Chapter Seven

If we'd come a few moments later, all may have been lost.

When Relm and I finally returned to Maranda, Edgar and Natissa were screaming at one another, so much so that Branford had taken her children out of the inn, and a few of the other patrons had taken cover under tables and counters. The maps lay on one of the tables, and I could see that they were scored with red markings, x's and lines, and other writing around the disputed area. I could also see that the maps were inconclusive. The rearranged mountains, which had once been a straight line, now zigzagged ridiculously, making it impossible to tell where the land had been before the Cataclysm, even with an old map for comparison. That seemed to be the subject of Natissa and Edgar's 'conversation', but they were yelling so incoherently that I couldn't tell exactly what they were saying.

Unlike the others, Relm wasn't frightened. She walked straight up to them, her face placid and chillingly stoic, just like Shadow's. She tucked her arms behind her back. "I've got a proposition for you."

Edgar and Natissa both stopped to look at her.

"Relm, dear," Edgar said, sounding winded, "Now isn't the time."

"Now is the only time. I know how we can settle this dispute without fighting."

Natissa snorted. "Then let's hear it."

"I say we paint for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Relm straightened her beret. "I think we should have an art contest. Whoever wins the contest gets the land in dispute."

This was Shadow's brilliant idea?

"Relm," Edgar looked pained, "It isn't that we don't appreciate what you're trying to do, but matters this complex just can't be solved by-"

"And why not?" Natissa asked.

Edgar looked stunned. "Because! Well... really! Natissa, would you want to tell your people that you lost the rights to the land in an art competition? I wouldn't!"

"Would you rather tell them that they have to pick up arms because you can't think of anything better?" Natissa retorted. "I wouldn't!"

Darling, sweet Natissa. Despite her noble tone, I could tell that she was jumping at this prospect because she had every intention of cheating her pretty ass off. Some friend. I liked this woman more every time I saw her.

"But..." Edgar's voice trailed off. He couldn't think of anything better, and it was driving the responsible fool nuts.

"What kind of painting do you suggest? Predetermined subject? Abstract? Anything goes?"

"I have a subject in mind. Horror."

Natissa smirked. "There's no lack of that, in this world. Where do we have it?"

"We can have it wherever you want. We can have whatever judges you want."

"Then I vote we hold it in Jidoor. Owzer can be one of the judges."

"How about the Auctioneer?"

"I think he'd do. We need at least one more."

"We can work that out when we get there."

"How are we going to get there? Albrook's new port is still under construction!"

"Edgar can take us in the airship."

"Wait! I still haven't agreed to this." Edgar held up a hand.

"Then agree to it already!"

Edgar looked dumbfounded. "There are so many things that could go wrong. What if the people feel cheated and revolt? What if the loser refuses to abide by the judge's decision? What if the judges can't decide?"

"It can't hurt to try, can it?" Relm looked up at Edgar.

There were a few minutes of silence.

"I... am grievously outnumbered, aren't I?"

Both Relm and Natissa nodded.

"Oh, very well. We'll try this your way."

I walked out of the Inn and left them to work out the details. Once outside, I slid down the bannister, climbed up the trash bin, and sat on top of the armor shop, wrapping my arms around my knees. I took another long look at Maranda; at the plastic tents that housed old Magitek, at the armor shop whose sign was still crooked and hadn't been fixed, at the little dogfighting arena. I hadn't been to Jidoor for years. I wondered if it had remained as static as Maranda.

"Nonviolent confrontation," A voice behind me said, "I never would have thought you capable of such a suggestion."

"It wasn't my idea."

Wrexsoul drifted to my side. "Oh, I figured that much. I am still astounded that you're allowing them to go through with it."

"You said it yourself. The rules allow for dirty fighting."

"This is your idea of dirty fighting?"

"It certainly makes me feel unclean."

He narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms, and made a professional show of disapproving. "Don't think the game is over. This hand could still play in my favor."

"I wouldn't place all hope on the musings of Edgar Figaro, if I were you."

Standing there, with his lightless robes teasing the wind, Wrexsoul was a grisly figure indeed. "I would be preferring it this way."

"Preferring what how?"

"You... being in utter ignorance."

"Ignorance? It's a bit rich of you to be preaching to me about ignorance. You've spent your entire undeath talking yourself into believing you're fighting the good fight, when you're just a bloodthirsty bastard who doesn't know when to give up. At least I know what I am."

"Oh? What are you?"

Life... hope... dreams...

I buried my face in my crossed arms. "I'm a dead man." I laughed, more joylessly than I ever had before. "And so are you."

He didn't have anything to say to that.

***

An exceptional painting can be better than a photograph. Better than a mirror. Perhaps that's because artists aren't nice enough to leave out all the little imperfections that blur out of photographs and are so easy to ignore in a mirror image.

The picture Relm painted for the competition was painfully true to death.

I gazed at it, wishing it was a mirror. If it were, I could have overlooked the red spiderweb scars that crisscrossed my face. Or the black spot on my stomach where I'd been hit by a speeding Air Anchor. Or the gash on my thigh.

The worst part was that it was still unmistakably my image. My blonde hair. My golden eyes. My pale, glowing skin. I'd always been ashamed of my pretty-boy looks, to the point of burying them under layers of pancake makeup. I didn't have that option now. I was hit with the realization that I was going to spend eternity looking like an opera star who'd gotten into a barroom brawl with an armed Sabin Figaro. No wonder those all-encompassing shrouds were so popular among the other ghosts.

She'd painted me burning Albrook's port, and despite not having been there herself, she did a pretty good job. Natissa had decided to stick to something she'd seen; she'd painted the rampaging Prometheus armor. It was as photorealistic as Relm's rendition of me and, in my opinion, much more interesting subject matter.

Perhaps I should have been flattered when Owzer, the Auctioneer, and Maria unanimously declared Relm's painting the winner. A lot of people had come to Jidoor from Figaro, Maranda, Thamasa, and other places to see the competition, and when Relm won, the vast majority of them began to cheer.

Wrexsoul didn't. Neither did I.

I stood, invisible, behind Relm as she sat on the marble steps with Branford, Edgar, and Interceptor crowding her. "I can't believe it," She kept repeating. "I can't believe it actually worked!"

Edgar didn't think it had worked yet; I could tell from his facial expression. "I'm glad you won, Relm."

Branford clasped her hands together. "Oh, me too! How wonderful for you!"

Relm blushed. "I'll have to go back and tell him... so he knows his plan was good," She quickly amended.

"Tell who?"

"An old friend from Thamasa."

Wouldn't Shadow just be tickled. I wondered if their next meeting would be as dodgy and angsty as the one I'd had the pleasure of witnessing.

Silence fell over the cheerful crowd as Natissa came up the steps, carrying her gown like a princess. She did not look happy. When she got to Relm, she stared for a few minutes, eyebrows raised, then extended her hand.

"Good job. I yield," Natissa said.

Relm shook her hand. "You too."

Edgar sighed in relief.

Funny that Edgar, who had always been the reserved one, was being so hasty to accept Natissa's deference. I wasn't about to.

I'd shaken people's hands like that. I knew what Natissa was thinking.

When Natissa excused herself, I didn't stick around to congratulate Relm. I followed her. She was nowhere near the yielding point.

It looked like I would have to talk some sense into her.