“Why is your face twitching?”
“I don’t know. Must be a side effect.”
“Of good living?”
“Oh, aren’t you funny.”
“Well, should we exercise together?”
Imid’s eyes narrowed. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something seriously illegal. Your visit interrupted me.”
“That’s not exercise!”
“Now there’s a depressing confession for you to make, Imid Factallo. Of course, I could take it as a challenge.”
“You’re disgusting.” He paused. “Say some more disgusting things.”
Emancipor Reese was sweating by the time he passed unaccosted through the city gate. His nerves were jumping wildly and he felt slightly sick. Likely the dust and the stench of ox and mule sweat, he told himself as he jostled among the farmers driving their loaded carts through the narrow passage. With Oponn’s blessing, he would have completed his tasks by tomorrow, and so could return to a sane lifestyle-or, as sane as was possible whilst in the employ of two homicidal masters.
He hoped his wife was living well on his earnings back in Lamentable Moll. The brats would be in school, still, although the eldest might well be apprenticed out by now. It had been four years, after all. A lifetime, given what the manservant had lived through since that fateful drunken day when he’d knocked on the door to Bauchelain’s room at Sorrowman’s Hostel.
She’d have found lovers by now, too, he suspected. Sailors, fishers, maybe even a soldier or two. He didn’t begrudge that, much. It could be a lonely life, being a mother with no husband close by.
Twenty paces in from the gate, Emancipor moved off to stand clear of the carts and braying beasts of burden filing past. He looked round, trying to sense what was different about this place, compared to the countless other cities he had visited. It was quieter, for one thing. Off to the right, at the end of a narrow passage, was something like a square, in which citizens stood in rows waving their arms about and jumping in place. He wondered if these people might also be saints, all of them skull-cracked and now entirely insane. There were few urchins to be seen, and none of the hopelessly destitute begging for coins in the gutters. Indeed, the street looked surprisingly clean.
If this was the good life, then it wasn’t so bad, he concluded.
Of course, it was not going to last. Not with Bauchelain and Korbal Broach scheming its downfall. He felt a pang of regret.
“What are you doing here?”
Emancipor turned. “Excuse me?”
The woman standing before him was wearing white enameled armour, a white cape lined in gold silk. Her face belonged to that of a marble statue carved by some artist obsessed with perfection, down to the pallid dust on her cheeks and to either side of her even, pert nose. The red paint glistening from her lips made it appear she had just drunk a flagon of blood. Cold, hard blue eyes were fixed on his with haughty contempt. “You’re loitering, citizen.”
“Actually, I was hesitating.”
She blinked, then frowned. “Is there a difference?”
“Of course,” Emancipor replied. He considered explaining the difference, then decided not to.
“Well,” she finally said, “we don’t like hesitation much, either.”
“Then I will be on my way.”
“Yes, but first, where are you going? By your accent you are some sort of foreigner-don’t deny it! And we have concerns about foreigners. They possess unruly ideas. I need to know everything about you, beginning with your reason for coming to Quaint. Now, start talking!”
Her tirade had attracted onlookers, all of whom now turned with unveiled suspicion to Emancipor to await his answer.
Sweat beaded Emancipor’s wrinkled brow. It should have been Bauchelain answering these damned questions. Or, even more amusing, Korbal Broach-with those flat, beady eyes, that flabby, placid smile. Inspiration struck the manservant, and he swung a glazy look on the fierce woman. “Who are you? My head hurts. Where are we?”
Her scowl deepened. “I was the one asking the questions.”
“What has happened?” Emancipor asked. “I woke up outside the gate. I think. I was… I was working. Yes, I was working, with a crew, clearing a drainage ditch. There was this big rock, they wanted it moved-I was straining. Then-pain! In my head! By the Lady, I don’t even know who I am!”
A gasp from the crowd. Then, “He is a Saint!”
The woman asked, “Have you been proclaimed by a Well Knight?”
“Uh, I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Maybe. What day is this?”
Someone in the crowd answered, “Saint Ebar’s Day, oh chosen one!”
“Seven months!” Emancipor exclaimed. Then cursed himself. That was too long. What was he thinking?
“Seven months?” The Well Knight stepped closer. “Seven months?”
“I–I think so,” Emancipor stammered. “What year is this?” Idiot! He was making it worse!
“The Second Year of the Rule of Macrotus.”
“Macrotus!” the manservant exclaimed. Blathering fool, stop this! Now! Another inspiration. Emancipor rolled his eyes up, groaned, and collapsed onto the cobbles. Shouts from the crowd, figures moving close.
Conversations.
“Is he the one, then?”
“The very first Saint of Glorious Labour? He said seven years, didn’t he? I’m sure he did. Seven!”
The Well Knight growled then, and said, “The myth of the First Saint-I mean, we have looked and looked and never found him, or her. Besides, this man’s a foreigner. The First Saint cannot be a foreigner.”
“But, Blessed Knight of Wellness,” someone persisted, “all that he said fits! The First Saint, the harbinger of all that was to come! The Royal Prophecies-”
“I know the Royal Prophecies, citizen!” the woman snapped. “Careful, lest I conclude you are arguing loudly in a public place!”
A voice from further out, stentorian. “What is happening here?”
The woman replied with some relief. “Ah, Invett Loath. If you would be so kind, please assist in the adjudication of this situation.”
The man’s voice came closer. “Situation? Situations are frowned upon, Storkul Purge. Even a low-ranking Well Knight such as you must know this.”
“I endeavour to promulgate conformity at every turn, Oh Purest of the Paladins.”
“And well you should, lest by your actions you prove singular or, Lady forgive us, unique. You do not deem yourself unique, do you, Storkul Purge?”