The Covenant Rising

4

The city stood in a wide valley between low, black hills. A pewter river wormed through it. Towers and spires marked its heart, with villas, lodges and houses radiating from the core. Huts, shanties and lean-tos, many clinging to the slopes, formed a crusty halo. To the passing birds it demonstrated all that needed to be known about the seep of power. Not that everything flying above was a bird.

Merakasa, capital of Gath Tampoor and hub of its empire, was never entirely dark. The lights being kindled as night fell, of wax and oil, were rivalled by constant eruptions of magical energies, making for a continuous, shimmering glow. But this glow was uneven, with feeble emissions in the poor quarters, gleaming splendour around the mansions of the rich.

The streets teemed. Costers and tradesmen jostled artisans and itinerants. Merchants led mules weighed down with cloth bolts and sacks of spices. Laden carts vied with horse riders. Pavement sellers hawked fruit and bread from makeshift stalls as tattered, thieving boys eyed their wares. Wagons bobbed in the flow of humanity.

And non-humanity.

Falsities walked the streets too. Or padded, slithered or floated over them. Some were fantastical, mythic, grotesque, designed to entertain or threaten. Others were indistinguishable from the everyday, mimicking pets or trophy mistresses. Some were wholly credible, others less so, depending on their price.

Every so often a glamour vanished in silent pyrotechnics as it expired or was voided. New ones appeared with about the same frequency, disgorging from thin air in bursts of radiance. The supply was plentiful. Licensed magic vendors worked the crowds, dispensing spells and potions while their bodyguards kept watch.

The bustle washed against the walls of the palace Merakasa suckled; thick, high ramparts surrounding a city within a city, immense and rambling. By contrast to the streets, its grounds seemed deserted, and somehow the din from outside was muted.

Its innermost buildings were grand and had the magical lustre of conspicuous wealth. Outlying utilitarian structures were in a colder style. One particularly bleak example was set apart. It was squat and windowless. Its function had to do with state security and the maintenance of order, so naturally it was very large. But all it showed the world was a modest two storeys. Only someone luckless enough to be dragged inside would learn that it burrowed well below ground, through sub-levels, cellars and vaults.

Its deepest reaches contained the holding areas; a honeycomb of stone passageways, lined with featureless, barred doors. Behind one, at the far end of an especially remote corridor, was a cell much like all the rest. Its sole furnishings were a hard bed and a wooden bucket. Faint light was supplied by a paltry glamour.

A woman sat on the cot. She had been given nothing to eat or drink. Her boots, belt, anything that could do harm, had been taken from her and a drab ankle-length smock replaced her normal clothes. She had a distaste for confined spaces that bordered on dread, and that added to her anguish.

They had interrogated her incessantly. Her answers weren’t what they wanted to hear, but they hadn’t laid hands on her. She wondered how long that would last. Exhausted, confused, her anger at the way she was being treated, at the inequity of it, had abated to churning resentment.

She had been left alone for some hours now. Or so it seemed – her unvarying surroundings made it hard to judge. She thought it might be evening, but wouldn’t swear to it. Already she had grown used to the silence.

Which made her start all the more when it was broken.

Distant doors slammed. There were voices and echoing footfalls. The sounds grew nearer. Some kind of procession turned into her corridor. She heard muffled conversation and boots scuffing on stone. They stopped at her cell.

After a second’s quiet, the lock was turned, then the door creaked open. She tensed.

Someone was framed for a moment, outlined by the greater light outside; greater than the gloom of her cell, but still petty. The figure was tall, cadaverously thin, slightly hunched at the shoulders. It took a step towards her. She saw others in the passage, holding back.

Her visitor was completely bald and his features were angular, like a carrion bird’s. His china blue eyes were quick, his mouth thin lipped. It was hard to tell his age, but he was probably around sixty. He wore the discreetly affluent garb of a high-ranking servant of the state.

She recognised him instantly. Perhaps her astonishment showed on her face.

He came in and closed the door, leaving his escort outside. He was the kind of man who always had an escort.

They had never met. In her position you didn’t get to meet someone so illustrious unless you excelled or fouled up badly. But she had seen him from afar several times, as well as his likeness in paintings and the odd statue. She thought, absurdly, of standing and making a show of obeisance. Before she could move, he spoke.

‘Captain Ardacris.’ He was smiling.

She stared at him, and although it was a greeting, not a question, nodded.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, then got a hold on herself. ‘Yes,

sir

. Commissioner Laffon, Council for Internal Security, sir.’

‘Good.’ The smile remained fixed. He indicated the bed. ‘May I?’

She nodded again and shifted for him. Laffon perched.

He regarded her, then said, ‘Serrah, you need my help.’

‘I do?’

‘Wouldn’t you say so? To get this business cleared up and put behind us?’ His manner was kindly, avuncular.

‘Well… yes, of course. But what more can I do than tell the truth?’

‘Perhaps something more.’

His presence emphasised the seriousness of her situation, and she felt a little overawed. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Explain what happened. About the Principal-Elect’s son.’

‘I’ve already told the story so many times, Commissioner. Why do I -’

‘Indulge me. You can summarise.’

Serrah took a breath. ‘My unit was on to a gang of ramp dealers. We watched their hideaway for nearly a month. Last night, we went in.’ It felt a lot longer ago than just last night, she reflected, but went on, ‘Phosian acted like a hothead. He stepped out of line and they killed him for it. I might add that it wasn’t the first time he’d disobeyed orders, sir. He made a habit of it.’

Laffon considered her words, then stated, ‘No, it didn’t happen like that.’

She was dumbfounded. ‘Sir?’

‘That isn’t an approved version.’

‘

Approved?

I thought there was only one version of the truth.’

‘Not for official purposes,’ the Commissioner informed her softly.

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me how it

did

happen, sir.’ Her fury was creeping back.

‘Phosian died a hero.’

Ice fragments swirled in the pit of her stomach. All she could think to say was, ‘Is that so?’ It was meant bitingly, it sounded weak.

‘It is, Captain. Moreover, it will be said that he bravely gave his life as the result of bad leadership.’

‘With respect, sir, that isn’t how it was.’

‘The Council has appraised it otherwise.’ He maintained the sympathetic air.

‘My unit. They’ll confirm what I’ve said. Ask them.’

‘Ah, yes, a devoted band. Nothing but respect for you. I’m afraid they all said your behaviour fell below acceptable standards.’

She couldn’t believe they had, willingly. ‘This is wrong, Commissioner. Everything’s been twisted, just because of Phosian’s family connections.’

‘I know this is difficult for you. But you can make things so much easier. Simply confess to what happened and -’

‘To what

you

say happened, sir.’

‘Confess to it and I promise I’ll do my best to get you a lenient sentence.’

‘You’re asking me to

lie

. Not to mention condemning myself.’

‘I’m asking you not to give succour to the empire’s enemies.’

‘You’re

what

?’

‘Rintarah, and their fellow travellers here, the insurgents. It would only strengthen their cause if it got out that the scion of one of our ruling houses was… less than perfect.’

Serrah gave a hollow laugh. ‘That, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression, is horse shit. Phosian was a spoilt, reckless brat. Any Rintarahian spy worth their salt would already know that. It took his fancy to play at being a militiaman, and because of who he was, that meant an elite unit, despite my objections. Now I’m supposed to pay for his stupidity.’

‘You would do well to refrain from speaking that way about your betters, Captain.’

Did she detect a slip in his benevolent pose? A slight tension in that turkey neck?

‘I’ve always been loyal,’ she argued, playing what felt like her last card.

‘You will best demonstrate your loyalty by doing as I ask.’

‘Does it matter what I say? I can’t stop you putting out any version you want, so why this charade? Sir.’

He ignored the mild insubordination. ‘It’s a question of credibility. It has to come from you. If you confess to your failings publicly there will be no doubts, no void to be filled with rumours by the dissidents and troublemakers. And as far as Phosian’s family is concerned, honour will be satisfied.’

‘Then I demand an open trial. Let my peers judge me.’

‘That’s out of the question.’

‘As a citizen of Gath Tampoor I have rights.’

‘You have only as many rights as we allow you.’ Laffon’s tone was distinctly flintier. ‘When it comes to state security we don’t wash our soiled linen in public, you know that.’

‘If I agree to this… declaration, what happens to me afterwards?’

‘As I said, I’ll use my influence to ensure your punishment is light.’ He held her gaze. ‘That’s a pledge.’

Serrah couldn’t help thinking how convenient it would be for them if she simply disappeared after her confession. No possibility of her reneging. No loose ends. She looked at Laffon and for the first time in her life doubted the word of a superior. It was a frightening, heady notion. ‘And if I refuse?’

‘I can make no promises in that eventuality.’

Heads or tails I lose, she thought. ‘I don’t deserve to be treated this way, Commissioner.’

‘Nobody said the world was fair. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good.’

Whose greater good? she wondered.

He pressed her. ‘Will you do it? Confess?’

‘I… I can’t.’

Laffon sighed. A moment passed in silence. Finally, he said, ‘Consider this. Perhaps my truth

is

the truth.’

Serrah raised her bowed head. ‘I don’t understand.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Your daughter. Eithne, wasn’t it?’

‘What about her? What’s she got to do with this?’

‘I believe she was fifteen when it happened, isn’t that so?’

‘Why are you bringing this up?’ His course rattled her. She didn’t want to go there.

‘Tragic,’ he tutted, slowly shaking his head. ‘Such a waste.’

‘That has

nothing

to do -’

‘Think about it, Serrah. Your daughter. The ramp. Isn’t it possible…’

‘No.’

‘…given the circumstances of Eithne’s death, seeing the drug there, faced with the traffickers…’

‘No.’

‘…that your judgement was clouded? That, understandably, you reacted emotionally and -’

‘No!

I’m a professional! I work on facts, not emotions!’

‘Really? The way you’re behaving now hardly bears that out.’

That struck home. With an effort of will she calmed herself. ‘My daughter has nothing to do with any of this. Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve been up against ramp dealers. I hate them, yes, but that’s never affected the way I do my job. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you needing a sacrifice.’

‘You still don’t understand the extent of this thing, do you, Ardacris?’ There was no vestige of sympathy now. ‘What you allowed to happen has repercussions, and they go all the way up to the Empress herself.’

‘I’m flattered,’ Serrah replied cynically.

‘Enough,’ Laffon decided. ‘There’s no more to be said on the subject.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a folded parchment. With an irritated flick, he shook it open. ‘You can make a start at rehabilitating yourself by signing this.’ He held out the confession to her.

Everything crystallised in Serrah’s mind. She abandoned hope of justice. All that kept her alive was that scrap of paper remaining unsigned. The only choice was to be defiant.

‘Well?’ Laffon demanded.

‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re refusing?’

‘I am.’

‘Be absolutely sure about this. Because what happens next won’t be to your liking.’

She shook her head.

Laffon could see her resolve. He stood. ‘You’ll regret taking the hard road. I’ll leave you this for when you change your mind.’ He dropped the document on the bed. Next to it he tossed a small, reddish, tubular object. A graphology glamour, useless for anything but. Probably strong enough for no more than her signature.

‘I won’t be needing it,’ she told him.

He paused on the point of leaving. ‘Remember, you’ve brought this on yourself.’

Three men entered as Laffon slipped out. It happened so quickly, Serrah was taken off-guard.

They were muscular, stern-faced individuals. Each held a short length of thick rope with one end knotted. She started to get up.

Without warning, the nearest man swung his rope cosh at her. It cracked hard across her shoulder. She cried out and fell back. He moved in and lashed again, striking her just below the throat. Scrambling away from him, she kicked wildly, catching his shin. He cursed and backed off, hindering the other two.

Serrah rolled from the cot, landing heavily, and snatched the bucket. Ignoring the pain, she rose quickly, swinging it. The bucket raked the second man’s temple as he rushed in, knocking him senseless. But the first man had recovered. He landed a hefty punch to her stomach and she doubled over. The third man joined him and they rained blows on her. Serrah tried to ward them off with the pail, using it as both shield and weapon. A stinging rap across the knuckles broke her grip and sent it flying.

The man she had downed was on his feet again, adding his fury to the beating. She covered her head with her hands and retreated. But only a step or two took her to the tiny cell’s limit. She was trapped in the narrow space between bed and wall. It cramped her attackers and they had to take turns to swing at her. But that didn’t stop them delivering continuous punishment to her arms, legs and body.

Serrah half dived, half pitched sideways, onto the bed. That only made it easier for them. They set to with a will then, bent like men threshing corn, not speaking, dedicated to their work. She curled into a ball and suffered the storm.

When she was sure they would go on until they killed her, the beating stopped.

All she knew was pain. Every inch of her body was ablaze. The battering left her ears ringing and her vision blurred. She was bloodied, sweat-sheened, drifting on the rim of consciousness. Breathing hard, she flopped onto her back.

One of her tormentors loomed over her. He reached down and grasped the hem of her smock. With a violent jerk he yanked it up above her waist.

They laughed, jeered, made lecherous comments. Then they told her plainly and crudely what would happen if they had to come again. At the last, somebody threw the confession down on her.

They left, slamming the door.

Serrah coughed weakly, pain stabbing her ribs. Blood trickled from her nose and a corner of her mouth. It was agony to think, let alone move.

She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.

That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.

Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.

She woke with a start.

Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.

It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.

Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.

‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.

There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.

‘Show yourself!’

Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.

She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.

Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.

The figure turned.

Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.

The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.

‘Mother,’ she said.