The Covenant Rising

13

Jecellam, the capital of Rintarah, sprawled in the middle of a fertile plain and was backed by distant snow-capped mountains. Three rivers served the city, one running through, the others looping it. Ranches and farms of enormous acreage surrounded and supplied the metropolis.

The ethos of the eastern empire was collectivist, or at least outwardly so, and nowhere was Rintarah’s doctrine more apparent than in Jecellam. Its streets were clean and orderly, with buildings arranged in neat rows. As far as possible, lives were regulated and necessary tasks centrally organised. The city was policed with vigilance, and according to the state was practically free of crime.

Despite Rintarah’s egalitarian order, disparities existed, not least in the distribution of magic. The grandest, most expensive products of sorcery were invariably to be found where the affluent lived. And there were such people, whether the system recognised it or not.

The city was predicated on there being a place for everything and everything being in its place. There were residential quarters, and different areas where things were made, youngsters educated, the sick tended.

Officially sanctioned houses of pleasure existed too, well away from the homes of the elite. They clustered in the oldest part of the city, where cleanliness and conformity were less rigidly enforced, and where the unacknowledged poor congregated. Places which respectable citizens, fearing to walk, would visit in carriages with shaded windows.

A particularly notorious street ran adjacent to the docks. The bordellos lining it were said to cater for every taste. Consequently it was one of the few places where the highest and the lowest mingled.

The many establishments the street had to offer ranged from the dismally sordid to the gaudily opulent. One particular building, narrow, tall and outwardly unremarkable, fell somewhere near the middle of this spectrum. Like the others it was always open for trade, as the demand for its services was by no means restricted to the hours of darkness. But around noon few women were working and there was only a trickle of clients. This was a time when the burghers who covertly owned the business saved money by not employing minders.

A visitor to the house, once past its heavy front door, would be aware of shabbiness and neglect. Reasonably luxuriant long ago, the interior was now down at heel. Wall hangings depicting erotic scenes from antiquity and legend were faded. Woodwork was chipped and in need of varnish, rugs were threadbare. The faint odour of rot wasn’t quite hidden by incense.

Creaking stairs led to several storeys in like condition, each with half a dozen or so client chambers. On the top floor there were just two rooms, both with their doors shut.

The bigger of the two was very much the same as all the other rooms in the building; grubby and in need of decoration, though a few personal possessions gave a little character to its austerity. Its main item of furniture was a large bed.

A man and a woman occupied it. Naked, entwined.

Mumbling endearments spiced with obscenities, he thrusted feebly. He was old, near bald, with a pepper and salt beard. He had saggy, veined skin and a paunch, and perspired copiously.

The woman under him was putting on a performance, only able to pretend she was enjoying the act because she’d learnt how to disassociate, to put her mind somewhere else.

She had light olive skin and jet black hair. She was strong-featured, handsome and smooth-limbed. But at twenty-eight summers Tanalvah Lahn was growing long in the tooth for her profession.

His exertions seemed to last forever, breath laboured, bony fingers digging painfully into her shoulders. She caught a whiff of his body odour – unwashed flesh and old sweat – and turned her head to one side, keeping a fixed smile.

At last he climaxed and she matched his cries and moans with fake responses. Relief was her strongest emotion, mixed with a revulsion she tried hard not to show.

He rolled off her, panting, red-faced. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a seizure. That was always bad for business. He lay wheezing, a trickle of drool snaking from the corner of his mouth.

‘You were wonderful,’ she lied huskily.

He returned a similarly barren compliment, his interest in her already fading.

She got up, glad to move away from him. On a wobbly cabinet beside the bed stood an earthen basin filled with cold water. She dipped a cloth in it and washed herself. The client rose too and started to dress. She dried off and reached for her own clothes, wriggling into them hurriedly, anxious to be rid of him.

As he put on his garments their finery began to reveal his status; the distinctive livery of a senior bureaucrat. He had a fancy title which, like his name, she’d instantly forgotten.

‘So, how long have you been doing this?’ he said, negotiating buttons.

It was surprising how often they came out with that question. She suspected his curiosity was feigned, like that of all the others, and he probably only spoke to fill an otherwise awkward silence.

‘The governors marked me out at birth. I began work at first blood.’

He winced at her explicitness. Like most men, she reckoned, he didn’t want to think about the workings of a woman’s body, just make use of it. He covered his embarrassment with flattery. ‘Ah, that explains your expertise, my dear.’

She could have told him she never had a choice about the path she trod. Or how sick of it she was. Instead she flashed him a practised, non-committal smile.

A muffled thump and rumble came from the next room. It sounded like Mahba had a lively customer.

‘Have you never wanted to do anything else?’ Tanalvah’s client asked.

It was another standard question. Doubtless to be followed by the time-worn

Let me take you away from all this

that would be forgotten as soon as he’d gone. He was irritating her. She just wanted him to leave. ‘Look,’ she said, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of her voice, ‘it’s been good, but time’s -’

A shrill scream rang out next door. There were more thuds, and the sound of something breaking.

‘Mahba!’ Tanalvah exclaimed.

She slipped her hand under a cushion for the thin-bladed knife she kept there. Then she rushed out, leaving her alarmed client hopping with one foot in his breeches.

On the landing she rapped on the door of the next room. The only reply was another round of bumps.

‘Mahba!’ she called, beating the door with her palms. ‘Are you all right?

Mahba!

’ There was no answer and it had gone quiet inside. Tanalvah’s client joined her. ‘Help me!’ she pleaded. ‘Break down the door!’

The bureaucrat regarded her timidly. ‘Surely in this sort of place, with your kind of people, you have to expect -’

‘You old

fool

!’ she snapped. ‘My friend’s in there and I need your fucking help!’

‘I say, there’s no call for -’

A lock rattled, the door slowly opened a crack.

‘Mahba?’ Tanalvah whispered.

What she saw was a middle-aged man of distinguished appearance. Dressed, though dishevelled, he wore an abashed expression. He didn’t speak. Nor did he try to stop her when she reached out and pushed against the door. As it swung further inwards she saw that his white shirt was stained red.

‘What’s happened?’ she said. ‘What have you done?’

He only stared at her.

She shoved past him. He didn’t resist.

The room was in a shambles, its occupant’s few belongings scattered across the floor. A chair was overturned, a broken jug lay on the tattered carpet, a window drape hung by threads.

Tanalvah barely registered any of that. What she saw was Mahba, stretched out on the bed, for all the world like a broken doll, limbs at crazy angles, eyes open, staring. There was a cord wound tight around her neck. Her mouth was partly open, her swollen tongue protruding. Her face was tinged blue, what Tanalvah could see of it through the blood and rising bruises.

‘Mahba!’

She flew to the bed, discarding her knife. Frantically she began shaking her friend, slapping her cheeks, calling her name. She looked up at the bloodstained man and repeated, ‘What have you

done

?’

He spoke then, trying to sound in control, but he couldn’t hide the wavering tone of his voice. ‘Look… this doesn’t have to be a problem.’

‘What?’

‘She shouldn’t have struggled,’ he came back defensively. ‘It was only a bit of fun. That’s what she’s paid for, isn’t it?’

‘She’s dead. Mahba’s

dead

! What kind of…

fun

is that?’

‘We can come to an arrangement,’ he snivelled, pulling out his money pouch with a trembling hand.

‘Arrangement? You killed my friend, you bastard!’ Her dark eyes flashed angrily.

His whining self-justification suddenly evaporated. Genuine wrath took hold of his features. It crossed her mind that he might be ramped; she knew some used it for heightening sexual pleasure. He came nearer, still nervous but his gaze intense.

‘Listen, slut,’ he snarled, ‘I’ve got contacts. I can make things really difficult for you. I’m talking about big trouble.’

‘You’re the one in trouble,’ she promised.

‘And you think the authorities would take the word of a Qalochian whore over that of a man of stature?’

‘I have a witness.’

Tanalvah’s ageing client, hovering at the door and radiating ineffectiveness, looked startled.

The murderer shot him an artful glance. ‘Not unless he wants to be dragged into a public scandal.’

That made the old man’s eyes widen. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly be involved,’ he gabbled. ‘Absolutely not. I mean, I have to think of my position, my responsibilities. My

family

.’ He was backing away. ‘But I’ll summon help. Just as soon as I’m away from here. I promise.’

‘No!’ Tanalvah cried. ‘Don’t go!’

He turned and ran down the stairs, moving with remarkable speed for a man his age. There was no way he was going to risk himself for a prostitute, and certainly not for a Qalochian. She’d seen it in his face, had seen it many times before.

Mahba’s killer didn’t believe the old man was going for help any more than Tanalvah did. He smiled like a snake. ‘Now are you going to see sense?’ he said.

‘All I see is my best friend dead.’

Far below, the front door slammed with a dreadful finality. She knew there were few, if any, other people in the house.

‘You stupid bitch,’ he snarled. ‘Do you really think I’m going to let myself be ruined over a harlot’s worthless life?’

He moved towards her, fury in his eyes. She remembered the knife, lying on the bed. He followed her gaze.

Lunging for it simultaneously, they collided. A struggle ensued as they fought for the blade. Then he backhanded her hard across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor. He had the knife, and came at her with it shouting, his words garbled by rage.

With no time to get to her feet, Tanalvah kicked out at him. More by chance than design she connected solidly with his shin. He lost his balance, almost landing on her. The tussle for the knife resumed, Tanalvah’s hands around his wrist, straining to check it. He was more powerful. The blade made steady progress towards her face.

From the corner of her eye Tanalvah saw Mahba’s arm hanging limply over the side of the bed. Terror at the thought of suffering her friend’s fate gave her the strength of desperation. She fortified her grip and stayed the knife, but couldn’t force it back.

Lowering her head, she sank her teeth into the back of his hand and bit deeply. He yelped and dropped the weapon. Tanalvah grabbed it.

‘Stay back!’ she yelled, scrambling away from him, pointing the knife.

He either didn’t see or didn’t care about the blade, and flung himself at her.

She felt the impact, and the knife slipping into his flesh.

An outrush of breath emptied his lungs. He made a sound like a sigh. The expression on his face seemed one of amazement rather than pain. As she watched, his eyes glazed.

She was on her knees, supporting his slumped body. Horrified, she pushed him off. He fell weightily. The hilt of the knife stuck out from his chest, a widening patch of crimson where she supposed his heart to be. There was no question that he was dead.

The crossing of that insubstantial line between life and death had happened so quickly she couldn’t take it in. Tanalvah wanted to scream, to vomit, to run headlong from this place and hide. For a moment she hung on the edge of hysteria, then gradually fought down the urge for blind flight.

She got to her feet, shakily, and realised she had blood on her dress.

What she was supposed to do was summon the authorities, throw herself on their mercy. She almost smiled. If anybody was going to get the blame for this, she knew, it was her. But she couldn’t think of another way.

She looked at the violated, lifeless body of her friend. Then her eye was caught by a particular object in the debris on the floor. The sight of it sent icy fingers caressing her spine.

Stooping, she picked it up. It was an expensive glamour, resembling a thin, red leather-bound book. Mahba had charmed one of her moneyed clients into buying it for her, and it was probably her most precious possession.

Tanalvah opened it, revealing a shiny black inner surface and activating the spell. Tiny glittering specks began to swirl in the core of its darkness. They quickly multiplied and coalesced, forming a vivid three-dimensional portrait, recently cast. The likenesses of two smiling children – a boy of five with tousled ginger hair and freckled cheeks, and a girl of eight sporting long flaxen locks and a slightly serious expression.

What was there for them now? Tanalvah wondered. A state orphanage? Adoption by favoured officials who couldn’t have children of their own?

More likely training for farm labour or domestic service. She looked closely at the girl. Or a life like hers, in a brothel.

She had to do something, however slim the chances.

Gently, she laid the glamour on Mahba’s chest and folded her already cool hands over it. She lightly kissed her brow. Blinking back tears, she lifted one side of the embroidered bed sheet and covered her body.

There were clothes-hooks on the wall, holding a jacket and a cloak. She searched them and found a key, which she pocketed. Tanalvah took a last look at her friend, and no more than a fleeting glance at her murderer’s corpse as she stepped over it. She closed the door quietly behind her.

Back in her own room she splashed cold water on her face, then swiftly changed into fresh clothes. She collected a few of her meagre belongings and stuffed them into a cloth shoulder bag. Lifting a floorboard, she found the purse containing what little money she’d been able to save. She put on a cape, then wound a cotton scarf around her neck so that her lower face was veiled. It was absurdly inadequate in terms of a disguise, but all she could think of.

She left her room and crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaking boards, frightened someone else was there and about to discover her.

Normally, opening the front door would be a time consuming task with its numerous bolts and chains. But they were all undone, presumably from when her client had fled. The old dolt had been of some use after all. She inhaled deeply a couple of times and stepped outside.

On the street she felt more nervous than she’d ever been in her life. Every passer-by was a potential accuser, every look she drew, an indictment.

She expected the People’s Militia to appear and arrest her at any minute. Eyes downcast, she tried to look like an ordinary person going about her business.

She hoped the bodies wouldn’t be found until the busy evening period. That might give her just enough time.

Walking seemed the best option. She could have taken one of the public horse-drawn wagons, or spent out on a private hire carriage, even if that ran the risk of her right to do so being challenged. But either would make her feel too restricted, too trapped.

It was an anxious journey, full of dark fancies and false scares. But finally she arrived in a residential quarter and found herself facing the housing block where Mahba had a unit. She knew the inside of the two-storey wooden structure wasn’t that different to the rooms in the brothel. Except for what went on in them, of course.

Mahba had been allocated housing outside her workplace partly because she had children, mostly because at least one of them had been fathered by somebody of influence. She had been good at twisting clients around her little finger. Tanalvah had no such connections and lived in the bordello.

She got out the key and entered the building, hoping she looked as though she had every right. Fortunately, Mahba’s apartment was on the ground floor. It consisted of just two rooms, one given over to sleeping, the other used for everything else. They were austere, but spotless and tidy. Tanalvah felt like an intruder.

Going to the single window, she pulled back the shutters, then dragged over a chair and sat down to watch the street.

The hour that followed seemed endless.

Eventually a large wagon appeared, drawn by a team of four horses. It contained benches lined with chattering children, back from kindergarten. The wagon stopped on the opposite side of the road and two tiny figures got off, holding hands.

She dashed to the door and out to the street.

They saw her and ran her way, surprised and delighted. ‘Auntie Tanalvah!’ they chorused, rushing into her arms. She embraced them, fighting back the tears.

Then came the words she dreaded. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘Teg, Lirrin,’ she said, ‘I’ve something to tell you. About Mummy.’