After Alberich's lengthy and unbearable coronation came to an end, Marché kept his ear to the ground for any rumblings of Baccharum's status. News of a traitor spread from the lava chamber through the labyrinthine tunnels like venom working its way through the veins of Dwarven society - and not every reaction to the news was affable.
"Ugh!" Roland resisted the urge to spit out his drink, "Is there a single beverage in these damn mountains that doesn't make it feel like you're drinking the most concentrated acid ever conceived?"
Marché hadn't touched his mug. The dizzying stench of ethanol wafting from its foam was already making him feel more tipsy than he ought to have been.
"Lieze told us not to drink." He said.
"Well, I'm certainly not going to now, seeing as every swill-coated tap in this country is apparently too strong for a milk-supping midlander like myself." Roland grumbled, "Baccharum should have been arrested by now, no? Why don't we have a gander at the dungeons - wherever they might be?"
"Yes… we should really-" Marché paused, "Hm?"
There was a great stampede outside. A stampede of Dwarves - little folk rushing through the lantern-lit passageways like bearded blood cells. One of them slipped into the grainy entrance of the pub and raised his voice to catch everyone's attention, "Oi! You lot! There's an Elf going on trial! Get your arses down to the Iron bloody Jury!"
Then he was gone, caught in the tide of his kin and swept away in the current. Murmurs from half-conscious patrons were exchanged within the relative peace of the dugout pub as Marché placed a hand on the back of his neck, "A trial!? But he was only accused half an hour ago!"
"I fear we may have made a mistake thinking the Dwarven justice system was in any way comparable to that of the Sovereign Cities." Roland replied, "This isn't good at all. If Baccharum's found guilty, I imagine his execution will be just as swift as his trial. I was expecting to have a few days to work with, at the very least."
The two men exchanged glances, and in an instant, their goals were aligned - Baccharum was too useful of an ally to abandon. He needed to be saved from the clutches of Dwarven bureaucracy before his misshapen head was rolling along the floor.
Abandoning their drinks, they merged with the flow of Dwarves beyond the pub's entrance and allowed the crowd to dictate their destination. Other humans were also involved in the frenzy - commoners, mostly, but a few nobles and merchants as well. A thirst for blood was in the air. The kind of thirst that would not be so easily quelled.
Down they travelled. Far, far below the residential districts and the pubs and the workshops. They slid down the subterranean pathways as if they were slick with water, watching the grandiosity of Dwarven culture fade from the walls, which became barren and craggy. Marché glimpsed the sealed entrances of abandoned mines, incomprehensible warnings atop rotting signboards, and - inevitably - a few more pubs for good measure.
The roaring, awe-inspiring workshops used to create the country's finest war machines lingered in those depths. Great chains attached to rickety elevators running cartwheels up to the safety of the surface strained against the immense weight of oversized catapults, ballistae, and trebuchets. From within the curtained hideaways of Dwarven researchers, flashes of cerulean electricity illuminated the caverns with dizzying lights.
Marché had never felt so alien - as if he'd stepped into another world. Culture, he realised, was not defined by the consistency of one's midday drinking sessions or the length of their beard. Culture was something that ran faster and thicker than blood. It was the beating heart of a country. Its stubborn will to survive. He had always been an outcast, but never so much as when he was trapped within those mountains.
The claustrophobic throughways opened up into a more well-developed section of the depths. A bridge carved from the mountain itself was suspended over a pool of blistering magma, leading towards a grandiose archway flanked by two enormous statues depicting a pair of Dwarves and their beloved axes, blades pressed against the ground.
Things were really beginning to heat up then. The stuffiness and dryness of the air was turning Marché's throat to ash. His forehead was slick with sweat. Roland wasn't much better, yanking out his collar only to be disappointed by the lack of a stiff breeze. They were funnelled into the archway, ignoring the sounds of bubbling fire beneath their feet as they crossed the bridge.
"The Iron Jury…" Roland's eyes scanned a runic carving above the pair of steel doors at the opposite end of the chamber, "How very considerate - placing a courthouse so deep into the mountain that everyone who arrives is already agitated by the heat. I'm sure that makes for a very fair and impartial justice system."
Both sides of the room were barred by iron counters attended by Dwarven receptionists. With incredible dexterity, they served a paper to every visitor that approached them, allowing them to scribble something resembling a signature at the bottom before marking the slip with a purple stamp.
"Signing up for jury duty?" Marché wondered, "But… there's only one trial, isn't there?"
"Judging by how enthusiastic these attendees are, I wouldn't assume that there's any upper limit to a Dwarven jury." Roland wandered towards one of the counters, "Very entertaining, I'm sure, but only if you're on the side of the prosecution - which we aren't."
A Dwarven woman behind the counter - remarkably beardless - raised her head as he approached. The sight of a human in the Iron Jury invited her confusion, but it was dispelled in the next second by a practised smile, "Good afternoon, sonny."
"It's the late evening." Roland greeted.
"Oh, well - time just flies down here, you know? Haven't seen the sun in over a month, myself." She replied, "Are you planning to join the jury today?"
"This is the trial of Baccharum Silas, isn't it?"
She nodded, "Would you like to hear the charges? Or the odds?"
"Odds?" Marché repeated, peeking over Roland's shoulder. The latter, having grown quite accustomed to his amulet, only realised just then that the woman was not speaking Dwarvish.
"Guilty or not guilty." The receptionist nodded, "Currently, the odds are set at 99 to 1 in the prosecution's favour. Please bear in mind that the Iron Jury does not condone the act of betting in any way.
"Would you mind if I asked how this all works?" Roland rested one hand on the counter, "Who's Baccharum's attorney? I'd like to speak with him, if possible."
"Oh, I'm afraid the defendant is not assigned a defence attorney by the courthouse." She explained, "Only the most heinous of criminals are brought before the Iron Jury, and they tend to happen rather quickly, so there's very rarely enough time for the defendant to source an attorney."
Marché frowned, "That doesn't seem-"
"-We'll do it." Roland interrupted, "Could you set that up? We're associates of Baccharum, so I'm sure he would consent to having us represent him in court."
The chamber's incessant, echoing chatter was silenced in waves as Roland's proclamation caught the ears of those nearby. Every pair of waist-level eyes in the room bored into him with reserved shock. Marché clenched his eyes shut, caught in a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
"...I'm sorry?" Something akin to a chuckle emerged from the receptionist's throat, "You want to represent the defendant in the Iron Jury?"
"I have reason to believe that Baccharum Silas is being framed." Roland replied, "Assuming all the necessary evidence to damn him will be presented, I'm certain that I can cast some doubt on his supposed treachery."
There was already no turning back. The die had been cast - Marché and Roland's plan to acquit the Elf of his well-founded crime was underway, and there was nothing either of them could do to stop the momentum.
When all was arranged, and all the papers signed, the two necromancers were escorted through a side passage where a number of cold, unfeeling waiting rooms had been carved into the hallway. A Dwarven bailiff unlocked the door of one such room to allow Marché and Roland entry, where Baccharum rested on an uncomfortable iron chair.
His unveiled appearance gave Marché pause. Never before had he glimpsed an Elf in all of its bare glory. Even sitting down, Baccharum was more than a head taller than any human, with skinny, fragile limbs draped with sickly-silver flesh. His arms were so long that his fingernails were scraping the floor. His ribs, taught against the rubbery veneer of his skin, made the Elf appear starved, but the truth was that every child of Akzhem had much the same degree of emaciation.
Rags of fabric had been tied around Baccharum's head - a necessity for one so sensitive to light. Marché had read that their eyes were larger than fists, with three-layered eyelids and vision so impeccable that they could count the legs on a butterfly from over 500 paces. One glance beyond near-total darkness was all it took to blind an Elf for life.
"I recognise those footsteps." Baccharum raised his head, "Roland - you really need to get some new shoes. Men have died from lack of quality footwear, you know."
"Maybe you can find me a pair once we've moved your head off the chopping block." Roland crossed his arms, "They took away your artefact?"
"An eyesore, they said. Too distracting." He replied.
"At least they were kind enough to give you a blindfold."
"You say 'kind', but these rags aren't ideal." The Elf raised both hands to tighten the knot at the back of his head, "Anything that doesn't block the light out completely inflicts horrendous pain. I'm used to the sensation now - having grown accustomed to a life beyond the black forest - but that doesn't make it any less agonising."
"We've graciously decided to become your attorneys for the trial." Roland seemed just a little prideful of his statement.
"I assumed so." Baccharum replied, "I underestimated the Dwarves' zeal for justice. You'll need to pick your words carefully or risk losing your own lives just as I'm about to lose mine."
"You'll have to forgive me. We were promised that some would be sympathetic to the idea of defending you, but I don't see any of these 'progressive supporters' you mentioned in the office."
"The loud will always deafen the quiet." The Elf mused, "They exist, but they are not outspoken. Once you present your case, I'm sure an opportunity will arise to pull on some heartstrings. And you'll be needing that support, too, considering how heavily the odds are stacked against us."
"How long do we have until the trial begins?" Marché stepped forward, "With enough time, we could gather-"
Something heavy and iron smashed against the door. The three men exchanged glances before Roland went over and kneeled down before sliding open the viewing window. The fiery eyes of a Dwarven soldier stared back at him from the other side.
"Five minutes left." He reported, "Get yer thoughts in order then come outside so I can escort the three of yous downstairs."
With a screech of metal on metal, the window closed.
"I shouldn't have asked…" Marché sighed.
"Well, there's nothing else for it now." Roland walked over, "We'll have to rely on our impeccable skills of persuasion to see us through this."