XIX

Psychomachia

Murtagh Rembrandt made a careful estimation when spending her own, unmarked coin on the small fleet of empty carriages she had follow her down to the border city of Matria. She had no way of yet knowing just how many she’d need, and she didn’t have a mountain of gold to work with, but it was much better to spend too much than too little. She wouldn’t have time to correct her mistake when the time came for her to leave.

She had them park at the very edge of the city, not wanting to bring attention to them, lest the people spread word about their arrival. She continued into the city proper in her own carriage, reassuring one of the carriage drivers that he’d be compensated for the time he spent waiting for her. She had to grit her teeth as she said it- his time was also expensive.

Matria was a fine enough place, expensive and well-kept, but soulless. It was a cheaper imitation of Lyveria; like a postcard, or cardboard sculpture of how a Land Dweller would imagine Divitae. This permeated through the paint and architecture; Matria was a border city through and through, existing mostly for the convenience of Lyverian merchants and the occasional immigrant. Though, the latter rarely stayed here, being as they were far more welcome in Vagrant Peak.

Murtagh wasted very little time sight seeing on her way to the Matria Ministry. The city bored her- even put her in a bad mood when lingering in it too long. She wasn’t here for its buildings or citizens, it was just the Minister she cared for.

So she found him quickly enough, through the doors of the tall, wide, and pointy Ministry building. In its lobby, two people- both men, both Aquatics: Minister Diego Méndes, and his assistant, Tiburcio.

The Minister seemed startled by the Rembrandt’s arrival. Bent over at a standing desk, he jumped, and looked at her with a smile. The smile quickly dropped when he recognized her- he stood up and approached with urgency.

“Rembrandt!” He greeted, quickly closing the door behind her. “You’re back!”

“I’m back. Am I interrupting?”

“No! No- not at all,” He brushed off his robes. “I... I assume you’re here to tell me about Valor. I’m afraid word has already spread.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” The Rembrandt nodded. “I’m sorry, Minister, I would have warned you, but I got caught up tying loose ends.”

“It’s alright,” He huffed, checking the room for any open windows or watching spies. “Well- about as alright as it can be, given that they live. What happened?”

“Unfortunate timing,” The Rembrandt twirled their cane with their fingers. “The Ambassadors showed up to watch the 'debate of the century.' My arms didn’t know, and I didn’t know they’d be strong enough to save those two morons.”

“Hm,” Diego scratched his chin. His oily dark hair hung like tendrils lapping against his stubble. “Perhaps it was foolish of us to target them in the open like that. I know Goldheart and Goodman are rarely seen together without a crowd, but this wouldn’t have happened if we waited for them to be alone.”

The Rembrandt shook her head. “Then we’d have to learn their individual daily routines, account for their defenses, and hope they keep to a pattern. The debates give us time, location, and an easy line of defense to penetrate. That was our best chance.”

“And they’ll be more prepared now that they know someone has it out for them. Damn.” Diego swore, jerking his head to the side. Light from the window highlighted the thin scar stretching from his cheek to his ear, just barely missing his bright blue eye.

“Will you try again?” He asked her. “Or is this where you go quiet?”

“Oh no, I’d be happy to try again,” Murtagh held up her hands. “I want those monsters slain as much as you, Minister. But... I need my payment now.”

Diego frowned. “You didn’t kill them.”

“Insurance of luck doesn’t fall to me, Minister. I’m offering you my services again, it’s up to you if you think I’m worth rehiring. I don’t work for free.”

Diego thought it over, and grunted. He waved to Tiburcio, who jogged to an adjacent room, and came out with a folder, filled nearly to the brim with papers.

“The ledgers of Matria’s purchasing and exportation of gleamroot and related harvests. What you want with this information is beyond me.”

“Indeed it is,” She smiled, taking the folder from Tiburcio and putting it away in her coat.

“So…” Diego cocked his head. “What is the next plan of attack, Murtagh? I can’t imagine you expect the debates to be worth pursuing anymore.”

“No, I don’t,” The Rembrandt shook her head. “I’ll tell you, but first, would you come walk with me?”

“Why?”

“There’s something I want to show you. I can’t-”

The Rembrandt cleared her throat.

“I can’t talk about it. But I have something I want to show you.”

That gave the Minister pause. The implication was unmistakable- Murtagh was implying they were being listened to. Had she just realized she was being trailed? Was the Ministry itself compromised? If she hadn’t just realized it now, why did she let them talk about the assassination at all?

Diego nodded, and opened the door for the two of them to leave. On his way out, he turned back and instructed his assistant.

“Tiburcio. While I’m out, survey the Ministry. Make sure every room is in order- and avoid talking.”

“Try my best,” said Tiburcio.

The two of them wandered vaguely west, taking long, slow turns and detours on their way to wherever Murtagh was leading. Diego remained patient, but after twenty minutes, he had to speak up.

“Rembrandt, please- what are we being so silent about? You’re frightening me.”

“Hush. Just a little bit more. There.”

The Rembrandt pointed ahead, to a small patch of woodland just outside the city. Diego nodded, and continued following her away.

When they finally met the shade of trees, Murtagh spoke to the Minister of her own accord.

“Thank you for your patience. Keep walking- we can speak now.”

“Peisus praised. What’s happening, who’s listening to us?”

“I’m not sure,” Murtagh clutched her cane’s handle. “But they’re far now. It seems they don’t want to leave the city limits.”

“Why would that…”

“I don’t know. But we’re alone.”

Murtagh looked back briefly at Diego, then kept walking.

“Diego, I’m curious. When you came to me, enlisting my help for this conquest you’re on, you were so professional about everything. I hear that’s like you. But I hear a lot of things about you.”

“Well you heard that one right. And I know you appreciate professionalism.”

“To a point. That said, if we’re to work together beyond this… beyond Valor, I’d prefer to know you a little deeper than that.”

“Who’s said I want to work with you beyond Valor?”

“Who’s said you want to work beyond Valor at all?”

Diego froze. She got him.

“It was implied,” She shrugged. “And you’d be a fool to let me into your records like you have, if you intend to make an enemy of me later. I see where you’re heading.”

“...Do you now…”

“Diego… why are you doing this? Why kill your neighbors?”

“I’m surely not the first Land Dweller to have the idea. Nor the millionth. But if you want to know… the Land District is rotten.”

“Rotten?”

“From the core, to the top, and down. The Land District fails to sustain itself because its leaders are both incompetent and corrupt. Lyveria, say what you will of it, is not both of those things. I would do my kingdom proud- and better my home- by cutting out those rotten roots, and letting something better sit in its soil.”

“Lyveria.”

“No. Me, and then Lyveria. I can negotiate the nation’s future when Matria is a power, in and of itself.”

“You seek to be established beyond Ministry in Lyveria’s eyes? This is a power play, then.”

“Again, you misunderstand me. I will keep Lyveria from taking over and reestablishing the status quo. I can keep them from putting the rot back where it used to be, and ensure that only those who can survive exposure are given power.”

Murtagh furrowed her brow, and stared at Diego with wide eyes. She noticed things she hadn't before with that look- was he always that tall?

“When I hired you,” he went on, “you told me that Goldheart and Goodman were puppets who appeased the people. That cutting their strings would crack open and scramble their parties. That’s exactly what I want. I want to expose the powers that be, for the incompetent and wretched things that they are.”

Murtagh stopped walking, and sunk their cane in the dirt, facing Diego directly. The two stood off for a moment. Murtagh spoke plainly.

“There is evidence of our misdoing.”

“What?” Diego scoffed.

“There is a trail that can lead to us. Lead to you, actually. I covered what tracks of yours I could, but some could not be covered. In time, Valor will know who ordered the attack on their mayoral candidates.”

“Are you kidding me!?” Diego hissed. “That was step one of your assignment! You’re uselessness has ruined me!”

“It seems it has.”

Diego gripped the handle of the scimitar sheathed at his back.

“Give me one good reason not to cut you down right now!”

“Go ahead,” The Rembrandt's eyes wandered between the trees. “And face the combined fury of Valor, Servus, and Conscriptus at once. Unlike you Minister, I have seconds in command quite ready to take my reins.”

The Minister kept his eyes fixed on the Rembrandt. “It would seem you are as dangerous an ally as an enemy.”

“You do not know me as an enemy.” Murtagh pulled her cane out of the ground, and let the glare of the sun glimmer against its bladed tip. “But I would not be opposed to introducing you.”

Diego took a quick look around his environment. A grove of trees outside the limits of the city, where citizen nor guard would hear from, or stumble onto for hours at the least. And they had been standing here for some time- nothing about this place was significant. Nothing worth taking the trek to 'show' someone.

He squinted, catching the faintest hint of a smile cracking on her lips. “Who was following us, woman?”

The Rembrandt tilted her head back.

“I was.”

Diego's sword arm hung low. He considered his chances; both of surviving this encounter, and of facing three cities' wrath all at once. Above that, he might even risk making an enemy of his kingdom, should his plans be revealed too soon. Had he truly lost all his footing so quickly?

“...What do you want?”

She answered immediatley. “A document- written in ink- confessing full and unaccomplised responsibility for the failed assassination of Goldheart and Goodman. In return, Conscriptus will defend Matria from the invaders of Valor and Servus.”

“Deniability?” The Minister scoffed. “You will be suspected by association- your guilt will be decided by the mere fact you do not slaughter me too!”

“Oh, but the invasions will be unfounded, Minister. Baseless. It is in the honor of my city and the belief in just trial that I turn my blade from their favor to yours.”

“But you said there is evidence-”

“Evidence can be erased, Minister. There are means.”

The Minister clenched his jaw, burning so hot he might set the forest ablaze. But finally, he put his sword away, and turned to walk back home.

“Write it now, Minister.”

“I don’t have pen or paper on me, Rembrandt.”

“I have them with me.” The Rembrandt reached into their satchel, took out a quill and notebook, and handed both to the Minister.

Diego grimaced at this strange woman, but took the materials, and spent the next fifteen minutes scribbling a confession into the Rembrandt’s notebook.

When it was done, he clasped the book shut, and shoved it into the Rembrandt’s chest. She nodded, and put it safely away. Nearly an hour had passed since they left, and he was getting exhausted. He turned again to return home.

“All of that said,” The Rembrandt chimed again. “While your life should not be in danger, the city’s borders will more than likely be broken through and occupied. The Ministry itself is not exempt to that; you should really consider relocating your luggage.”

“My luggage?” He asked, not bothering to face her again. “What are you rambling about now?”

“The children, Diego.” She cooed, freezing his soul through his ears. “Those sprightly little travelers staying with you, on their way to the peak. How many of them do you have now, anyway? I never could guess a number I was happy with.”

“How…” He stared at her with petrified eyes. He felt there were miles of forest separating them. “-How do you know about that!?”

“I know everything, Minister.” She grinned again, and Diego swore he saw fangs. “I’d advise against trying to sell these ones; better to dump them in the Dead Current. Even if someone finds them, they’ll be counted among the accidents.”

Diego’s heart raced. He came to understand that he had signed a contract with a devil. How else could she have so easily made herself so untouchable- so omniscient!? This was no Half-elf, no, this thing wasn’t even human!

Diego’s hands trembled. He said nothing to her, turning and sprinting all the way back to the Ministry.

He found the building in flames.

Too scared to think straight, he tackled the front door and forced his way inside. The flame was spreading madly up the walls and across the floor. Where it came from was unclear, but the building was not yet engulfed; the fire was lit recently.

“Tiburcio!” He cried. “Tiburcio, are you here!?”

That witch Murtagh- had she set an explosive inside the Ministry? How!? He never took his eyes off of her while she was-

A burst of flame washed through the room, and forced the Minister’s arms to his face to protect from the heat. His ears rung. There wasn’t much time.

“Shit,” He scrambled for the hidden door in his back office. “No, no no no no no no no-”

The Minister scrambled to the wall, and tore the fake door apart. Shreds of paint and plaster scattered across the panel floor like hail, all too quiet to be heard beneath the roaring fire. The Minister swung the door open, and rushed his way inside the dark, downward stone hallway.

“You wouldn’t-” Diego trembled to himself. “You wouldn’t burn them, Murtagh, you wouldn’t!”

He made it to the Ministry cellar in seconds, sprinting so quickly he nearly slipped and split his skull on the ramped stone floor. The cellar, thank the gods, was not reached by the fire.

But his brief moment of respite was dashed away once his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The cellar, lined with two columns and rows and rows of large metal cages, was empty. Empty, save for one man.

All of the cages had been opened; no signs of destruction implied the proper keys were used to open them. But there was an exception: one of the cages closest to the entrance had been forced open, and bent so fiercely that the top of the gate had snapped off, leaving the protective bars jaggedly sticking up into the air like pikes.

And there, beaten and stripped to his bare skin, Tiburcio had been impaled on four of those pikes. Blood dripped down the bars and pooled lazily at the bottom. But his body was not fresh. The signs of rot and decay were showing in earnest; he had been killed some days ago, and put here after the fact. But who could have-

The hilt of a weapon battered the back of Diego’s head.

“AAGH-!” He turned around, and his neck was clutched by a tight leather glove. He got the faintest look at a Changeling standing in Tiburcio’s clothes, as it stuck its dagger into Diego’s chest.

Diego screamed, half as loud as when the Changeling pulled the dagger out, stuck it lower in his gut, and carved a curved line down to his left hip. Diego felt the fabric of his robes tear and sop as they struggled and failed to soak up the tide of blood spilling from his body.

He felt pain- felt excruciating pain as the dagger tore through his flesh, but when the Changeling pulled the dagger out the second time, he only felt numb. His head went light, his thoughts lost all coherence. His body slumped into the arms of this unknown assailant as the Changeling carried the Minister by his shoulders back to the lobby of the Ministry.

Every step of the trek up that stone ramp was too slow. Each click of boot on rock echoed and faded through each other in Diego’s mind. He hardly realized it was over when the Changeling dropped him on the lobby’s burning floor. His head smacked the panel and concussed him. He didn’t notice.

Despite how illucid he had so quickly become, he recognized the silhouette of someone walking through the opened door of the Ministry from outside. As the fire grew ever more intense, Murtagh Rembrant sat, legs crossed and sprawled on his standing desk. Hatred was all that Diego Méndes had left to feel.

“Should get out of here,” The Changeling said, opening and closing its palms in those tight gloves. “Building’s coming down.”

“I’ll leave when I need to- give us a moment alone, Triandra.”

Triandra nodded, and shifted back into the spitting image of Tiburcio. With that, he stepped over some fallen rubble, and walked into the open air.

Murtagh looked down at the shivering Minister, something like pity in her eyes. No, not pity- contempt.

“Diego, you dog. You were actually gonna listen to my advice, weren’t you? About the Dead Current?”

Diego didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to. His stomach… something was wrong with his stomach…

“Thanks for that,” She checked her nails. “I didn’t need any more reason to kill you, but you’ve helped assure I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Hhh… helllll…” Diego groaned, mustering the power to reach forward with his arm.

“Careful~” Murtagh teased. “You should be careful what you wish for, Minister. Because I'm a woman of my word.

“And I’m going to give you my services, just like you wanted. I’m going to liberate us, Diego- just like you wanted.”

Diego let out a half-exhaled groan. The Rembrandt reached into her satchel, and took out the folder, filled nearly to the brim.

“It was so kind of your Tiburcio to let me into your personal records. Fifteen recent years of Matria’s acquisition and distribution of defecting Lyverian orphans- you are thorough, Minister.”

A large wooden beam fell from the ceiling and crashed to the ground some ten feet behind them. Murtagh looked back down at the Minister.

“Oh don’t worry, Diego, the kids are gonna be fine. I’m not the monster you aspire to be.”

Murtagh hopped off the desk, and stood in front of the Minister. Diego forced his chin up from the floor, and looked up at the Lady of Death looming over his head.

As the fire raged behind her- as the heat and passion of the nine hells consumed him body, mind, and soul- he saw Murtagh’s figure warp strangely in the orange torment. He swore he saw not one villain, but two sets of eyes staring him down. Silhouettes standing regal and firm, a cane bent at her outstretched hand- and squatted with her back arched to hell, her hands hung to the floor with palms upturned to heaven.

And then, with a flicker of distortion, they were one.

“Dawn is coming closer to our verdant nothings. Tell me, Diego- would you like to see the sun?”

The Ministry creaked and snapped. The ceiling fractured, and a continent of burning rubble came crashing on Diego’s back. At once, he was flattened; the cleansing of flame already working through the surface of his broken flesh.

Murtagh watched this destruction for a moment longer- then The Rembrandt turned, and left for the safety of the city streets.