Marché disliked healers and their ilk, despite being an amateurish practitioner of the art himself. He hated how they would prod and stab with their instruments until the problem revealed itself. He hated the earthy scent of dried herbs and the caustic aftertaste of droughts. As he found out however, humans were rather gentle in their application of medicine. Dwarves, on the other hand, seemed far less concerned with the wellbeing of their patients.
The so-called 'reputable' healer which Roland had decided upon after a good half-hour of asking around was more interested in collecting samples of Marché's blood for analysis than he was in actually healing the rust-haired boy. He wore a beaked leather mask with two glazed mirrors of glass from which to peer out from, as if Marché's affliction was at all contagious or volatile. The instruments covering his examination room were indecipherable in their usage and frankly a little terrifying to behold.
"Hm…" He hummed to himself while examining the discoloration in Marché's veins, "Your friend is a lucky man indeed. This supposed 'antidote' you applied acted as little more than a bandaid to mask the true problem. If you had idled for an hour longer, he would be descending into fits of spasms and madness as the venom's effects redoubled."
"Bandaid or no, we're here, aren't we?" Roland crossed his arms, back resting against a bare wall, "All I'm interested in knowing is whether you can help him."
"Naturally. We would be in a tough spot if we had no method of counteracting the bites of venomous creatures, considering how many of them there are in these lands." The healer replied, "With that said, you must understand that I am a very busy man, and the true antidote to your friend's malady is quite the troublesome concoction to brew."
Roland dove his hand into the Bag of Holding at his waist and retrieved a handful of gold coins. He had brought over an indeterminate amount from Tonberg - more than enough to cover any of their expenses within the Mountains, "Will this be enough?"
"My, my." The healer took his money without wasting a breath, "You don't seem like the sort to be parting with his hard-earned gold so frivolously."
"We're associates of Baccharum Silas."
"Ah… the Star-Eater." The Dwarf adjusted his spectacles, "He does seem the affluent sort."
"What's that title for?" Roland wondered.
"Hm?" He tilted his head before wandering over to the drawers spanning one end of the room, "What do you mean?"
"Star-Eater." Roland repeated, "I heard another Dwarf use it at the border. What does it mean?"
"To a human, it must seem like a strange title indeed." The healer turned over bottles and flasks, examining the faded labels upon each one, "But blood runs thicker than water, and the blood between Dwarves and Star-Eaters especially so. Our histories are long and treasured, and brimmed to bursting with the most ridiculous tales. If you ever have a chance, I would recommend visiting the Archives of Alberich, whose beard is the longest among all men, and having a look into the history of the Elves. You'll be quite intrigued by what you read - I can assure you of that."
Finding the bottle he was searching for, the healer waddled back to Marché, who was resting upon an intolerably uncomfortable reclining chair fashioned of iron. He poured half the solution into the young necromancer's mouth. Marché scraped the surface of his tongue with his teeth as the foul-tasting medicine left a burning sensation in his throat.
"Bear in mind that I am a healer, not a sorcerer." The Dwarf continued, "This antidote is quite effective at cleansing Crestworm venom from one's body, but he will need a few hours of rest for it to take effect. I am under a legal obligation to inform you that he should not be getting into any tavern brawls, mud-wrestling matches, or bare-knuckle bouts during this period."
"I won't promise anything." Roland replied, "Marché. Let's get a move on."
"Gladly…" His comrade answered, peeling himself off the slab of metal and joining his comrade as they wandered out of the quaint clinic into a subterranean 'street' of torchlit hovels and colourful signage.
"Even that old fool knew who Baccharum was." Roland said, "I wonder how he's gotten so popular in such a short amount of time?"
"Considering what the Dwarves must have heard about Tonberg by now, anyone who escaped the city must be the talk of the town." Marché swallowed down the remnants of his medication, "Not to mention the fact that he's likely developed a reputation for his less-than-legal operations under the Church's nose. Nonhumans have a tendency to bond over their shared dislike of the Sovereign Cities."
"I had a look around while that healer was drawing your blood." He pointed towards the end of the street, where a fork in the landscape directed one towards two tunnels branching off in either direction, "The public offices of government officials are just down that way. If we're going to find Baccharum anywhere, then I'll bet he's holed up in one of those studies."
"Lead the way." Marché nodded, "I'm still resisting the urge to throw up, so try not to rush."
Even with the Amulet of Master Comprehension, Roland had trouble navigating the labyrinth of passageways leading up and down the mountain. Corridors of stone were occasionally flanked by precarious, platformed elevators leading through the settlement's various layers. The entire construction of the underground city boggled the mind with its complexity. Roland wondered how the average Dwarf even managed to find their way back home in the evenings.
But no matter where they found themselves, taverns remained the constant. Residential taverns, workplace taverns, mineshaft taverns; taverns built next to shrines, cemeteries, breweries - wherever Dwarves wandered, there was a watering hole within a minute's stride. The stench of ethanol may as well have been the latest fragrance among Dwarven socialites for how thickly it permeated the choking, subterranean air.
Even the offices of government officials - rightfully the most stuck-up and snobby of all Dwarves - were flanked by bars and the like. Roland couldn't help but imagine that they weren't the sorts of establishments to close their doors at night, either.
Those upper 'floors' of the city were at least cleaner and more sophisticated. Chiselled artwork resembling that of the mountain's entranceway - with just as many hasty additions of Alberich's muddy visage - peppered every inch of the perfectly flat walls. Those endless corridors were each studded with wooden doors leading into the offices of specialists and politicians. Among other baffling titles were 'Master of Whistle-Wetting' and 'Chief Coordinator of Brunch', each of them proudly emblazoned above the doors like plaques of honour.
By peering through the glass sheets installed upon every door, Roland discovered that most of the offices were empty, though a few played host to ashen-bearded Dwarves drafting legislation at their - again - incredibly uncomfortable chairs and desks of solid iron.
"Where would Baccharum be in this parliament of madness?" Roland wondered, "Oh, how about 'Minister of Extrajudicial Strikebreaking'? Or maybe 'Designated Executive Meddler' sounds more like him?"
"Roland." Marché called, "Look over here."
Up ahead, he was standing on an intersection where the labyrinth of bureaucracy split into four, each of the hallways vanishing into the far distance. Of particular note was the corridor Marché was facing, which did not have sconces on its walls like the others, plummeting the hall into near total darkness.
"The Elves can't live without darkness, can they?" He said, "If Baccharum's to be found here, I'll bet he's in one of these forsaken rooms."
Roland retrieved a lantern from his Bag of Holding and lit the way for them to proceed. Warm light reflected from the polished plaques above each door. Strangely, they all had the same engraving - 'Star-Eater Diplomat' - with the term 'Star-Eater' hastily filed away and 'Elven' inscribed underneath with the skill of an amateur.
"Seems the Dwarves are lacking in correspondence with the Elves…" Roland muttered, "That'll work out nicely in our favour. If Akzhem were to join the fight, we'd be more outnumbered than we already are."
"More than likely, these offices were built - or, dug, I should say - in preparation to improve relations between the countries." Marché replied, "Seeing as they're all empty, I suppose it wasn't a very fruitful endeavour."
"Keep an eye on the windows. Baccharum won't have the lights on - if there are any."
A solid 5 minutes of walking saw them to the end of the corridor, where a hopeful crag of half-unearthed stone marked the possibility for yet more offices. Roland peered through the left-hand door at the very end, lifting his lantern to illuminate the room's interior. Something long and gangly fumbled in the dark to avoid the light, outstretched limbs flailing as if threatening to torch in the presence of anything brighter than total darkness.
With respect to Baccharum's physiology, Roland stowed the lantern in his Bag of Holding before turning the door's stone knob and inviting himself into the office.
"There you are." Roland's voice echoed, "We've just about explored the entire city looking for you."
"Oh, Gods…" Baccharum covered his enormous eyes with both hands, "Do you have any idea of how painful that was?"
"You'll have to forgive my pitiful human senses for not being able to find my way in the dark." He shrugged, "I was expecting you to be squatting in a ditch somewhere, not acting as a diplomat for the Dwarves."
"Yes, well…" The Elf blinked rapidly as searing rings were imprinted into his vision, "I discovered not long after my arrival that the mountains are in dire need of someone capable of establishing diplomatic connections with Akzhem. As an Elf, I'm sure you can imagine how enthusiastic they were when I turned up."
"Have you forgotten that you're supposed to be helping the necromancers, not the Dwarves?" Roland crossed his arms.
"Calm yourself, Roland." He tapped his elongated fingers against the iron desk, "I haven't had dealings with my kin in decades. The Elv are very strict when it comes to the subject of exile. But when you're being offered a nice, quiet place to conduct business and form connections with the mountains' best and brightest, you'd be a fool to refuse."
Roland relaxed his posture. Baccharum wasn't to be trusted, but he was an ally for the time being. For the sake of fulfilling the Order's lofty ambitions, he would need to have a scrutinous eye fixed on him at all times.
"You haven't been communicating with Lieze nearly as often as she would like." Roland said.
"I can't be sending Direcrowns that way every day of the week!" Baccharum replied, "If you'll recall, the regions south of these desolate plains are teeming with undead. If word got out that I was exchanging correspondence with someone in that direction, suspicions would naturally be aroused."
"Well, your passion for subterfuge has earned you a visit, and now that we're here, Marché and I will be making sure that your reports are both timely and informative." Roland said, "It won't be long before Lieze makes her move on the mountains, and we fully intend to stock her with as much intelligence as possible beforehand."
"You want intelligence?"
Baccharum yanked open a drawer and fumbled with a stack of crisp, white papers. As he pushed the documents over to Roland, he activated the artefact resting on the desk, which quickly grew to envelop him in a sphere of darkness. Then, he materialised a small flame at the tip of his index finger to light an unused candle, finally allowing the two visitors to see clearly.
"Very well." He said, "Where would you like to begin?"