“No killing!?” Roland yelled, “Let me see that!”
He reached into the abyss of Baccharum’s void-sphere, feeling around for the letter before yanking it out of the darkness. His eyes scanned the handwriting, fierceness vanishing from his expression as he came to terms with the truth.
“...She must be joking.” He said, “How are we supposed to get anything done without killing someone?”
“It’s anything but a joke, I’m afraid.” Baccharum’s voice crept out from the sphere of darkness, “Lieze understands the risk of sending correspondence our way via Direcrown, but she saw fit to breach that unspoken agreement this time. We should take everything she’s written at face value. She wouldn’t have sent this letter if it wasn’t of dire importance.”
“A single reason as to why would have been nice…” Roland placed the parchment onto the desk, “What does holding back from killing accomplish, exactly? We’re in a position to start clipping away at the Dwarves’ defences at any moment.”
“Hold on, hold on…” Marché held both hands out to put a stop to their argument, “If Lieze ordered it, then there’s nothing we can do. It’d be more productive to start thinking about how we can punch some holes in the mountains without assassinating anyone.”
“Those are exactly my thoughts on the matter.” Baccharum replied, “How does the expression go? ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat?’ The Dwarves have civil problems of their own, and fanning the flames of those conflicts will be more effective than a political assassination would ever be.”
Within the subterranean recesses of the Dwarven parliament offices, those three men were openly discussing the imminent fall of the mountains. Baccharum had called Marché and Roland into his office to reveal that Lieze had attached a reply to one of his letters on the Direcrown used to send it, which demanded only one limitation - that the three of them refrain from taking lives unnecessarily until she and the rest of her army arrived.
“Fine… fine.” Roland paced from one end of the desk to the other, “There’s no use crying over it. Lieze must have a good reason. We’ll just have to rely on espionage in the meantime.”
“Well… that’s not the only reason I called you both here.” Baccharum sighed, “The seal of this letter was already broken by the time it reached my desk. That is to say, it’s already been read by someone else - more than likely whoever it was that delivered the Direcrown to my office this morning.”
“Wha-” Roland blinked, “Well, why didn’t you open with that!? We need to find whoever that was before they report you! If word gets out that you’re corresponding with necromancers, you’re going to lose more than your cosy job!”
“Now, now… let’s not be hasty.” The gangly Elf replied, “I think this provides a rather wonderful opportunity.”
“You’re starting to sound like Lieze - always trying to slither your way out of a worst-case scenario.” Marché placed both hands down on the desk, “Roland is right. Lieze took a risk by using the Direcrown to send a reply, and now we’re going to pay the price for it. We could have minutes before the guards kick down your door and arrest all three of us.”
“Perhaps.” Baccharum’s bony fingers emerged from the safety of his sphere to flip over the empty envelope, “-But take a look at this.”
The tip of his overgrown nail tapped against the broken seal - violet half-circles of wax depicting some emblem or another. Marché could only recognise that it wasn’t the seal commonly used in the Sovereign Cities, which had a scarlet hue.
“Lieze was canny enough to stamp this envelope with a Dwarven seal.” Baccharum continued, “Humans rarely send letters this way, so a Dwarven stamp is quite rare in the Sovereign Cities. But she’s currently commanding a merchant vessel, which would naturally want to stock as many stamps as possible.”
“Kindly get to the point.” Marché requested.
“My point is that a Dwarven seal implies that this letter originated from within the Dwarven Mountains. That only makes sense, no?” He explained, “Now, as we all know, there are no necromancers here - none that anyone is aware of, anyway - but the only man to receive correspondence from someone claiming to be a necromancer just so happens to be an Elf? And one who was very recently awarded quite the prestigious position within the Dwarven parliament?”
The Dwarves were no allies of the Elves. This had been known across the continent for the better part of a century. The only reason why Baccharum was even allowed entry into the mountains came down to desperation. If they wanted to emerge victorious against the surging horde of undead approaching from the south, the Dwarves would need to forge an alliance of some kind - an alliance built upon the unsteady foundations cultivated by more than a hundred years of bad blood between the two races.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“I see what you’re getting at…” Marché crossed his arms and nodded, “You want to frame this as an attempt by some xenophobe to oust you from your position.”
“There is something of a rift developing between the Dwarves.” Baccharum’s expression couldn’t be spotted through the curving wall of darkness, but somehow, Marché knew he was smiling, “Those willing to put aside differences and ally with the Elves are often opposed by those who would rather we remain enemies - or at the very least separate. With the success of Lieze’s conquests and the threat of a war looming on the horizon, this debate has sparked a fire within Dwarven society - a fire we could use to our advantage.”
“-And no matter the outcome, we stand to benefit.” Roland stepped forward, “If you’re allowed to keep your position as a diplomat, then the expulsionists will rally against the government. If you’re deposed, then you will become a pariah - and the perfect excuse more tolerant Dwarves need to start protesting.”
“I’m glad to see we’re all on the same page.” Baccharum said, “However, this will require some finesse on our part. Let’s not forget that this letter really was penned by a necromancer. We’ll need a method of diverting suspicion, and I’m afraid that’s as far as my plan has gotten.”
Marché picked up the letter and gave it a read once more for clarity.
To whom it may concern,
We (the Order of Necromancers) have commandeered a formidable ship with 48 cannons from the western docktown of Lepin. We are sailing up the western coast with the intention of bypassing the Dwarven border. Our thralls were left in Tonberg to defend the city, and we intend to reinforce our ranks by raising the Mountains’ native wildlife. If all goes according to plan, we will be prepared to attack the Dwarven Mountains in 10 days.
I, Ignas Sokalar of the Order of Necromancers, demand that the recipient of this letter - one Baccharum ‘Rummy’ Silas - begin preparations to undermine and sabotage the Mountains from within to prepare for the upcoming siege. Failure will not be tolerated.
Ignas Sokalar
Marché shook his head. A strange little smile had wormed onto his face, “What the fuck is this? That is not something Lieze would write.”
“Hah! That’s Drayya’s handwriting!” Roland peeked over his shoulder, “It reads like a parody! They must have sent this letter under the impression that it was going to be intercepted.”
“So Lieze’s choice of stamp was intentional…” He ran a hand over his chin, “We can work with this. If Baccharum is reported to the guards, he would be able to claim with complete confidence that Sokalar was killed during the siege, which would make it all the more believable that the letter was forged by a Dwarf who could never have known.”
“What about this plan of theirs to slip past the border?” Roland asked, “Revealing your hand this early is dangerous. The Dwarves will have soldiers plastered across the western shoreline looking for a ship now. Is that also a lie?”
“I very much doubt it.” Baccharum’s voice was always surprising to hear, considering he was hidden within an enormous sphere of darkness, “As I mentioned, Dwarven stamps are difficult to come across in the Sovereign Cities. Plus, it’s only natural to assume that Lieze would want to avoid a battle at the border entirely to preserve her manpower. However, it’s unlikely that they were able to find a military vessel in a town as small as Lepin. It would have been more appropriate to depart from Saptra, which would place them on the eastern coast.”
“That does sound like something she would lie about…” Marché muttered, “Even we’re having trouble deciphering her intentions, and we’re supposed to be her allies.”
“All the better. One cannot rely on skulduggery alone to outsmart their opponent.” Baccharum replied, “The two of you should leave and await a chance to act as my alibi once the guards inevitably arrive to arrest me. If you were caught meeting with me in this office, you would also become suspects in the case.”
“We’ll do that.” Marché placed the letter down, “Is there anything else of interest we should know about before we go?”
“There is.” Baccharum’s obscured fingers drummed against the desk, “Alberich’s coronation is tomorrow evening. It will provide a good opportunity to see him in the flesh and take stock of his personal escort.”
“Coronation?” Roland repeated, “Alberich has been king for decades, hasn’t he? Or am I misremembering something?”
“No, no. You have it right.” The Elf replied, “-But this is not his first coronation, and it’s not likely to be his last, either. Alberich touts the anachronistic belief that the Dwarven king should be deified among his people. You must have seen the murals and carvings of him by now.”
“Ah… it’s all starting to make sense now.” Marché recalled the endless depictions of the tiny king carved haphazardly over centuries-old works of art, “And whenever the guards mention his name, they laud him with ridiculous titles and accolades as if it’s mandated by law. He sounds like a very humble, not-at-all prideful man.”
“You’ll get to see all of his humbleness firsthand if you attend the coronation.” Baccharum replied, “Try not to get caught up in all the making merry and drinking, will you? You are outlaws of the highest order, and I wouldn’t like for the curtain we’ve set up to be torn down by a pair of soused lips.”
Marché craned his neck, “He’s talking to you, Roland.”
“That’s very funny.” The man in question was not smiling, “I’m actually quite good at holding my drink, I’ll have you know.”
“Against a Dwarf?”
“They’re tiny little men! They get drunk faster than we do!” He insisted.
“Gentlemen-” Baccharum raised his voice, “-the clock is ticking.”
“Let’s get out of here. I won’t be able to last one more second in this labyrinth of bureaucracy.” Roland stomped towards the door, “I’m starving. Let’s go and find something to eat while our friend here waits patiently for the guards to come and arrest him.”
Marché’s stomach rumbled at the mention of a good meal. He’d been living off scraps of dried meat for weeks, and the venom he’d been injected with had only worsened his ravenous appetite.