The Covenant Rising

by Stan Nicholls

  “Who are they?” Kutch asked.

  “They’re an ancient martial order,” Karr told him, “founded on patriotism. Their ranks boast some of the finest swordsmen in the land, and they’ve helped keep alive a tradition of valour that was once universally respected. They’ve often appeared in times when this country’s independence was threatened.”

  “And proved inept, if Bhealfa’s present state’s anything to go by,” Caldason remarked.

  “Perhaps they would have achieved more if they’d had greater support from the rest of us,” Karr replied pointedly. “At least they’re doing something.”

  “If you think a bunch of idealists with outmoded notions of chivalry have much to contribute to your cause, I suppose they are.”

  “Dissent isn’t as black and white as you think. The few politicians of my persuasion need all the allies we can get; we’re fleas on the backs of oxen.”

  “That just about sums up the size of your task.”

  “Even an ox can be brought low by enough flea bites.”

  “In your dreams, perhaps.”

  Karr expelled a breath. “You seem less than enthusiastic about the idea of challenging those in power. Given what Qalochians have suffered, that surprises me.”

  Reeth visibly stiffened at mention of his birthright.

  “Your people have faced massacres and enforced clearances,” Karr continued, “and what’s left of your diaspora has blind prejudice heaped upon it. If any have a grievance against the regime, it’s the Qaloch.”

  Knowing how sour Caldason could be about his people’s lot, Kutch expected a prickly reaction. He was half right.

  “The condition of Qalochians is well known,” Caldason said, even-toned, “yet I see few taking up cudgels on our behalf. Why should we support you?”

  “Because it’s your fight too. And some of us have spoken out about the Qaloch’s plight. Myself included.”

  “That’s made a world of difference, hasn’t it?”

  “I understand your cynicism, but –’

  “Do you?” Caldason’s passion began to show itself. “Have you been spat on because of your race? Have your settlements been torched, your womenfolk defiled? Have you had your life valued at less than a handful of dirt on account of your ancestry?”

  “For my ancestry… no.”

  “No, you haven’t. Your safety’s in peril, granted, but unlike me you have a choice. You could give up agitation and offer the state no reason to vex you.”

  “My principles wouldn’t allow that,” Karr bristled.

  “I can respect a man who takes a stand. For me there’s no option. My blood allows me none. Because when it comes to prejudice and bigotry neither empire has anything to boast of. This land happens to be under the heel of one at the moment. In the past it was the other. The world is as it is.”

  “That’s where we disagree. I believe we could change things.”

  “Gath Tampoor, Rintarah; it makes no difference.”

  “I’m not talking about replacing one empire with the other, or trying to moderate what we have. There could be another course.”

  “Slim hope, Patrician.”

  “Perhaps. But history’s stood still for too long. Everything’s entrenched. Two-tier justice, blind to the crimes of Gath Tampoorians; Bhealfa’s youth conscripted to fight the empires’ proxy wars; distant rulers, cut off from the people; extortionate taxes –’

  “We know all this,” Caldason interrupted. “This isn’t a public meeting.”

  Karr looked mildly slighted at that. “All I’m saying is that it can’t go on.”

  “Why not? The empires are stronger than they’ve ever been. Even if it were possible to defeat one, its twin would fill the void.”

  “That’s certainly been true in the past. Now I’m not so sure. There are signs that their rivalry is beginning to erode their power.”

  Kutch was sceptical. “Are you joking?”

  “I was never more serious. Rintarah and Gath Tampoor are straining under the pressure of outdoing each other. They’re hammering at the rights of citizens and subjects both, such as they are, and milking their colonies for all they can get. As to their strength… well, a bough’s hardy until lightning strikes, and ice is thickest prior to the thaw.”

  “Claiming the empires are losing their hold’s one thing,” Caldason said, “proving it’s another.”

  “I can only cite instinct, and the evidence of daily experience. There’s a brutality in the air. Don’t you feel it?”

  “More than usual, you mean?”

  “I can’t blame you for mocking. But look around. Disorder’s growing, and at the edges things are drifting into anarchy. We could take advantage of that.”

  “You talk of striking a blow, but you haven’t told me how. Do you wonder I have doubts?”

  “No. But perhaps you’ll feel differently when you learn more.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to know each other long enough for that, Karr.”

  The patrician eyed him thoughtfully. “Maybe we will. I have a… proposal for you.” He took in Caldason’s wary expression. “If you’ll hear me out.”

  Reeth considered, then gave a small nod.

  “I need to get back to Valdarr,” Karr explained. “I’ve no protection, human or magical. If you could –’

  “No.”

  “You said you’d listen.”

  “I’ve heard enough. I’m not a wet nurse. I don’t join causes or form alliances. If you want protecting, Kutch here can sell you a shielding spell.”

  Rightly or wrongly, the boy took that as a criticism of his effort during the ambush. He was hurt by the comment and it showed in his face. The others didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m not trying to sign you up to anything,” Karr said. “All I ask is that you see me there safely. After that we go our separate ways.”

  Caldason shook his head.

  “You were going to Valdarr anyway, Reeth,” Kutch intervened.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why were you going?” Karr ventured.

  Caldason said nothing.

  Kutch , feeling reckless after his reproach, dared to answer for him. “Reeth meant to seek out Covenant. Though I’m not sure he believes it exists.”

  “Covenant?” Karr said. “It exists all right.”

  “See?” Kutch reacted gleefully. “I told you so.”

  “What business do you have with them, Caldason?” Karr wanted to know.

  The Qalochian frowned darkly. “Personal business.”

  “Of course. That’s your prerogative. But if it’s magic that concerns you, and you won’t or can’t deal with officially sanctioned practitioners, there are none better than Covenant. Though it must be said that dealing with them has its dangers.”

  “Everything to do with magic has dangers.”

  “True. It’s part of the social glue in an unjust culture. It would be more fairly distributed under the new order I’d like to see.”

  “I’d do away with it altogether.”

  Karr looked startled. “Really? And they call me a radical.” He would have pursued the issue, but Caldason’s expression bode ill for further debate. Instead he declared, “I can put you in touch with Covenant. It would take my kind of contacts. You stand little chance unaided, believe me. So why not a trade? In exchange for leading you to Covenant, you’ll accompany me to Valdarr.”

  “And me!” Kutch broke in. “I’ve got to have somewhere to go too. I can’t stay here.”

  Karr seized on this. “For the boy’s sake, Caldason, if nothing else.”

  The Qalochian looked from one to the other. At length, he said, “I’m a wanted man. That has implications for anybody travelling with me.”

  “I’m prepared to take that risk.”

  “Once we get to the city, Kutch would be on his own. I’d need an assurance he wouldn’t just be abandoned.”

  “I’ll see that he’s all right. You have my word on that.”<
br />
  “Let’s understand each other. If I get you both to Valdarr, my commitment ends and we part.”

  “So you’re saying yes?”

  Caldason sighed. “I suppose I am. But don’t take it as meaning I support your cause or whatever this plan is you’re brewing. I’m doing it for the boy.”

  Kutch beamed. “Great!”

  “Don’t get too excited, we’re not there yet.”

  “Thank you, Caldason,” Karr said.

  “Save your thanks. You might end up regretting this. As I’ve said before…’ He eyed Kutch. “…people around me tend to die.”

  “Your enemies certainly seem to.”

  That brought to the surface something Kutch had pushed from his mind. He rose to his feet. “Gods, Reeth, I forgot! Your arm!”

  Karr joined the chorus. “Yes, your wound! We’re sitting here talking and –’

  “Easy.” Caldason waved them back. “Don’t get into a panic on my account.” With no particular urgency he rolled up first the sleeve of his jerkin, then the stained shirt sleeve beneath. His arm was caked with blood. He spat into his hand and began wiping the gore away. The exposed skin was unbroken. There was no wound. “I said it was nothing.”

  Kutch gaped at the unblemished flesh. “But…’

  “Sometimes things look different in the heat of a fight,” Caldason told him.

  “I could have sworn you took a blow,” Karr said, puzzled.

  “A trick of the light maybe. It’s of no concern.” He rolled down the sleeve. The action implied a finality, a closing of the subject.

  Karr and the apprentice exchanged a look. Neither felt like arguing with him.

  “Now get yourselves ready,” Caldason said. “We’re leaving.”

  Chapter Nine

  Serrah Ardacris didn’t care.

  It didn’t worry her that her stolen boots were the wrong size and hurt her feet. Or that her clothes, snatched from washing lines, scavenged from rubbish tips, were mismatched and ill-fitting. It was only of vague interest to her that for two days she had eaten scraps, drunk rainwater and slept fitfully in doorways.

  Serrah hadn’t gone anywhere near her quarters, of course, or attempted to contact anyone she knew. She understood how the Council for Internal Security worked; what was possible, what their resources were. So she kept moving. Dirty, exhausted, mending too slowly from her beating, she hobbled as much as walked Merakasa’s packed streets.

  She was in a curious, befuddled frame of mind, her head full of fluff and dim stars. She felt discorporate, as if observing herself from afar. She was cautious of watch patrols and paladins. But perversely, part of her hoped she’d run into them and make an end of it.

  Although she was largely indifferent to her condition, two genuine fears prowled at the edge of her consciousness. One was that she would turn a corner and see Eithne. Or something purporting to be her. In fact, twice she thought she had, and each time her insides gave a giddy lurch before she realised the error. Never mind that she knew her daughter to be in her grave.

  Serrah’s other dread centred on tracker glamours. The thought of bloodhound spectres and homing revenants penetrated her daze and iced her spine. She wondered whether her former masters wanted her badly enough to justify the expense.

  As she roamed, her grasp on reason ebbed and flowed. When the tide was out she had to fight down the urge to scream aloud or pound her head against a wall. To see if anybody noticed. To verify her existence.

  In lucid moments she dwelt on the identity of her rescuers and their motive, like a dog worrying a well-chewed bone.

  She wandered out of a prosperous area and into a poor one. From citizens parading in finery to beggars with outstretched hands; from bedecked carriages to pigs rooting in the streets. A surprisingly short distance separated the credible, quality magic of wealth and the questionable, second-rate charms of penury.

  Here the underprivileged relied on costermongers hawking low-cost spells. Shoddy merchandise smuggled from foreign sweat shops where child labourers toiled in dangerous conditions without proper magical supervision.

  There were the counterfeiters’ stalls, too. When people couldn’t afford to be particular they gambled on fakes. Sometimes the imitation glamours worked. Other times they disappointed, even harmed. Occasionally they proved fatal.

  The touts and bootleggers were unlicensed traders, and the penalties for such illegality were harsh. For protection they employed lookouts. Some paid roughnecks to create a diversion should law enforcers happen by. Mostly they guarded their safety with bona fide magical defences; dazzle glamours, ear-splitter banshees, deception clusters and the like.

  Serrah could have been a wraith floating through the drab crowds and gutter stenches. But even where abnormality was common, many shrank away from the wild look of her. She was heedless. Because a notion that had been drifting like fog in her brain had crystallised and she knew what she needed.

  A weapon.

  The marvel was that she hadn’t felt the lack before. Two days since her rescuers had made her give up her sword prior to scaling the wall of the redoubt, and only now did she notice the want. The small, quiet voice of what might have been sanity urged her to rectify the deficiency.

  She looked around, really looked, and studied the current of humanity. Naturally, just about everybody carried at least one weapon. Serrah had little doubt she could take what she wanted from any of them, despite her injuries.

  Then she spotted him.

  Militiamen invariably patrolled in pairs, especially in a ghetto district. This one was just leaving his partner. Perhaps to take a short walk to a watch station, or to make his way to some off-duty pursuit. He was the taller and by far the strongest looking of the two. That was why she chose him. It was the same kind of contrariness that made people who hated heights go to the edge in high places. In her physical state she should have picked a civilian. But she was spoiling for a fight with authority.

  Old instincts took over, a legacy of her training and experience. Slipping into predatory mode, she stalked him.

  Wherever he was going, it was with purpose. He moved swiftly, elbowing through the crowd, obliging those in his path to step aside. His manner was haughty, cock of the walk, and he drew glances that mixed deference with contempt. Serrah followed at a distance, making sure there were plenty of people between them, never losing sight of his broad back.

  The militiaman entered marginally quieter streets. Serrah trailed him as he went into crooked lanes, emptier still and rubbish strewn. When he cut into a deserted alley she increased her pace and closed the gap. Her heart was hammering.

  She hailed him with, “Hold!”

  It was the first time she’d spoken out loud since escaping. The gravel-edged sound of her own voice startled her.

  He turned, hand on sword.

  Serrah stared at the blade like a starving woman spying meat.

  “Well?” he said.

  She lifted her gaze. “I want…’ Speech wavered, dried up. The blood roared in her ears. She just looked at him.

  He studied her in turn. Her dark-ringed, intense eyes, ashen complexion and greasy, matted hair. The bruises, sores and grime, underneath which he could see she had been, might still be, quite pretty. He relaxed, judging her no threat.

  “What’s your business?” he pressed.

  Serrah focused. “You’ve something I want,” she told him, coming closer.

  He wrinkled his nose at the odour her unbathed body gave off, and waved a hand to fan himself. “And you’ve something I don’t.’ Then a false understanding dawned. A leer gashed his full-bearded face, revealing teeth the colour of slush. “Unh,” he grunted knowingly. “Got a thing about uniforms, have you? Or is it the purse that draws you?” He slapped a bulge at the side of his tunic.

  “You’d take me for a whore?” she whispered, righteous anger rising.

  “I wouldn’t take you at any price!” His laughter was coarse, ugly. He dug in a pocket. “Here. Now m
ove on, trollop, and count yourself lucky.” He tossed a couple of small coins at her.

  They lay at Serrah’s feet, in the muck, unregarded. She stared at him, darkening with rage. “A whore?” she repeated, barely audible.

  “And a bloody awful one at that. Now why don’t you –’ Something about her manner aroused his suspicion. He gave her closer scrutiny. “Do I know you?”

  He might have. They could once have been comrades in arms, in what she already thought of as her old life. But she knew he didn’t mean it that way, and didn’t answer.

  Frowning, he reached into his tunic. His eyes never left her. He took out a flat, square object that fitted in his palm. It resembled a plain hand mirror.

  She recognised it instantly. Her fists bunched.

  The glamour was light-activated. Serrah knew its reflective side would be blank for a moment, then turn milky. After that, whatever information it held would be displayed.

  She could guess what that was.

  The militiaman glanced down and his expression confirmed it. His features stiffened. He fixed her coldly and made to speak.

  She kicked him in the crotch, as hard as she could.

  His face expressed surprise, shock then pain in rapid succession. He let out an agonised yelp and doubled over. The glamour slipped from his grasp.

  Striking that blow liberated Serrah’s fury. Her chaotic thoughts, her disordered feelings, the weight of her fear; all of it found a focus. She set upon him.

  Frenzied, she took swings at his jaw, connecting hard enough to sting her fists. She hurled punches at his chest and stomach, booted his shins and ankles viciously. Little of it had anything to do with what she had been taught, or learned in combat. It was an onslaught, a venting, and it was ungoverned.

  At first, her stunned victim didn’t do much more than take the battering. Then he overcame his stupefaction and the beating turned into a struggle, centring on his attempt to draw his sword. Shielding himself with a raised arm, he got the blade half out of its sheath. She seized his wrist and gripped it with a strength that belied her wasted appearance. After a moment of wrestling they were mired in a stalemate.

  Serrah broke it by delivering a solid head-butt to his brow.