the sound of stone clacking against stone echoing throughout the room. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to him.

“Welcome,” he spoke, his voice old and gravelly. “I am Luciano Calcolo, Podesta of Iscrimo and current overseer of this trial in light of the Duke’s… absence. Today, we will be witnessing the trial of Dante Cadorna of Firozzi, as he has been accused of one count of regicide, that being the murder of the late Duke Visconti. The Accuser, the honorable Lord Ado Visconti—”

“Ahem,” said lord cleared his throat. “That would be Duke Ado Visconti, not merely a Lord.”

The Podesta didn’t stop speaking, ignoring the interruption entirely. “—shall be present from beginning to end to present his case, along with any witnesses or other evidence that would be of use to the court. Signor Cadorna shall do the same in his defense, along with his chosen representative the Venerata Teresa of Lycree. Before we continue, if there are any objections to what has been previously stated, speak up now.”

“I have an objection, Podesta,” Ado Visconti rose to his feet, stepping forward.

“Of course he does,” Chiara grumbled beside her.

“It seems Cadorna has made a mistake when choosing his representative.” The man told the court with a smarmy grin. “I suppose it’s to be expected of a foreigner, to not bother to learn our laws. You may recall, only a citizen of Iscrimo may act as representative during a trial. And while I am certain the Venerata Teresa is a righteous and holy woman, she is still a foreigner, and as such unfit for this trial.”

What kind of bull—

Unfortunately, the Podesta nodded, the slow grinding of his neck acting like a death knell to their cause before it could even begin. “You are correct, though that law has not been enforced in three centuries. Are you certain you wish to do so?”

Palmira clenched her fists, doing all she could to stop herself from setting the man on fire—no matter how good it might feel. A quick glance at Dante and Teresa saw similarly frustrated faces, and she wondered if they were really going to lose this trial because of a technicality.

They needed a representative, unfortunately. Dante was already declared guilty, so he was not allowed to speak for himself, and instead as the mark of an innocent man he must have someone else willing to speak for him. If nobody speaks, then he is ‘obviously’ guilty, and the trial ends right then and there.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” the not-yet-a-duke continued, smile not leaving his face. “Tradition is tradition, after all. Ah, but don’t worry, I had a feeling something like this might happen. As such, I made sure to prepare a proper representative, to keep this trial suitably fair.”

This bastard—

Without thinking, Palmira stood up so suddenly that the entire room’s eyes were instantly upon her. “That is unneeded, Signor Visconti” she spat, seeing too much red to even consider what she was doing. “As I am a citizen of Iscrimo, I will be more than capable of representing my guildmaster in this trial.”

Ado, for the first time since she’d seen him, looked genuinely caught off guard. “What—what do you mean, you are a citizen!? You’re obviously from Palunera, you’re even wearing one of their masks!”

“I grew up in the village of Vittoria to the south, before the eruption of Mt. Palmira wiped it from the map,” she declared, pretending he hadn’t said anything about the mask. “After, I lived in this city for years, working as a servant for the nobility. I may not be the most qualified, but if citizenship is the only requirement then I should be more than good enough!”

Ado spluttered. “A likely story!”

There was a moment of pause, as she calmed down enough to realize what her big stupid mouth had gotten her into. Really, she had no idea how to prove her origins that didn’t involve also revealing the reason she’d left the city in the first place.

“It’s true!”

Palmira blinked. Wait, was that…?

Lenna stood from the back of the crowd of nobles, next to a frustrated looking Andrea del Loretti. She looked very green as the rest of the room turned to her, but she didn’t back down. “I grew up in Vittoria as well, and we moved to this city together. I swear this on the name of Lenna di Vittoria!”

Hushed mutters followed her declaration, and with her piece said Lenna fell back into her chair, as though that could somehow stop people from staring at her. It didn’t, but after that Palmira was feeling more than generous.

“Thank you, Lenna,” she called out, dragging the attention of the room back over to her. Nodding at the Podesta she asked, “I assume that proves my identity?”

Ado tried to speak up, but the Podesta simply nodded. “That is enough for this court. We are here to judge the guilt of Dante Cadorna, not his representative’s ethnicity. However, I must ask—what are your qualifications to speak within this court of law?”

“Righteous fury, Podesta.”

“…Very well” the stone man rasped, what may have been the barest hints of a smile carving itself across his face. “Now that that drama is out of the way, I will have the representative of the Cadorna come forward and place their hand on the Holy Book.”

Palmira nodded, walking up and past Teresa. “I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “And good luck.”

She nodded, knowing she’d need it. She had no idea what she was doing.

Goddess above, she could use Morte’s advice right about now.

Stepping up to the Podesta, close enough to see the cracks that wrinkled his forehead, she placed her hand on a copy of the Holy Book.

“Good. Now, repeat after me,” he told her. “I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, to speak only and nothing more than the truth.”

“I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, to speak only and nothing more than the truth,” she lied.

“I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, that I will not defend any who break the Goddess’ will, be they heathen or heretic.”

“I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, that I will not defend any who break the Goddess’ will, be they heathen or heretic,” she continued to lie.

“And I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, to remain at all times professional and adhere to the rules of this court in both letter and spirit.”

“And I swear, upon the name of the Goddess and my immortal soul, to remain at all times professional and adhere to the rules of this court in both letter and spirit,” she hoped that one wasn’t a lie, but at the rate this trial was going she didn’t have high hopes.

“Excellent,” he nodded, waving her back. “Now, if the Accuser may step forth?”

As she returned to Dante’s side while Ado swore his oaths, she wondered if what she had done was really for the best. Sure, they’d have lost the trial otherwise, but if the look on the guildmaster’s face was anything to go by they were probably still screwed anyway.

“Palmira,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “I appreciate you stepping up like this. However, I must ask—do you have any idea what you are doing?”

Palmira, taking a moment to settle in beside him, considered the question. Then, equally quietly, she whispered, “Absolutely not. However, I think of myself as good at winning arguments and what’s a trial but one big argument?”

The guildmaster looked like he was forcing himself not to facepalm right then and there. “So I’m dead, then.”

“Not yet you’re not,” she told him. Even if she agreed. But what was that advice Morte kept giving her? ‘Fake it until you make it?’

Well, she’d already made it here, so why not see how far she could go?