An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Chapter 39 – Two Legs Are Better Than None

Palmira wandered the Old Quarter of Firozzi aimlessly, the thin alleyways and ancient cobblestones a steady comfort after her meeting with Ósma.

She had, finally, been paid. A small bag of copper grossi, nearly half a gold Florin’s worth of wealth now hers.

The first thing she did was to—obviously—immediately hide the majority of them with the rest of her meagre wealth. The second thing she did was spend an hour finding a new hiding place for them when she realized she couldn’t fit the bag under the floorboards anymore. It was, she’d decided while hanging from the rafters with the bag in her mouth, a good kind of problem to have. But not one she wanted to have again.

Now she hung a small bag of only five copper grossi around her neck. She felt acutely aware of them, her free hand constantly itching the place it hid beneath her shirt. They clinked gently with each step, a burning awareness that she was carrying money on her at the forefront of her mind, like she was one of those silk-laden nobles just begging to be robbed.

It was a dumb feeling, she knew. But she found herself unbalanced by it anyway. For the first time in her life she could no longer describe herself as ‘broke,’ and despite how happy that should have made her feel she only felt restless. Like she had lost something fundamental, but that was stupid, because what she’d lost was poverty.

She hated the feeling.

Eventually Morte managed to break her out of her brooding fit. After a lot of goading, he’d managed to convince her to head down to the marketplace to spend some of her newfound wealth.

She… didn’t quite like the idea.

But Morte was right that staring at the hidden coin pouch all day wasn’t going to do anything, and she’d always been more of a doer than a brooder regardless.

Palmira’s hand tightened on her coin pouch as she stepped out of the alleyway. The Piazza delgi Eroi was, as always, packed to the brim with market stalls. Butchers crammed themselves in between booklenders and bakers, divided only by the wall of sound that consumed all conversation around them. Farmers bartered with fishermen over fresh produce, while apprentices hawked their master’s crafts to any who stepped near. Temporary tarps hung between each stall, creating a false roof to shade from the midafternoon sun and protecting from the late Autumn chill. And towering over it all was a grand monument which depicted the party of the Hero who slew the Demon King all those years ago.

Not that Palmira cared about that. She kept her head down and shoulders hunched as she pushed her way into the crowd. Normally she found it easy to blend into such places, but now it felt like everyone was staring at her, just waiting for her to drop her guard and steal her purse.

Damnit, she should have asked Chiara or Lorenzo to come. She might have felt less awkward then.

“Okay kid, it’s your first paycheck. You know what that means, right? It’s time to get wasted. Find whoever sells alcohol in this place, buy some awful street food, and wake up tomorrow morning hungover in an alley!”

Palmira twitched, glaring down at Morte. “I’m not doing that.”

The mace on her hip then spoke up, its voice a silky echo in her head. One of its eyes opened to join her in glaring at her staff. ‘Agreement. Alcohol is an inefficient way to enjoy oneself. We recommend something practical. Thirty-two degrees to Our Lady’s right is a stall selling daggers, which are useful for self-defense and gutting flesh-based monsters.’

Palmira paused, considering. The dagger she’d bought with Morte had snapped almost immediately upon trying to cut a block of cheese, so she could use another one…

“No, I shouldn’t,” she shook her head. “I can take one from the guild’s armory if I need to. There’s no need to waste money on one now.”

“I agree! Not about the wasting money part—that’s why we’re here, after all!—but about using it on a dagger of all things. We’re supposed to be celebrating! Splurge on some candy, at least!”

‘Disagreement. Candy is poor in nutrients. Fruit is much better for Our Lady’s health.’

“Aren’t you barely two months old? How are you the responsible one?” Morte scoffed, before his attention was once more immediately captured by something shiny. “Oh, what about that!”

Palmira turned, stopping before an open stall. Within were rows upon rows of dresses, ranging from simple brown tunics to shockingly scandalous bodices. One instantly caught her eye, a dark burgundy skirt with dark serpentine dragons embroidered along the sleeves. It even looked like it could be her size, with a little adjustment…

“Oh? See something you like?” Morte gave her a mental nudge, shaking her from her thoughts. “Why don’t you get it? I bet you’d look great!”

“…Maybe,” she walked away, hating how wishy-washy she felt about this. But the thought of spending even a single coin on something as frivolous as a dress made her feel like she was breaking out in hives.

“Look, Palmira, I understand you aren’t comfortable with spending a lot right now, but a single dress won’t bankrupt—sweet lord, are those peppered honey fritters!? In Firozzi!? Change of plans kid, that stall on the right, now!”

Palmira jumped, privately glad for his sudden change in subject, before giving her staff a confused look. “You can’t even eat?”

“It’s not about eating, it’s about living vicariously through you! Now get over there and gorge yourself!”

Palmira grimaced. “I don’t want to waste my money on sweets, Morte.”

“Sweets are never a waste of money!” Morte denied her instantly, before his voice sobered up somewhat. “Look, kid, I get it. Back when I was alive… well… I wasn’t exactly in a great place either. But you can’t spend your whole life living like a monk. The little pleasures are what makes life worth living!”

Palmira hunched further, leaning on the staff for support. “But what if… what if the guild goes under? What if I lose this job? I’d need every coin if that happens.”

“If the guild goes under, then you find a new guild, same as anyone else. Besides, you didn’t have it before and you were doing alright, weren’t you? What are you so afraid of?”

“It’s just…” one hand squeezed at the bag of coins beneath her shirt. “…I don’t want to have to go back to that. I don’t think I can live like that anymore, Morte.”

Morte was, for once, could say nothing to that.

However, Malocchio could. ‘Denial. We are not as experienced in the manners of life as Morte is. However, We have been with Our Lady since We were created. And We cannot imagine Our Lady ever falling so low again.’

Palmira let go of the bag, instead dropping her hand to let it rest on her mace’s handle. As she did, his tail rose to wrap around her arm comfortingly. “But what if I do, Malocchio? I’ve seen greater people than me lose everything. All it takes is one bad day. And I’ve had a lot of them. What if I have another one? What if I lose everything again?”

‘Consolation. Our Lady has risen from nothing before. Our Lady could do so again.’

“The kid’s right, Palmira. If the worst comes to pass, you’ll just have to stand back up, same as everyone else. However, he is wrong about one thing.” Morte gave her the mental equivalent of ruffling her hair. It felt a bit like someone was shaking her brain in a jar. “You wouldn’t be rising from nothing. Even if you lose everything else, you’ll always have the two of us. I mean, what would we even do without you? Neither of us have legs!”

Palmira blinked rapidly, the corners of her eyes suspiciously wet. But her lips also twitched into something approaching a smile. “…Right. You’re right,” she took a deep breath and started walking again. “Even if I lose everything else, I’ll always have you two.”

“That’s the spirit! Now, you know what makes me feel better after a good heart to heart? That’s right, honey fritters! Now go get that dough!”

Palmira laughed wetly, rubbing her eyes.

She did eventually end up getting the honey fritters. And they were as good as Morte promised.

--

Palmira spent the rest of the afternoon in the Piazza, eventually finding herself near its edge. Three and a half grossi remained in her pouch, a testament to her restraint and Morte’s lack of it. She was about to call it a night when she heard the faint melody of a flute.

Her ears perked up as she slowly made her way around the edge of the marketplace. The tune was familiar, and if she was right…

She found herself in front of the steps of a tavern, the flutist sitting before her. He was the scraggliest looking elf she’d ever seen, even worse than Johanna after a drinking binge. A nasty scar crossed his face from ear to temple, disfiguring him and rendering the elf blind. He sat slouched against an empty stall, one arm holding a beautiful wooden flute of elven craft up to his mouth while the other sat hidden under a ragged cloak, ending at the elbow. A small bowl sat at his feet, a smattering of copper pieces resting within.

“Signor Otto!”

The elf paused in his work, tilting his head. Despite not being able to see her a small smile grew on his face. “My, young Palmira, is that you?”

“I’m not that young, Signor Otto!” she huffed good-naturedly. “You’re just old.”

“I suppose I am,” his laugh was like the sound of wood scraping against wood. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while. I admit, I assumed you left the city.”

Palmira grimaced at that, suddenly reminded that she hadn’t really spoken to him in months now. Sure, they weren’t exactly close, but they’d spent enough time performing together in markets that he at least deserved an explanation.

“Not quite,” she scratched her cheek. “I actually got a job! It’s, uh, it’s why I’ve been so busy lately.”

“Really now? Congratulations!” he smiled at her. It made him look a bit hideous, but she smiled back just as brightly. She’d once been the same, after all. “How about a song to celebrate?”

“That sounds great! Um, do you mind if I…?”

“Of course, of course,” he pat the ratty blanket next to him gently. “Take a seat, you can tell me what you’ve been up to while I play.”

Palmira flopped down next to him with a smile, settling in to listen to him play.

She spoke softly so as not to ruin the music, knowing he’d be able to hear her regardless. She also started throwing out fireworks and dancing flames, her control with Morte now allowing her to blow her previous cantrips out of the water.

Signor Otto was good with the flute, but not the prodigious talent that most people looked for when hiring elves. He was also missing a couple teeth and had his multiple disfigurements, which didn’t help either. She was pretty sure he was a war veteran, though of what war she didn’t know.

She didn’t know much about Otto, not really, but that was fine. He didn’t know all that much about her, either. He made his music and she made her dancing flames, and that was enough for them.

Every few minutes someone would stop to watch or listen. Most of them dropped a coin or two, though some simply clapped and left. She glared at those people as they left, though she held herself back from setting their pants on fire. They were probably some of those rural tourists who didn’t know proper etiquette.

If you stopped to listen, you paid.

The sun soon began to set, and she found herself itching to get back to the guildhall. Normally she’d have remained with him until the market was empty, but now there was a free meal waiting for her and she really didn’t want to miss it.

Otto somehow caught on to her impatience. “You can leave if you want, I know you’re busy,” he smiled at her, his face twisting with the movement. “There’s not many people left anyways.”

Palmira winced, but shook her head. “I’ll at least wait until the sun sets. Then I can walk you back to wherever you’re staying before heading back.”

“How chivalrous,” he chuckled, bringing the flute back to his lips. “Like a true adventurer.”

Otto continued to play, though at this point it was mostly for an empty piazza. Most of the merchants were packing up for the day, though some still tried their luck in the dying candlelight. One idiot had apparently even wasted money on a magical lantern to light up his stall, though by now all it was attracting was moths.

From the corner of her eye she saw someone approach them. A half elf, with dark hair and darker eyes. The low light made it hard to make out his features, but he looked like he couldn’t be much older than Chiara. He stood before them in brand new armor and a spear strapped to his back, the look of an adventurer about him, including a fat coinpurse dangling from his belt that was just begging for someone to try and snatch it.

Hm. This guy was either skilled enough to stop any would-be pickpocket from robbing him blind, or he was a fresh-faced newbie in for a rude awakening. Maybe even one of those nobles Morte liked complaining about.

The half-elf waited politely for the song and show to end, before clapping with a smile. “You’re quite good,” he told them, which made her more confident he was a newbie. Older adventurers were a lot ruder in her experience.

Then he shoved a hand in his coinpurse and pulled out two silver Florins, instantly quintupling the money they’d made that night.

…The Goddess smiles on lucky idiots, it seems. Who in the world just walked around with that much money on them!?

“Thank you, young man,” Otto smiled, unaware of the fortune that had just been dropped in his lap. “Ah, but forgive me, your accent sounds familiar. Are you from the Luexor region, perchance?”

The half-elf froze, before forcing himself to untense. “…I’m from around there, I guess. How exactly did you know?”

“Ah, I’m from there as well, you see,” his smile widened just a fraction more. “I was born there, back before the Demons invaded. The accent’s subtle, but I’ve got a good ear,” he chuckled, tapping his unscarred ear. “It’s always nice to meet a fellow Luexor. …And I apologize if I’m being rude, but these days I so rarely get word from the front. Has the Queen-Mother successfully retaken the heartlands?”

The half-elf didn’t say anything, a conflicted grimace on his face.

“Don’t be rude, dear,” a feminine voice whispered, the sound nearly causing Palmira to jump. “The kind man asked you a question, it isn’t his fault the answer hurts.”

Palmira blinked, eyes darting back and forth trying to find the woman who’d apparently been listening in. But her eyes found no one, and from what she could tell Otto hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

The half-elf seemingly had, though. “…I’m sorry, Monsieur. But our home is still ruled by Demons. However,” he paused, turning to stare out at the monument to the Hero in the center of the piazza. In the light of the setting sun he cut a strangely heroic figure, for all that he seemed a naïve idiot. “I promise that it will not remain that way for long. Even if I have to kill every Demon in the world, I’ll free our homeland from the tyranny of the corrupt! I swear it!”

Otto simply smiled sadly, having heard many such promises in his lifetime. Palmira just squinted at him, wondering who he was to make such a bold oath. She was now certain—he was an idiot.

…A handsome idiot. But an idiot nonetheless.

“I look forward to when that day comes, young man,” Otto sighed, his smile weary. “And thank you. It’s been too long since I’ve met a fellow Luexor so far south. It warms my heart to know we’re still fighting the good fight, even now.”

The half-elf’s expression grew tighter at that. But he nodded sharply. “Don’t worry, Monsieur. I’ll fight until the bitter end.”

And with that he left, marching away as though he were heading off to war.

…That had been a weird interaction, thinking back on it.

Eh, whatever. Cities were full of weirdos you’d never see again. At least he paid well.

“Well, I think that’s all we’ll be making tonight,” Otto sighed, slowly rising to his feet. Palmira but the odd half-elf out of her mind and rushed to help him, despite his gentle protests. “How much did we make, though? I’m sorry, but can you count the coins for me? I’m not so good at telling the tiny pieces apart.”

“Of course,” she told him. Then she actually picked up the bowl and was reminded that there were now two silver Florins in it and wow she didn’t know what to do here. “Uh… it looks like there’s about five and a half copper piccoli, three copper grossi, another two silver piccoli, and… uh… two silver Florins.”

Otto was silent for a long moment. “…Damn,” he muttered. Then he coughed, firmly clearing his throat. “Well, how would you like to split it?”

Palmira jumped, before immediately shaking her head. “I couldn’t!” she yelped, all but shoving the bowl into his hands.

“I wouldn’t have made as much without you here,” he told her, and despite herself she knew she was right because she knew what he made alone. “Please, I insist.”

“I… I have a job. A well-paying job,” she lied. “I can’t take a cut of this, not anymore! You need this more than I do.”

He frowned at her, and she almost groaned at the sight. Great, now he was going to be stubborn. “Palmira, I understand you’re trying to be kind, but I’m not the kind of elf who’d cheat a young girl out of her well-earned coin. Take half, fair as fair.”

She glared mutinously at the scar where his eyes should be, but found the action ineffective against a blind man. Huffing, she finally reached her hand into the bowl, plucking the copper piccoli and leaving the rest.

“There, I took half,” she lied again. “And before you try anything, I’m not taking anymore! You may not be willing to cheat a young girl out of her coin, but I’m not willing to cheat an old man out of his coin either, got it?”

“Loud and clear,” Otto chuckled, his face softening. Reaching down, he grabbed the few belongings he had with him and started hobbling. Palmira was at his side in an instant, a hand on his elbow to help him walk. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I can walk just fine, thank you.”

“Well this is what you get for not being stingy,” Palmira snarked back. “You get to walk home with a pretty girl on your arm. Unless you want to take it back…?”

Otto scoffed, but begrudgingly accepted her help. She gave him a triumphant smirk in return, though the expression was of course lost on him.

Though, as they made their way out of the piazza, Palmira couldn’t help but glance back at the way that half-elf from earlier had gone. Maybe it was nothing, but…

…what was that voice she’d heard?