Marché, Roland, and Baccharum were allowed to exit the chamber following the Judge’s declaration of a mistrial. As he so gracefully put it, the amount of evidence on offer to implicate Baccharum in a crime against the country was severely lacking given the inconsistencies present. Despite his seeming forgiveness, he purposefully avoided an innocent verdict, likely to placate those who wanted nothing more than to see Baccharum’s head roll.
Marché felt a surge of pride in his own persuasive abilities. The first fires of discontent had been stoked within the hearts of the Dwarven people. The flavour and brand of his chaos was developing nicely. The continuous triumphs of Lieze and Drayya had contributed to his perceived self-image as a second-rate necromancer, but his victory in the courtroom enlightened him to the possibility of strength beyond an ability to command and conquer.
A guard near the entrance to the Jury handed over Baccharum’s artefact, which he gleefully used to envelop himself in a sphere of darkness. Dwarves who had arrived too late to witness the trial were equal parts frustrated and shocked to witness the Elf walking free from the bench. Marché wondered for a moment if an abundance of attention - whether sympathetic or antagonistic - was going to end up hindering them in the future.
Roland slapped his hand against the boy’s shoulder. The light of ceaseless confidence burning in his eyes suited his self-satisfied grin, “You can’t tell me that didn’t go better than expected.”
“I’m not going to use it as an excuse to get comfortable.” Now that the heat from the inner chamber had died down, Marché was only just beginning to realise how fatigued he was. Droplets of sweat reflecting the hot glow of magma flowing nearby studded his brow like tiny mirrors, “It’s a miracle we were even allowed to defend Baccharum. If that receptionist had turned us down, we’d have been observing his execution from the Jury instead.”
The Elf’s gangly form was obscured once more, but his slithering voice was as audible as ever, “I’m flattered that the two of you consider me important enough to have stepped forward in the first place.”
“Well, considering what a selfless and misunderstood businessman you are, it was only natural that we wouldn’t tolerate this injustice.” Roland’s words were laced with an ironic sarcasm which could only be heard by his comrades, “Now that your prosecution has been delayed, why don’t we return to the office so we can discuss more important matters?”
It was unspoken between the three of them that the heat was beginning to grow unbearable. With tiresome steps, they traced the hilly passageways back to the central hub of Dwarven civilisation, where news of Baccharum’s supposed betrayal and supposed acquittal had already spread to the hovels and pubs. Marché couldn’t be certain whether or not people were happy or furious to hear that he was alive. Perhaps that was for the better, he thought.
The Elf was more at home in his office, where the darkness was so thick that one could bite straight into it. He settled down at his desk and dispelled the artefact, though it was far too murky for Marché to catch another glimpse of his strange physiology.
He sighed, “I suppose, much to my dismay, I owe the two of you a great debt.”
“It should go without saying that we didn’t help you out of the goodness of our hearts.” Roland answered, “I’ll be very frank and admit that Lieze is still rather suspicious of you. You’re in a position to jeopardise our plans if you so desire - even if it would most likely result in your own death.”
Marché couldn’t tell in the darkness, but he imagined that Baccharum was mulling over the statement with a frown on his face. Like most criminals, what he detested most of all was the sensation of being trapped. Roland’s words were less of a warning and more of a reminder that he was well and truly caught up in the Order’s web.
“I appreciate the candour.” He tried to sound unaffected, but there was venom in his tone, “Loath as I am to admit it, there’s very little I can do about my situation whether or not the Order’s goals align with my own. If I betray you, the Dwarves will kill me for associating with necromancers. If I continue to deceive the Dwarves, then the Order will be my end.”
Baccharum was showing his hand. He knew that his death was only a matter of time. The question lingering at the back of Marché’s mind involved the timing of his inevitable gambit to escape from his ordained fate. Every action of his had to be met with obsessive scrutiny, lest Lieze’s plan to conquer the mountains be compromised.
Roland placed both hands on the table, “Here’s what’s going to happen: you will become the face of progressivism among the Dwarves. You will campaign for justice against the state. You will attend rallies, protests, and whatever else. You will parrot the talking points of the most affluent and the most outspoken, and they will love you because you are the errant factor - an Elf nestled within parliament, and they will adore the influence they believe you have.”
For three seconds, Baccharum did not answer. His expression, aura, and body language were indecipherable in the dark. Marché thought to himself that this must be what it’s like to bargain with an Elf, unable to swing emotion in your favour while exposing the full spectrum of your intentions to a conversational enemy.
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“...And what if I refuse?” Baccharum asked.
“How very kind of you to reveal reluctance at this crucial juncture.” Roland nodded his head, not particularly understanding of the Elf’s position, but rather dismissive and bent on exacting his control, “-But your innocence is not yet proven. As you’ve only just admitted, there is no way out for you bar a choice between gruesome executions.”
“You seem to be convinced that retaining this position is of any importance to me.” The Elf’s joints snapped as he shifted his posture, “If I so desired, I could steal away into the depths of Akzhem, never to be heard from again. What makes you think I’ll happily submit myself to the whims of either side of this conflict?”
There was aggression in his voice now. Marché could detect the intonations of guilt curling out from his elongated neck. When he first spoke to Lieze, she was nothing more than a budding villain with dreams far in excess of her abilities. Now she was a leader. A conqueror. She was every bit as capable as she made herself out to be, and Baccharum’s reluctance to accept the scope of her ambition had thrown him right into the fire. Now he wanted out - and there was no exit in sight.
Roland closed his eyes to distract from his frustration, but it was clear that he was on the verge of saying something that would set back their alliance to where it had first begun. Marché took a step towards the desk, “You’re bluffing, Baccharum.”
“Bluffing?” He repeated, “How do you mean?”
“It’s no secret that you’re an exile.” Marché continued, “You claim that you could escape to Akzhem and disappear from the public eye, but you’ve said so yourself that exile is a matter of grave importance within Elven society. Perhaps you could survive, but what could you do to resist the Order’s advance with no network of contacts to assist you?”
Baccharum clicked his tongue - a high-pitched noise that sounded a little like birdsong, “But I would be free.”
“Free like an animal, you mean.” Marché rebuked, “Free to live for nothing and die for nothing. But you are no beast, Baccharum. You don’t have the liberty of surrendering to your instincts and ignoring everything around you. The guilt of surrendering this world to the Order would devour you from the inside out.”
“These personal attacks might disintegrate the will of an average commoner, but I know better than to entertain the Order’s manipulations.” He said, “Do not speak to me as if you are in control, Marché Hopper. Lieze is still very, very far away.”
This was the true Baccharum, Marché realised. His facade of friendliness and gratitude had always been the means to an end. Without Lieze breathing down his neck at every opportunity, he had developed a wicked independence that threatened to bloom into something very troublesome if Marché couldn’t find a way to immobilise him.
What would Lieze do in his situation?
“...I see.” He stepped away from the desk, “There’s no point in pressing the matter if you’re intent on refusing.”
“Wha-” Roland blinked, “Marché!”
Baccharum wasn’t half as convinced by his statement. A rift wider that was comfortable to maintain was forming between them. They could not have been called ‘enemies’ at that point in time, but the amicable nature of their alliance had certainly been fractured.
“We’re leaving.” Marché declared, making his way to the door and out into the glossy halls.
Roland chased him through the open door, remaining silent for as long as it took for the two of them to march clear of earshot, “What are you doing!? We need Baccharum to make this work!”
“No. We don’t.” Marché replied, “That’s what he wants us to believe. He wants to wield his importance like a weapon. We need to remain in control if we want to play this situation in our favour.”
“So there was no reason for us to defend him!?”
Roland didn’t understand. It was fine that he didn’t. His impulsiveness was a fantastic conduit for Baccharum’s plotting, so separating the two of them was the most important thing. Marché had always thought that progress was impossible without bloody conflict, but Lieze had proven that malcontent and unrest were just as effective as thralls at cutting into a region’s stability. The stage had already been set for his own puppet show, and he had no intention of allowing Baccharum to stand in the way of that opportunity.
“It was only necessary that he survived.” Marché answered, “He’ll serve his purpose whether he wants to or not. That much, I can assure you.”
----------------------------------------
Drayya sighed. She had never sounded so defeated in her life. The sharpness of her features seemed to deflate as she leaned backwards over the flimsy wooden chair which had trapped her raven locks with its splinters on more occasions than Lieze could recall. In front of her, lingering stubbornly on the table, was a pallid, deformed biscuit with six tiny holes poked into its surface.
“I can’t do this anymore.” She declared, her eyes watching the ceiling, “I want to eat something fried or fatty or covered in salt. We should have kept the kitchen staff at the Golden Flagon alive when we took Tonberg.”
Lieze picked up the hardtack. It looked more palatable than it really was.
“They’re low in calories.” She said.
“Excuse me?” Hovering the front legs of the chair, Drayya threw her weight forward and placed both hands on the table, “What are you trying to say?”
“They’re useful for one thing, at least. That’s all I meant by it.” Lieze was surprised by the aggressive response she received. Drayya was anything but calorie-dense, owing to a lifetime of slim pickings in the Deadlands.
Drayya sighed, “How much longer?”
“On the boat?” Lieze asked, “Weeks.”
They were enjoying a pleasant cruise at half-sail. Moving too quickly would result in the thralls getting lost on the ocean floor. The journey was marked by constant halts. Without the army, they might have already disembarked, but Lieze wasn’t about to dive into unknown territory without a formidable fighting force.
“Weeks…” Drayya repeated, “I can’t wait.”