The Covenant Rising

by Stan Nicholls

  Kinsel Rukanis may not have been the greatest tenor in the two empires, but he was unquestionably a contender for that title. He had rivals more technically adept, and a few who could equal the range and sophistication of his voice. Arguably, none had his interpretative powers. His ability to convey the emotional force of a libretto, to make it accessible, had secured the Gath Tampoorian’s fame and fortune.

  Rukanis shunned glamour amplification, using only the power of his lungs to cast his voice to the farthest parts of the hushed theatre. He had worked his way through a familiar, much-loved repertoire. Naturally, After Dark and The Story of Your Heart had featured. His rendition of Whispering Gods was received with delight, and On Wings of Stars brought an ovation.

  Now he performed a song closely associated with him, and one of the most popular: Far Have I Journeyed in the Realm of Dreams. For this finale the theatre’s special effects enchanters were allowed a hand. Rukanis believed in using such effects sparingly. His attitude was that concerts were concerts, not image shows.

  He was into the second verse when the glamour materialised. It was a quality piece of work. An egg-shaped, doorsized loop of linked bubbles appeared in the air next to him. It filled with clouds, puffy white against flawless blue. The vista held for a while as he sang. Then cracks formed, branching out to jigsaw the scene.

  A silent explosion, and the loop shattered into a hundred thousand tiny crystal shards, like droplets of brass, lancing off in all directions, catching the light before they vanished. When the dazzle cleared, a figure was floating beside Rukanis, as though gently suspended in water.

  She was stingingly beautiful. Her golden hair formed a rippling nimbus and there was fire in her emerald eyes. The silky tendrils of her garments drifted and swayed in unseen currents.

  The glamour moved into a lithe, sensuous dance, her dainty feet skimming an invisible plane in a ballet echoing the tragic romance Rukanis expressed in song. His depiction of the lyric’s bittersweet sentiments and her exposition had the audience enraptured.

  Rukanis came to the story’s culmination, the point where its fated lovers are compelled to part. As he reached the climax and its portrayal of loss and hope, rapture and heartbreak, the glamour began to weep. Not tears, but diamonds. They flowed from her remarkable eyes as silvery liquid. Rolling down her marbled cheeks, they solidified and fell as twinkling gems, pattering onto the stage in increasing abundance. They glanced off, some bouncing into the orchestra pit, a few over the first rows of the stalls, but evaporating before they landed.

  Voice soaring, Rukanis brought the piece to an end. Tears dried, the glamour turned and blew him a kiss. Then she vaporised, her essence sinking as fine silver rain towards the stage, but never reaching it. Rukanis bowed.

  For the span of a heartbeat, there was complete silence.

  Then the audience roared. They clapped and cheered, and leapt to their feet in tribute – energetically in the stalls, with restraint in the balconies and boxes.

  Several shy little girls, daughters of the worthy, appeared from the wings with bouquets. Real bouquets, not glamours. It was more of a compliment, according to current fashion in the perverse world of culture. He took the flowers, kissed the girls’ cheeks and acknowledged the deafening adulation. Grinning, giving small bows, he clutched the masses of flowers to his ample chest.

  To an upsurge of applause, he slowly backed away from the edge of the stage. The curtains swept in and concealed him. As was well known, he didn’t do curtain calls, no matter how insistent the demands or the calibre of the audience. He puffed his cheeks and expelled a relieved breath.

  No sooner had the curtains drawn than a small mob of colleagues and backstage workers moved in to congratulate him. They slapped his back, pumped his hand, showered him with praise, and he took it with good grace.

  He passed the flowers to someone, gratefully, then thanked them all and headed for his dressing room. Somebody handed him a towel. He accepted with a smile and dabbed at his sweating brow.

  A stagehand he passed called out, “You’ve a visitor in your dressing room, sir.”

  “Any idea who it is?”

  “A man. It was the name you left at the stage door, I think. Geheim, was it?”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you.”

  Geheim. The standard name they were using at the moment. He hoped that in coming here the man had been careful he wasn’t followed. Rukanis dismissed the thought. They were experienced at this kind of thing and knew what they were doing.

  When he entered his dressing room he found someone he’d never seen before. He was young and robust looking, clean-shaven but with an unruly mop of blond hair.

  “Geheim, I presume,” Rukanis said.

  The stranger smiled. “For our purposes, yes.” They clasped hands. “That was one hell of a performance.”

  “Thank you.” Rukanis locked the door. “You were in the audience?”

  The man was still smiling. “Hardly. I heard some of it from back here.”

  “Of course.”

  Geheim glanced around. “I take it this room’s safe?”

  Rukanis fished an anti-glamour pendant from inside his shirt.

  “Good. But you shouldn’t warrant eavesdropping, should you? A man like you must be above suspicion.”

  “I’m not sure anybody’s exempt from suspicion these days.”

  “Indeed. We appreciate how risky this is for you.”

  “I’m prepared to do what I can for the cause, short of violence. Do you mind if I change?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Rukanis began riffling through a rack of clothes. “What do you need from me?”

  “Two things, if possible. First, the usual.”

  “Message carrying.”

  “Yes. We’ll need several delivered to our people in Gath Tampoor. I’ll arrange to get them to you before you leave. Is that all right?”

  “It’s not a problem. And second?”

  “The reception tomorrow night. There are going to be lots of important people there –’

  “And you want me to keep my ears open.”

  “It’s surprising what they can come out with when they think they’re among their own. But there’s something in particular we’d like you to listen for this time. Have you heard anything about some sort of Bhealfan trading expedition to the northern wastes?”

  “No.” He was pulling on a fresh shirt.

  “We’ve had whispers. But there’s something not quite right about it. Seems like it’s more an empire mission than Bhealfan, and we’d like to know why.”

  “I’ll be alert for it. Though I wish I could do something a bit more substantial.”

  “Don’t underestimate the value of intelligence gathering. The Resistance is grateful for what you do, believe me. Not least the money you give. As to anything else… Well, your pacifism’s well known and respected, but it does tend to limit the kind of operations we can involve you in.”

  “I understand.”

  “One last thing; your contact point here in Valdarr. Directly opposite the northern corner of Tranquillity Square there’s a street… well, not much more than an alley really, called Falcon’s Way. There’s a leather tannery near the far end.” He smiled again. “Ask for Geheim. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes. I don’t expect to need it.”

  “I hope you never do. But remember it’s a safe house as well as a drop point. It’s as well to cover all contingencies.”

  Rukanis nodded.

  “I have to go,” Geheim announced.

  “And I’ll take a short walk, I think. I always like some air after a performance.” He wrapped a cape around his shoulders and selected a wide-brimmed hat from his assortment.

  They left the theatre together.

  Outside the stadium the streets were busy. They stood for a moment watching the flow.

  Rukanis breathed deeply. “Aaah. It’s a nice evening. I’m for wandering down to the harbour.”

  “Take care. And
don’t forget about the safe house. You’re clear on that?”

  “Perfectly.”

  They said their goodbyes and parted.

  Rukanis rather liked this Geheim. It would be interesting to know more about him. But of course that was impossible.

  Even dressed in ordinary street clothes Rukanis would be easily recognised by some of the passers-by. He pulled down the brim of his hat and headed for the harbour.

  There were many ships anchored, and a lot of activity, despite the lateness of the hour. He strolled along the moorings, savouring the air and the solitude. After a few minutes he stopped just short of a bridge that spanned a narrow part of the inlet. Leaning on a wall, he looked out at the vessels coming and going, and the distant gleam of navigation lights.

  But he only half saw the view. His mind was on the direction his life was taking. On how he was getting in deeper with the insurgents, and how much further he might feel compelled to go with them.

  He heard a scream. Or thought he did. Could it have been his imagination? A gull, perhaps? He listened for a few seconds, shrugged and slid back into his reverie.

  Another scream, nearer and unmistakable this time.

  Rukanis looked around, trying to see its source. His eye was caught by movement on the bridge. At least one figure was running over it, coming his way. Perhaps a hundred paces behind it a number of pursuers were visible. He couldn’t make things out too clearly in the poor light. Concerned, he began walking towards the bridge.

  He got to its entrance as a woman rushed off. She was tall, raven-haired, and she carried a child under one arm, like a parcel. Another, older youngster clutched her hand. They looked terrified. Faced by him, they stopped, breathless and fearful, the children tear-stained.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  The woman stared at him, then seemed to make a decision. “Help us,” she breathed, and there was true desperation in her voice.

  He looked along the bridge. Four men were dashing across it. They were near enough for him to make out their uniforms. Two harbour watch, a militiaman and, alarmingly, a paladin. Further behind them, at the bridge’s opposite end, a bigger group followed.

  “Come on,” he said, scooping up the second child, who was too frightened to object.

  The woman seemed shocked, unable to believe she might have an ally.

  They started to run, each with a child in their arms, aiming for the warehouses and the tangle of narrow lanes adjacent to the harbour.

  Their pursuers clattered off the bridge and sped after them.

  Serrah felt strange being on dry land again.

  She was glad to see the back of the ship, and getting off it had proved easier than she feared. Looking around the harbour, she wondered what to do now. She knew no one in Bhealfa.

  Getting away from the docks quickly was her first priority. Ports were usually well guarded, and she couldn’t expect the same luck she’d had leaving Merakasa. If it was luck. She began trotting towards the mean streets.

  Turning a corner, she nearly collided with a small group of people. A big, bearded man in a cape and hat, along with a dark-haired woman, Qalochian probably, and a couple of kids.

  They were agitated, fearful even, and for a moment she thought it was because of her. In truth, she must have looked a sight after being cooped-up on board for days. But she soon saw that wasn’t the problem. Somebody was chasing them, and these people didn’t look in a fit state to run much further.

  Four men were homing in, swords drawn. Serrah recognised their uniforms.

  The Qalochian woman gazed at her and whispered, “Please.”

  The man said nothing. He didn’t look the running or fighting type. But his expression spoke volumes. The children were obviously petrified.

  Serrah moved to stand between them and their advancing hunters.

  The four men slowed at the sight of a bedraggled, wild-looking woman with her arms crossed, barring their way. They came on warily, blades lifted.

  One of the two harbour watchmen took the lead. The paladin, who would be expected to take command in a situation like this, held back a little with the others.

  “Out of the way,” the watchman demanded.

  “Since you ask so nicely,” Serrah replied, “no.”

  “Official business. Move.”

  “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but –’

  “Stand aside, bitch.”

  She drew her sword in a fast, smooth motion. Everybody tensed. There was an intake of breath from the man with the hat. The younger of the two children, the boy, whimpered quietly.

  “Stick your nose in what don’t concern you,” the watchman advised menacingly, “and it’s the last thing you’ll do.” He edged forward and shouted to the others, “Come on, she’s only a fucking woman.”

  Serrah instantly lunged and struck out at him. Her blade travelled in a sweep up his face, slicing through flesh. The man screamed, dropped his sword and pressed his hands to the gushing wound. His bloody nose bounced wetly across the cobbles.

  “Try sticking that,” she told him. She looked demonic.

  Shocked gasps and muffled screams came from the couple and their children. The other three armed men were equally stunned, but they held.

  “Move him!” the paladin ordered, taking over. The second watchman pulled his wailing comrade aside. “And watch them!” the paladin snapped. The militiaman did his best to stand guard over the family while not actually challenging Serrah.

  His path cleared, the paladin came at her. Their swords met with an echoing clash. Serrah relished the sound. Her pent-up fury needed sating.

  He was good. The combination of passes he sent her way was faultless. But his classical style, while impressive, was also a potential weakness. Those trained traditionally, as the likes of paladins tended to be, found it hard coping with unpredictability. Serrah had traditional training too, but her work with the CIS unit meant she also had street-fighting skills. It was the difference between fighting to win and fighting to win at all costs.

  The paladin directed a low stroke at her legs, hoping to bring her down. Serrah rapped that aside and the pass she returned had him pitching backwards to avoid a gutting. She followed on, hammering at his blade frenziedly. He managed to hold her at bay, but only just, his smug expression vanishing.

  In a matter of seconds Serrah had turned her opponent from attack to defence. Her next move was to finish him, and quickly. But a new element foiled her. Seeing the paladin stumble, the militiaman decided to join in. Now she had two foes to contend with.

  His first couple of swipes showed that the militiaman had energy but little expertise. She parried them easily. For a moment she swapped blows with both men alternately and held them off. But deadlock didn’t suit her. With a series of wide sweeps and deep jabs she drove back the paladin. Then she spun to the other man and mercilessly hacked at him, to the extent that when she feigned an opening he took it recklessly. She knocked his blade clear, breaking his guard.

  The gap was all she needed. Her sword sank into his chest. He staggered and fell.

  As Serrah pulled away she glimpsed the family, huddled at the wall, horrified expressions on their faces.

  The paladin was onto her again. After what he’d just seen he was fuelled by desperation. His strategy was simply to batter her into submission, and the way he dealt out steel verged on the careless. Serrah liked that. An unruly enemy was a gift. She soaked up everything he threw at her, letting him tire. When fatigue set in, she went for him.

  While she pounded, Serrah was aware of the two watchmen. They were a dozen paces off, the wounded man sitting on the ground, hands to his streaming face. His partner knelt beside him. But he was staring at Serrah, and she thought he was about to move.

  A crack from her blade prised ajar the paladin’s guard, and she would have finished him, but the second watchman chose that moment to spring at her. He came with his sword slashing in great arcs. She ducked a pass from her main oppon
ent and turned to face this new one. Expertly she blocked the side of his speeding blade with the edge of her own. It ruined his rhythm and rocked his balance.

  Another cross to the paladin kept him clear. With her full attention on the watchman she engaged again, targeting his sword arm. Two swipes skimmed his flesh. The third connected, ploughing the length of his forearm, spraying blood. He yelled in agony and his fist spasmed open, releasing his weapon. She thrust hard and pierced his heart. The watchman sagged and dropped. His injured comrade, one hand to his face, quickly crawled to him.

  Serrah powered back into the fight with the paladin. If anything, he fought with more intensity, forcing her to retreat a step or two. She barred his onslaught and reversed the trend. They fenced back and forth along the lane, some of his traditional skills resurfacing. Their blows and counterblows fell like metal hail.

  At last she drew him out with a fake offering of unprotected flesh. He gulped the bait, moved in, ready to eviscerate this mad, troublesome female.

  She swerved, hammered his blade out of play and ribboned his chest. He shrieked, slashed wildly in her direction, and took the full impact of her follow-up. Her sword burrowed between ribs and ruptured a lung.

  Spitting crimson to match his tunic, the paladin went to his knees, then pitched forward. He lay still, bar the twitching.

  Serrah took a long breath. She looked to the watchman who’d lost his nose. He crouched next to the partner she’d killed. The man was frozen, transfixed by the sight of her. She walked over to him, gently swinging her sword. He cowered.

  “No!”

  It was the big man, his hat comically askew. She stayed her hand, stared at him.

  “There’s no need,” he explained, talking rapidly. “He can’t do us any harm. Leave him. Please.”

  The dark-haired woman was nodding agreement and mouthing some kind of plea to back him up.

  But it was the faces of the children that decided Serrah.