Steven Erikson - The healthy dead

“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?”

Her voice was suddenly small. “Of course not. The purity of my innate mediocrity is absolute, Purest. Of that I can assure you.”

“What is happening here? Who is this unconscious man?”

The persistent citizen was quick to answer, “The First Saint, Purest Paladin of Wellness! A man without memory, for the last seven years!”

“Then why is he unconscious?”

“He succumbed to the Well Knight’s questioning. It was… shocking. Blessed be the Lady that you have arrived!”

No retort nor refutation came from the hapless Storkul Purge, and, lying at her very feet, Emancipor felt a surge of sympathy. That quickly went away. Let her roast, he concluded. And opened his eyes-immediately noticed-then fixed them on Storkul Purge. Another groan, another apparent plunge into oblivion.

“She did it again!” the citizen said in a gasp.

“Excuse yourself, Storkul Purge,” Invett Loath commanded, “and await the Knightly Judgment at the Day Temple of Wellness.”

A muted, “Yes, Purest Paladin.”

Emancipor heard her boots scuff away.

“Awaken, First Saint,” Invett Loath said.

This was perfect. Emancipor’s eyes fluttered open. Bewildered, then resting with apparent recognition on the beat-stained, chiseled features of the armoured Knight standing over him. “I–I have never seen you before,” the manservant said, “yet I know the purity of your soul. You must be the Paladin. You must be Invett Loath.”

A gleam of pleasure lit the man’s sharp blue eyes. “You are correct, First Saint. There is a little-known prophecy that I would be the one to find you, and deliver you to our king. Are you well enough to stand?”

Emancipor struggled to his feet. Tottered momentarily and was steadied by a gauntleted hand.

“Come, First Saint of Most Glorious Labour-”

The manservant’s knees buckled, forcing the Paladin to quickly clutch at him.

“What is it, my friend?” Invett Loath asked in alarm.

Ignoring the massive crowd surrounding them, Emancipor straightened once more, then leaned close to the Paladin. “A-a vision, Oh Purest. A terrible vision!”

“This is fell indeed! What have you seen?”

Emancipor lifted his head slightly. He would have to think of something, and fast. “For the ears of you and the King and none other!”

“Not even the Grand Nun of the Lady?”

“Oh, yes. Her too.”

“Then we must be away. Here, take my arm…”

Well Knight Storkul Purge leaned against the back wall of the Day Temple, staring sightlessly as waves of dread swept through her. She was doomed. Knightly Judgments never favored the judged. She had participated in them enough times to know that as an unmitigated truth, and she well recalled the secret visceral pleasure when adding her voice to the chorus of condemnation. Crimes against Wellness were without question the most serious offences these days, and that seriousness was only getting more serious. She frowned at that thought, then shook her head, suddenly fearful that she was losing her mind.

Then again, perhaps that was for the best. Insanity like a cocoon wrapped about herself before the moment of adjudication.

Damn that Invett Loath! Every Well Knight knew that the myth of the First Saint was an invention. The foreigner was little more than a quick-witted opportunist, clever enough to make mockery of treasured superstition whilst, at the same time, stroke Loath’s ego. If anyone deserved adjudication, it was the Paladin of Purity, stomping about the city in the blinding cloud of his unsullied righteousness, a cloud thick enough to choke the fittest citizen.

Ah, did she have something there? Had not Invett Loath set himself above all others? Was he too not bound to conformity and secure mediocrity? Dare she challenge him?

“He will devour me alive,” she whispered. “Who am I fooling? He’s already sharpening the spike for me on the wall. By the Lady, I need a drink!” Her mouth shut with a click of teeth at that exclamation. Looking about, she saw, with relief, that no one was close.

Then, a small, raspy voice whispered, “Did someone mention a drink?”

Storkul Purge’s head snapped round. The voice seemed to have come right beside her, but there was no one there. “Who spoke?” she demanded.

“I’ve caught a most delicious trail.”

The Well Knight looked down, and saw a small, gaudily dressed shape lying beside her right boot.

The thing sniffed. “Do you not recognise me, Storkul Purge? Granted, these clothes ill fit me. ’Twas a dancer, a twirling, spinning celebrant-”