The Covenant Rising

9

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 move 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.

The impact sent a stab of agony through her own forehead, but she was less hurt than him. He cried out and stumbled backwards, letting go of the sword. She hung on to the weapon as it came free of its scabbard. Using the heavy handguard like a knuckle-duster, she cracked him several times across the head. He went down, insensible.

She was breathing hard and shaking. Bending to his unconscious form, her instinct was to finish him. She put the blade to his throat, then hesitated. That small quiet voice had its say again. Whatever else she might be, Serrah wasn’t a murderer. Not in cold blood. It hadn’t come to that yet. She lowered the sword.

The groaning militiaman carried a dagger, and she took that, too. She stole his scabbard and belt, and clipped it around her waist, tightening it considerably to make up for their difference in girth. After vacillating for a tenth of a minute, she slashed the strings of his purse. As she stuffed it into her pocket she thought how eroded her ethics had become in so short a time. That struck her as funny somehow and she felt like laughing. But she couldn’t be sure she’d ever stop. So she took deep, slow breaths to steady herself, and the urge passed.

As she pulled away, she trod on something. It was the glamour he’d dropped, face down in the dirt. She knelt and picked it up. Turning it over, she saw what she expected.

The image seemed to float just above the mirror-like surface, three-dimensional, crystal clear. It was Serrah, head and shoulders. Her left profile was displayed. That gradually melted into full face. Then her right profile, and back again to left. It was more than a likeness; it was a miniature version of herself, turning slowly to show every feature to best advantage.

Across the bottom of her facsimile, fiery letters spelt out

Fugitive

, followed by the lies

Murder

and

Treason

.

She remembered the image-taking. It had occurred during her induction into the Council for Internal Security. New recruits had to present themselves to the Council’s sorcerer clerks, who cast the spell that captured their images for the records division. The session was brisk, business-like, and the clerks shared an officious, unsmiling demeanour. None of the recruits minded that; being accepted into the elite had intoxicated them. She was amazed to recall that it had happened just a couple of years ago. It felt like an age.

Serrah was transfixed by her likeness. She could have been looking at a stranger. Someone robust, spirited, with the prospect of a bright future. An insider, reaping the benefits of the empire’s largess. A woman unaware of the coming storm.

Murder. Treason.

The full significance of the glamour hit her. How likely was it that she’d chanced on the only militiaman who happened to be carrying her image? It must have been issued to all the law keepers, which meant hundreds,

thousands

of them in circulation, confirming her status on the wanted list. The authorities didn’t do this for every felon, not by a long shot. It was far too costly.

Treason.

She took the thing and beat it against the cobblestones. It gave off tiny, bright blue sparks. The image flickered, dulled, went out. Serrah continued pounding until cracks appeared. All at once the glamour crumbled into a sandy, reddish dust. A faint luminescence suffused it for a few seconds, then died. Serrah knew it was a futile gesture, but it made her feel a bit better.

Rising, she absently rubbed her dusty hand against her breeches, leaving cherry-coloured streaks on the cheap fabric. Juices were flowing now, her senses were sharpening. She’d lingered here too long. She had to get away.

Shockingly, a sound rang out, a rhythmic caterwauling, loud and harsh. The alley lit up behind her. Serrah spun around.

Through clenched teeth she hissed,

‘Shit.’

She’d forgotten about the militiaman’s alarum glamour, hadn’t checked for his medallion. Now he’d activated it. Or it had triggered itself, if it was that expensive a spell.

The man was still flat on his back, blood trickling from his nose and a corner of his mouth, though he was beginning to stir. No wonder, with the deafening

whoop-whoop-whoop

of the alert. And from a point high on his chest, a beam of concentrated light lanced out to punch the sky. She looked up and saw that, far above, the shaft fanned into a disc. Within it, a wolf’s head was taking shape, the universally recognised distress signal. Soon it would be visible over half the city. Then this quarter would be lousy with militia, paladins, government agents, citizens’ vigilante groups and the gods knew who else.

Serrah took flight, moving as fast as her aching limbs allowed. From alley to lane, from lane back to bustling streets. In her rush she made no distinction between reality and illusion. Flesh or apparition, she barged through regardless, and to hell with the protocol about damaging other people’s glamours. The aggrieved threw curses, shook fists, but nobody pursued her. She looked too dangerous.

After a while she slowed and regained her breath. She began to be surreptitious, using quieter byways and double-backs. But she was filled with more determination than at any time in the last two days.

A plan of sorts had formed.

Once the river had snaked its way through the city’s viscera it opened its mouth to take a bite out of the ocean. The resultant chunk formed Merakasa’s harbour, and it took Serrah a little over two hours to get there.

A spectacle of masts above the rooftops announced the port from blocks away. Some of the masts moved, gliding at a stately pace, pennants fluttering. Higher still, scores of shrieking gulls wheeled and dived.

It was dusk, but the streets still buzzed with sailors, merchant seamen, stevedores lugging sacks and barrels, passengers arriving and departing, handcarts, horses and wagons. A chain of galley slaves shuffling miserably under the lash.

On the docks themselves longshoremen loaded and unloaded all manner of cargo. In slings hanging from hoists, livestock bleated. Fowl beat their wings against the bars of their tiny cages, stacked twenty high. Fishermen gutted their catches, scenting the air with a tang that made Serrah want to retch.

She took care to avoid the customs officials, port guards and occasional paladin scattered among the crowd. Collar up, head down, she walked purposefully along the line of vessels, weighing up their pros and cons.

Hardly a berth was empty, and not all the ships were mercantile or navy. Private yachts and clippers were moored here too, their sails bearing the coats of arms of ruling families or the more powerful guilds. In a show of real wealth, the crests were glamoured. They rippled, shone, slowly changed colour. The lions rampant, the unicorns, eagles and twisting serpents pranced and writhed.

Likewise, many a ship’s figurehead was magically animated. One, a traditional comely maiden, jiggled ample breasts with impossibly red nipples. As Serrah passed, the wooden effigy gave her a salacious wink. She assumed the craft was a Diamond Isle transport. It was certainly vulgar enough.

At length she came to a three-masted merchantman, a ship of appreciable size. Big was good. It meant the vessel would likely be going somewhere far away, and should be spacious enough to hide her. And it was nearly ready to sail. The last few items of payload sat on the dock, waiting to be stowed. A group of crewmen stood by the prow engaged in conversation, their backs to her.

Serrah looked up. Several hands were in the rigging, and one was climbing to the crow’s nest, but she couldn’t see anybody on deck.

She seized her chance. Snatching a box, she lifted it to her shoulder, hiding her face from the chattering crewmen. Bent over, moving quickly, she ascended the gangway. She expected someone to shout a challenge, or the sound of pursuing footsteps. Nothing happened.

On board, she discarded the box and surveyed the scene. In front of her was a cargo hold, its deck cover shut and bolted. She made her way astern, keeping low, staying away from the rail. Amidships there was another hold, and this one was open. Creeping to the edge, she peered into the chasm. The cavernous hull was dark, and she could just make out a small mountain of filled sacks directly below. She couldn’t see or hear any movement down there. Nor could she find a rope or hauling tackle to help her descend.

So she jumped.

The long drop knocked the wind out of her, and she nearly shouted. At least the sacks weren’t full of coal or pig iron. She scurried down them and onto the floor, wincing. Her joints were still sore. Blinking in the gloom, she tried to get her bearings. The only source of light she could see, apart from overhead, was further to the stern; a doorway shape, faintly outlined. Newly acquired dagger in hand, she headed for it.

Darkness and stacks of cargo got in her way. But eventually, shins and elbows grazed, she reached the entrance. It led to a smaller hold. Smaller, yet probably large enough to build a cottage in. Such light as there was came from a half-open hatch cover, identical to the one she had dropped through. At the far end of this hold were three wooden doors. Skirting the feeble shaft of light, she went towards them.

Opening the first one took mettle. But like the second and third, the room contained only clutter. She thought for a moment. Then, reluctantly because she didn’t like the idea of there being only one way out, or the confinement, she slipped into the right-hand room. She left the door ajar so she had weak light to see by.

The chamber was about cabin-sized, but most of it was crammed with chests and bales. She began rearranging them, stopping frequently to listen for anyone approaching. Soon she had a space excavated near the back of the room, just big enough for her to fit into, and a chest ready to plug the entry once she was in. She thought the hiding place would look solid enough to a cursory glance. A proper search was another thing.

A loud crash startled her. The frail light was cut off. They were securing the hatch. She could hear covers along the length of the ship being slammed with an echoing finality.

Serrah groped through the dark and crawled into the cavity. She pulled the trunk into the gap behind her, but left a tiny crack for a spy hole. Not that she could see anything. Settling as best she could on rough hessian sacks, she made sure her sword and knife were close to hand.

The darkness seemed to sharpen her hearing. She was aware of the hull creaking, and the scratching of rats. More distant sounds, of orders shouted and running feet, drifted to her. She fell to turning events over in her mind.

A nagging thought was that her old masters, the CIS, should have been watching the ports. Serrah couldn’t believe they weren’t, it was such a basic precaution. Yet somehow she’d got through unchallenged. She hoped it was plain dumb luck and not some elaborate trick. That was a path to paranoia and she forced herself to ponder other concerns, like where she might be going, and what she could do about food and drink.

She felt the ship weigh anchor, then the bumps as it scraped against the harbour wall. Free of restraint, the vessel bobbed gently from side to side. Small pieces of unsecured cargo slid back and forth on the hold’s floor. In due course the motion calmed and they were properly underway.

As best she could judge, something like an hour had gone by when she heard a new set of noises. She sat up, alert, grasping her blades. Through her peep hole she saw the glow of a subdued light and a pair of crewmen appeared, one carrying a hooded lantern.

Were they searching for her? Would they notice the storeroom’s open door? If the answer was yes, she determined to make a fight of it. Her grip on the blades tightened, though her palms grew sweaty. She remembered her misgivings at entering a place with only one exit, and started to regret the decision.

But the sailors weren’t searching. They didn’t spot the open door, and they made little effort to be quiet. One sat on a crate, the other rolled a barrel over and perched opposite him. They took out cob pipes and stuffed them with rough tobacco. She realised they were off watch, or simply skiving, and allowed herself to relax a fraction.

They passed a hip flask back and forth as they smoked and talked. She strained to hear their conversation, but caught only snatches.

‘…thank the gods it’s east we’re going and not north,’ one of them said.

His companion replied, but she didn’t catch the meaning.

‘Not according to my brother,’ the first man went on. ‘…some kind of… sweeps aside everything in his way.’

Again, she couldn’t quite hear the other man’s response, but its tone was sceptical.

‘…many in the barbarous regions, granted,’ stated the one she could hear more clearly, ‘but none…’ Frustratingly, he must have turned his head. Serrah pressed her ear to the crack. ‘…different, you mark me.’

She couldn’t get the sense of it. Then she heard a stray word.

‘…Zerreiss…’ It was a name she’d heard before, but where or when escaped her.

At least she knew they were travelling east, which was something. The rest of it was too disjointed to mean much, but she carried on listening.

She heard that name again, more than once, as their exchange droned on.

Zerreiss. Where

had

she come across it?

Serrah was trying to remember when exhaustion took her. She fell into a pit of sleep as dark and silent as a tomb.