An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Interlude VII – The City of Fire

[Eight Years Ago]

​

Iscrimo was an ancient city, steeped in history.

Most of which Palmira didn't know.

But though she lacked knowledge about the city's history, she'd come well to learn the city's present.

Iscrimo was a city of contrasts. Of modern opulence built upon ancient ruin. A city built on an active volcano that yet refused to burn down. Its buildings were constructed from the black and grey basalt of the volcano, many of them carved from the very ground itself. Combined with the lava canals that crisscrossed between the buildings, it all gave the city a very dark and menacing vibe.

The people, on the other hand, were almost aggressively cheerful. It seemed like it was to spite the very city itself. They dressed in bright greens and yellows and wore cheerful smiles as a matter of course. Almost every window had potted flowers or colorful drapes. During the busiest parts of the day, one could even be mistaken for thinking the city downright homely.

Palmira had been shocked and awed when she'd first arrived. But now, after having lived in the city near-broke for the past two years, she just wished the people were more kind than cheerful.

She was in one of the city's marketplaces currently, on the far northern side of the city. The marketplace sat in the dark shadow of the domineering Basilica di Sant'Giuseppina. The Basilica was as large as it was ancient, built from the same black basalt that the rest of the city used. A massive stained-glass window dominated its front side, showing the Death of the Daughter in hauntingly beautiful reds and purples.

Palmira had set up on its steps. Sitting on a tattered blanket, she flicked her fingers back and forth, sending sparks flying from her fingers like miniature fireworks. Occasionally people glanced her way, but most of their eyes simply moved over her like she was just another part of the scenery.

A middle-aged man walked past, two loaves of bread in one hand and a pig's leg in the other. Then he paused, stopping to watch her show. His eyes darted to her face, and he grimaced, before he tore one of the loaves of bread in two uneven halves. He shuffled closer, handing the smaller half of it to her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I know it's not much."

"Thank you," she replied anyway, taking the food as it was given. The man just gave her an awkward nod and moved on.

Palmira pulled off a chunk for herself, before hiding the rest under her shirt. She'd share the rest with the others later.

Above her the church bells rang from the Basilica, once, twice, three times. That meant it was time to leave—the guards didn't like beggars like her in the marketplace in the evenings, and she'd since learned it was better not to argue.

She swiftly made her way back to her 'home.' The city wasn't quite dangerous yet—it was still daytime, and so long as you stuck to the lava-canals you tended to be safe, but she felt it was always better safe than sorry.

Eventually she made it back 'home.' If you could call it that, which she adamantly refused to. It was a rundown smithy in the poorer part of the city. It sat on one of the smaller lava canals along with a dozen others. The only thing that set it apart from the rest was the small apartment attached to the side.

That was where she was staying, but it wasn't home. That was a small cottage in a small village in a valley far south of here, with her Mama and Papa and all her friends. It wasn't this.

The smith who owned it gave her a look, as if hearing her thoughts. She was an aging, one-eyed woman who's weather-beaten face was stretched into a perpetual scowl. She was (as always) making nails, the only thing she'd ever seen the old fart make in the two years since she arrived.

Palmira stuck out her tongue at her, and which got her a sneer in return. She'd tried to apprentice for the woman when she'd first arrived, but after her disastrous first day the old blacksmith had come to hate her with a burning passion.

By this point it was mutual.

"Margarita!" Giulia called out, stepping out from the back. Her fellow survivor hadn't dealt with the aftermath as well as she had, and was still sickly and pale. "Where's the…" she bent over, letting out a wet, hacking cough. "…the bellows?

"Bottom shelf, Lucciola," Margarita called back, her voice so deep it sounded like she was gargling gravel.

"Thank you, Master!"

Fortunately for her, the old blacksmith loved Giulia.

Giulia smiled at Palmira as she passed, and she gave her a tired nod in reply. She liked the other girl, she really did, but some days she wished she didn't have to deal with her optimism.

Palmira shook her head. Regardless of how she felt about the old fart, she was letting them stay in the small apartment attached to the forge. Apparently it was supposed to be for the woman's apprentice, but all her old ones had moved on and so she'd been kind enough to let them stay there for free.

Unless, did Giulia count…?

Palmira shrugged. It was a roof over her head, and these days that was enough for her.

Pushing into the crammed one-room apartment (it was really only meant for one person, not three), she scowled down at Lenna who, like always, was sprawled on the bedding. Surrounding her were piles of parchment, charcoal, and unfired clay statues. By this point, her bed was more parchment than cloth.

Lenna liked to talk about how one day she'd become a famous artist and would make them all rich.

Palmira, on the other hand, knew a waste of money when she saw it.

"Make any money today, artist?" Palmira scowled, stomping into the room.

Lenna side-eyed her but otherwise ignored her, going back to her drawing.

Fine. That suited Palmira just fine. It wasn't like she wanted to talk anyway.

She slumped down on her own bed, exhausted. She hadn't done much moving today, at least not anywhere near as much as when she'd been on the farm, but the mental toll of begging for scraps seemed to take more out of her every day.

And the lazy former prissy rich girl who refused to join her certainly wasn't helping. At least Giulia had a job!

Palmira felt something shift under her clothes, and she remembered the bread she'd stuffed there earlier.

She hesitated, before sighing and pulling it out, tearing it in half and tossing it at Lenna's head.

"Here," she grunted, placing the rest of it on Giulia's bed, despite the grumbling of her stomach. "Eat it quickly, before I do."

Lenna glared at her, before glancing down at the bread. Her gaze softened just a bit. "…Thanks, Palmira."

Palmira just grunted again, flopping over on her pile of moth-worn blankets. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore her roommate's chewing, and slowly she fell asleep.

--

​

Palmira hated nighttime in Iscrimo.

It wasn't because of the crime, or how the dark buildings made the city even darker. No, more than anything else, it was because she couldn't see the stars at night. They were all drowned out by the lights of the city and the smoke from the volcanoes. It made it impossible to see all but the brightest stars.

Eventually, she simply stopped bothering.

And one morning when she woke up and realized it had been years since she'd last even looked up at the night sky, she found herself crying.

She cried for her Papa. And then for her Mama. And then for all the friends she'd lost.

She cried, and cried, and cried.

But then Giulia crawled into her bed and held her tight, even as she sobbed all over one of her few good shirts. Lenna then grabbed her hand and smiled a tired smile, and that morning the three of them simply sat in bed, mourning what they'd lost.

Yet, despite everything, they still had each other. And while most days that felt like a mediocre consolation prize, that day they wouldn't have given each other up for anything.

--

​

If the people of Iscrimo were bright and cheerful in spite of the oppressive atmosphere of their city, then the nobility were every bit as dark and dour as the black and ash-filled pit they called home.

And Duke Aventio Visconti was the darkest and dourest of them all.

"Stand up straight," he sneered down at Palmira. She thought she already was, but she forced herself straighter regardless. "Hmph. Good enough, I suppose. You may be an ugly child, but at least you can follow orders properly."

Duke Visconti would be an attractive man if he didn't have such a punchable face. Between his slick black hair, clean-cut goatee, and pasty skin, it was no wonder half the prostitutes in the city knew him by name.

Currently, Palmira was one of many young girls standing in line before him. They were all new maids he had hired to take care of his villa in the city. About a dozen of them stood before the Duke and his Head Maid, all of them ranging in age from eight to twenty, with Palmira the youngest by a wide margin.

She didn't know how she managed to get this job, but despite the pay she was already coming to regret it. Especially with how the Duke was looking at some of the other girls lined up with her. (He wasn't looking at her that way, but she had the uncomfortable feeling it had more to do with her burn scars than her age.)

Finally, after what felt like forever, the Duke gave their group a nod, stepping back. "A barely decent batch you've found this year, Sforzesca," he gave the Head maid a tight smile, which she returned with a contrite bow. "See to it that they're all in working order by the end of the year, will you? I refuse to let my good name be sullied by sub-par servants."

"Of course, Lord Duke," the Head Maid Sforzesca nodded at him, her eyes resolute.

The Duke gave them one last sneer before leaving them alone with the Head Maid.

The moment he was gone, she seemed to relax, shoulders slumping in relief. "Finally," she muttered, rolling her eyes. Then she turned to them, and gave the girls an exhausted look. "Right, how many of you know how to read?"

Palmira blinked, confused by the question, but slowly raised her hand. She wasn't very good at it, but Papa had taught her basic letters and numbers when she was younger. About half of the other girls followed her example.

"Excellent," the older woman nodded, before she reached into a pocket hidden in her skirt and pulled out a series of pamphlets. "Here, read these."

Palmira stared down at the pamphlet that had been shoved into her hand. 'How To Be a Good Servant' was written across the front in large, choppy letters.

"Read that pamphlet, it tells you everything you need to know," she waved them off. "If you can't read, ask one of the ones who can to explain it to you. Now, if you don't mind, I have more important business to attend to."

"Wait," one of the other girls exclaimed, confused. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching us this?"

The Head Maid rolled her eyes. "Please. You'll all be gone by the end of the year—I don't see any point in wasting my time training you. Now, get. You're on the clock—why are you all wasting your time standing around?"

That was how her new job as one of the Duke of Iscrimo's Maidservants began.

It didn't get much better from there, but at least it didn't get much worse. The Duke was a shitty boss, but they didn't see him often. And while the work was awful and tedious, the piddling salary she was paid was enough to consistently afford food for all three of the girls, and even occasionally the old fart that owned the smithy. So no matter how much she hated her job, she wasn't able to quit even if she wanted to.

And, she was loathe to admit, getting to explore such a large and beautiful house unimpeded was a perk all on its own. Most of the city was built out of volcanic stone, both because it was easy to mine locally and (more importantly) because stone didn't burn. However, in the wealthier districts the nobility built their homes out of enchanted wood as a symbol of status. A way of lording over the common masses that they were so rich they could afford to build a house out of wood on a city built into an active volcano.

Palmira personally thought the nobility were idiots. Idiots with an eye for interior décor, but idiots all the same.

Though as she'd later learn, while the Duke owned a fancy villa in the richest part of the city, he didn't live in it. No, instead he spent most of his time in his other, larger villa out in the countryside, and only came into the city to deal with the Assembly.

Personally, Palmira had already long come to hate the rich stronza. Learning that all the backbreaking labor she was putting in was just for a spare house was just icing on the cake at this point.

One day, as she was fantasizing about how good it'd feel to burn down this godforsaken mansion, the Head Maid grabbed her and dragged her in to help clean the Duke's public office.

Well, 'help' is a strong word. They'd all learned by this point that the Head Maid liked forcing them to do her job for her while she 'supervised.' So when it happened to Palmira she just gave the woman a tired nod and got to dusting.

The lazy-ass woman just propped herself up in the Duke's chair and started reading one of her crappy romance novels.

(Palmira knew they were crap because she read them. They were the only writing she regularly had access to, and she needed to keep her skills up somehow.

But she really hated those books. They were all about the same goddessforsaken bard and whatever new bedwarmer of the week he was trying to seduce. They were awful, the protagonist was awful, why did you like these books, Head Maid!?)

Anyway.

The Duke's public office (did he have a private one? Where??) was filled to the brim with wealth, same as the rest of the villa. Wooden furniture, silk curtains, and all sorts of flammable decorations that nobody else in the city would be caught dead keeping in their homes. On his wooden shelves expensive knick-knacks sat next to religious iconography, all of them worth more money than she'd see in her entire life.

They pissed her off, sometimes. How the Duke spent more on decorating a house he didn't even live in than on his employees.

Her fingers twitched. She wondered if he would notice if she took one. It's not like the wealthy bastard couldn't afford to replace anything.

Then she sighed, and began dusting the stupid fancy ornaments. Or she would have, if she wasn't interrupted.

"Do not touch that!" the Head Maid yelped, almost tackling her away from the cabinet.

Palmira's heart leapt into her throat. "What? Why!? I wasn't touching anything! I was just dusting them!"

"No, I mean…" The older woman sighed in relief, stepping away from her. "Look, do you see that?"

Palmira looked at where she was pointing. It was what looked like a fist-sized ruby, pulsing intermittently with orange lights. Just one of the many expensive things on display. "Uh, maybe?"

"That," she scowled, "is the most important artifact in this entire villa—only the Duke is allowed to touch it! The Salamader's Heart is the only thing keeping this building from catching on fire! And if you accidently—I don't know, turned it off or dropped it or something—then this whole damn building could burn down! So don't touch it, got it?"

Palmira nodded, privately wondering why this worthless maid didn't tell her about that before they entered the office.

"Good," Sforzesca nodded, before glaring at her. "Now, get back to work! The Duke isn't paying you to stand around gawking all day, start dusting! Just don't dust the Heart!"

Frantically leaping back into action, Palmira wondered, just a little, if the Goddess would really blame her if she decided to just burn this stupid villa down.

--

​

A few weeks later saw Palmira and Lenna out and about in the city.

It was the day of rest, and Palmira's only day off each week. But after weeks of nothing but work, work, work, she'd drawn a blank on what to spend her free time doing.

So, when Lenna announced that morning she was going downtown, Palmira shrugged her shoulders and decided to join her.

Lenna refused, of course, but as the only one of them who regularly left their little apartment, Palmira insisted. She doubted Lenna even knew how to get to the marketplace.

The city was dangerous for a little girl after all, especially one who couldn't set their hands on fire when someone got just a little too close.

Lenna complained the whole way, but Palmira was hearing none of it, and an hour later the two of them were set up on a bench in the Piazza del Trionfo in the north of the city. Lenna had her charcoal and parchment (which she'd since tied together into a makeshift sketchbook) while Palmira had nothing. Because she didn't have any hobbies, and didn't know what else to do today.

Palmira huffed, relaxing somewhat as the heat from the volcano washed over her. They were close to the heart of the city here, and it was easy to tell. She could practically hear the lava bubbling.

Back when she'd first moved here it had given her nightmares. Now, after over two years, it was just background noise.

Palmira's eyes slowly roved over the piazza. At this time of day it was pretty full, since like them everyone else had just finished with church and had free time. They weren't in the more mercantile part of the city—that was closer to the Basilica—but there were still a fair few merchants and food stalls scattered around them. Across the piazza stood the ancient Volan Triumphal arch, which in turn framed the Castello l'Insieme, which sat in the center of the lava pool all those canals throughout the city were draining.

Palmira glanced down at what Lenna was doing. The other girl had her sketchbook open, and was doing a surprisingly good job at capturing the piazza in her sketches.

"Huh," she hummed, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look. "You're actually pretty good at that."

"Hey! Stop that—don't look!"

"But what else am I supposed to do then?"

"I don't know!" Lenna huffed, scooting away from her. "You're the one who wanted to come along! Figure it out yourself!"

"But I'm bored!" Palmira moaned, flopped on her back next to Lenna. "We've been out here forever!"

"You can't rush art, Tizzone!"

"Don't call me that!"

"Then stop bothering me and go do something else!"

Palmira scoffed. But if she was bringing out the childhood nicknames, then that meant Lenna was serious about not wanting to be bothered. So, with a shrug, Palmira got to her feet and started exploring—making sure to keep Lenna in sight at all times, of course. The girl had no sense of situational awareness.

She didn't buy any food, since she didn't have any money on her, but she did manage to bargain for some roasted chestnuts in exchange for putting on a show for the vendor's customers. Savoring the taste of them, she continued on her way, skirting the edge of the piazza until she was right up next to the Triumphal Arch.

It was a massive stone structure, a pure white marble arch placed smack in the center of the city. Carved on the Triumph in breathtaking detail was the tale of the Volan's conquest of Iscrimo. Across the top was their first march from the ancient capital, and their battles against the Dwarves.

All victories, of course. It wasn't like they'd put a monument of their defeat in the center of the city.

Palmira popped another chestnut in her mouth, slowly following the tale as it was carved. Next the Dwarves holed up in their citadel, a labyrinthine fortress dug into the mountain like a massive anthill. The Volans sieged the fortress for many nights. (The Triumph wasn't clear on how long that was, exactly). But their old tactics weren't working as well, as the tunnels ran too deep, and the cowardly Dwarves refused to fight them on the open fields.

Thrice they attacked, and thrice the Dwarves fled deeper into the tunnels. It seemed a hopeless endeavor, to force them from the mountain entirely.

But then, a hero emerged. A great warrior, with a sword that looked unwieldy even in the carvings. He swung his blade, and with it sliced the mountain fortress in half, flattening the mountain into a plateau in an instant.

She wondered, then, why they had stopped here. If the ancient Volans could have cut down the mountains, why did the Pumilios still exist? Why hadn't they simply flattened the world?

The Triumph continued its story on the final side.

With the Dwarves routed, the Volans built a new fortress on the remains of the old. However, the Dwarves had not left the area, simply holing up in their few remaining tunnels. Which the Volans could not let stand, and so marched one last time to eradicate them once and for all.

The story stopped there. Nothing more was carved on the Triumphal arch. There was a bunch of graffiti and not-so-nice words painted along the foundation, but the Volans had nothing more to say on the matter.

Probably because, as she'd learned, it didn't really end there. The Volan Empire took the surface, took the city, but no further.

The Dwarves, fleeing the Volan Legions, dug deeper and deeper into the depths of their mountain. They dug a second city beneath the first. And then, when the Volans conquered that, they dug another. Again and again, until they could dig no more.

Until something stopped them from digging.

The ancient cities beneath Iscrimo were swarmed by the Horrors of the depths. Things of stone and fire, which mimicked the dwarves who once lived there. Every hour of every day they surged forth, intent on slaughtering all life on the surface. A battle without end, they had sieged the city from within for the last twenty centuries, killing countless soldiers of countless generations in a war that never ended.

A war that not even the powerful Volans could win.

The Horrors still ruled the Deep City. It was the main reason why despite being wealthy, defensible, and an agricultural breadbasket, Iscrimo didn't have much of a military presence outside its borders.

Because most of its army was down in the Depths, fighting off the endless tide of Horrors.

But Palmira, like most of the people in the city, didn't like to spend much time thinking about that.

And really, they'd been holding them off for two thousand years. Frankly, for Horrors that wanted to slaughter them all, they seemed to be doing a pretty bad job of it.

(She would later learn that they had, in fact, destroyed the city three times before. While humans eventually took it back, it was not without heavy losses.

But she still stood by the fact that three victories in a two-thousand-year war was pretty bad. Weak-ass Horrors.)

--

​

"Hey, Palmira?"

Palmira stopped what she was doing, turning to Gia, one of her fellow maids that joined the same day she did. "Yeah? What do you need?"

"Um, it's just…" the older girl hesitated. "…Have you seen Emilia lately?"

Palmira blinked, confused. "Emilia?"

"She's got blond hair, a little bit of elf in her ears, about this tall," Gia motioned with her hand. "Have you seen her at all?"

Palmira frowned, thinking hard. That description sounded familiar; she'd definitely seen her before. Not recently, though… "No, sorry. Why do you ask?"

"Well, since we started working here, we've gotten to be really good friends! Every week we go out and get dinner together, even," she shuffled embarrassedly, wringing her hands. "But I haven't seen her all week, and I'm starting to get worried."

"Maybe she's just sick or something?"

"But she's not! I visited her apartment and—" Gia yelped, covering her mouth with a flush. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything!"

Palmira watched her rush away, confused. Then she heard footsteps coming down the hall, and quickly got back to work.

She would end up putting it out of her mind. While it was weird, she didn't really talk with the other maids, and when nobody else brought anything up, she just forgot. She had her own problems, after all, and Emilia was a big girl. She was probably fine.

Then, a few weeks later, Gia would disappear too.

--

​

Over a month later, Palmira was called up to the Duke's public office. She wasn't sure why, but the Head Maid grabbed her and just told her to get moving, so she got moving.

Quietly entering the room, Palmira was surprised to see Duke Visconti actually there, much less with a guest. She'd never seen this room used since she started working here, she mostly thought it was just for show.

Giving the Duke a low bow, she stepped off to the side, preparing to do her duties as his maid—whatever that was supposed to be today, since she still hadn't been told anything—only for the Head Maid to pull her back into the center of the room.

Palmira gave her a confused look, only for her to simply shake her head and remain silent.

"Well, Signor Brera," the Duke gestured to her, turning to his guest. "What do you think of her?"

His guest, the apparent Signor Brera, was a pale skinny man with long ears—an elf, then. Was he a noble from the north, then?

Brera gave her a onceover, before scoffing. "What an ugly child. What, did you throw her in your volcano or something?"

Palmira felt a scowl form before she forced it down. She'd heard a lot of people comment on her appearance since that day, but even after all this time it hurt to hear people say things like that. But she couldn't do anything right now, not when the person saying it was a noble.

She'd just have to get him back later. Somehow.

"I assure you, Signor Brera," the Duke smiled at her. She held back a shudder—all his smiles were so gross. "This young girl makes up for her… physical deficiencies with a strong work ethic and a deceptively powerful frame. Give her any task and she'll get it done both quickly and efficiently."

"Well, I suppose all you humans are ugly regardless," the elf shrugged his shoulders, looking rather bored. "Very well. How about… nine copper Mori? No, no, if it's an ugly one then it'd better be eight."

What?

"Eight!?" The Duke looked personally offended by the offer. "Did you not hear me? This girl is both young and competent! Why, I could sell her to the pleasure guilds for twice that even though she looks like that. A gold Mori, at the very least!"

What.

"Are you out of your damn mind? A gold Mori, for one little disfigured girl? …But I suppose I'll get a lot of use out of her… very well. Twelve copper Mori sounds reasonable, don't you think?"

"Wait, hang on," Palmira yelped frantically. "What's going on? What are you talking about!?"

"Ugh," the elf sneered down at her. "And she talks out of turn? Eleven Mori, at best."

Duke Visconti gave her a look that made her want to run somewhere very, very far away. "Be silent, girl. And she can be trained. Fifteen Mori."

"You were supposed to train her, Duke," the elf scoffed. "Twelve Mori. No more, no less."

"You aren't…!" Palmira felt herself begin to heat up, sparks flickering between her teeth. "What are you…!?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the elf rolled his eyes. "I'm buying you, girl. Well, I might be, at least. Now be silent, lest I find you more trouble than you're worth and leave you to the tender mercies of your current liege."

Palmira's eyes darted to the Duke, who was glaring at her with a look that told her everything that would happen to her if she continued to open her mouth. Behind her, the Head Maid tightened her grip on her shoulder, silently telling her to shut up.

"Good," the elf nodded, smug. "Now, where were we…"

Palmira glared at them, terrified and furious, a fire she'd kept smothered for years beginning to reignite—

Her eyes twitched, and she glanced to the right—at the Salamader's Heart, pulsing brightly on the opulent cabinets.

And then, more out of instinct than anything else, she lunged, breaking free from the older woman's grasp.

The Duke shouted, leaping to his feet, while the elf just watched everything play out with an air of amused detachment. Bastard.

Palmira grabbed it, lifting the Heart off his desk and holding it high above her head.

Duke Visconti sneered. "You wouldn't dare."

She dared.

Sparks popped between her fingers, and with all her strength she threw the Salamader's Heart onto the polished wooden floor. She had just enough time to see the horrified looks on the Duke and Head Maid's faces, along with the slowly growing confusion on the face of the elf.

Then, for the second time in her life, Palmira's world was consumed by fire.

But this time, she smiled.