Zotikas: Episode 1: Clash of Heirs

by Storey, Rob

  What little light there was continued to dim. He could barely see the bottom layer of the Plate as he ascended through it. A vast truss-work crisscrossed between the top and bottom layer. Unexpectedly, Kieler heard a rapid flutter close to his head. He spun to look, but saw nothing. Just jitters, he thought, but quickened his pace nonetheless.

  The last few steps brought him beneath the huge trapezoidal hatch in the upper Plate; the Dragon’s Gate. A rust-roughened lever half the length of his body extended from one of the metal trusses. Using both hands, Kieler slowly heaved back on the lever, the hatch above him groaning like a wounded beast and tilting downward into the dim space between the upper and lower Plate.

  When a crack of light appeared along the seam, Kieler stopped.

  A small brown trennek, a bird common to most of Zotikas, flew up and landed on a thin piece of metal near the crack. It looked back at Kieler as if commanding, Open the door.

  Kieler was surprised. Birds were rare in the nethercity. It looked at him steadily, and Kieler got the distinct impression that it was waiting for him to say something. It reminded him of another animal—a similar look. He thought, and the memory came back to him: the brown slink.

  One time, when his father was still alive, Kieler had been exploring. Cave-ins were common; but this time he was squeezing through a narrow tunnel and dislodged a chunk of concrete. The whole mass to his right shifted, sliding sideways into him and pinning him against the left wall. He could go neither forward nor back. With a jar of light lugs on a necklace, he could look around but could not get leverage on the wall of debris to dig out. Ahead of him he’d heard a scurrying sound and looked to see a brown slink about nine inches tall, standing on its hind legs on a shelf of broken material.

  It had cocked its head, inquisitively, much like the trennek now, waiting. Slinks were scavengers and normally stayed away. But young Kieler, trapped like one of his light lugs, was very scared of this confident looking rodent.

  For over an hour, it just waited, watching, as Kieler bloodied his hands digging out packed rubble from behind him until finally, body bruised and fingers raw, he squeezed forward and toward the creature and freedom.

  As the boy-Kieler had moved toward the rodent, the slink had looked him in the eye, looked away, looked back, then dropped to all fours and slithered away.

  This bird was the same way. Many things on Zotikas, and especially under it, were ancient and mysterious. Kieler, for all his love of learning how things worked, didn’t pretend to understand everything.

  “Well, trennek,” he now spoke to the bird. “We’ll both find freedom on the other side of this door. Let’s go.” He hauled back the lever the rest of the way, and the gate pivoted downward, becoming a ramp. Counterweights rose along a truss-piece next to him, offsetting the weight of the massive gate.

  He squinted and his eyes adjusted. Then he walked up the ramp into Avertori.

  The bird fluttered around his head and up into the shadows above the Plate. As he followed it with his eyes, Kieler noted how dimly Rei penetrated these lower levels. Even so, it was much brighter than the preternatural light of the nethercity. The winter solstice and the lateness of the afternoon cast the lower city into a prolonged twilight.

  He stood in the middle of a shabby plaza in The Glums, the lowest section of Avertori built directly on the Plate. Partygoers were in full force and even this dreary plaza was already busy. That was why Kieler had chosen this place; if the Cortattis or anyone else had hired mercenaries to kill him, they’d have to sort him out of a crowd first. He grinned to himself that agents of the prime houses rarely ventured under the Plate while “criminals” like himself came up more than occasionally.

  One reason was that agents of the Coin dissuaded intrusion into the shadowy realm below, often violently. Besides, there was nothing to gain from Karst’s poverty-infested populace. But there was another reason as well. The nethercity wasn’t always as “tame” as it was now. Wild animals and other creatures had reign over the darker regions below the Plate until even a hundred years ago. Kieler knew the stories of Devolay and Tesaran, heroes of that era that had killed many strange creatures or driven them deeper into regions not inhabited by humankind. As things above continued to deteriorate, more people were exiled below and sheer need raised up men to conquer the regions closer to the Plate.

  But though the creatures had died, the rumors did not. And residents of the light were easily frightened by the dark.

  Kieler turned and pulled another rust-begrimed lever, raising the hatch and eliciting another groan. It closed with a heavy thump. Then he surveyed the surrounding buildings, looking for the creatures Feleanna may have loosed—the low-life mercenaries with no cause but a few dras.

  The Isle of Threes had little real vegetation; instead it was covered with a forest of colossal buildings. Kieler had only been in a real forest once, on the continent of Govian to the northwest. It was two years before his mother died and he still remembered the immensity of the towering trees, magnified by his six-year-old perception.

  These manmade skytowers needed no magnification. The tallest columns thrust upward through the Plate and soared over two hundred stories into the sky. From here, however, the sky was mostly occluded by the myriad skyways and elevated plazas that formed the canopy of the city. A few determined shafts of sunlight slanted across the gloom, illuminating the ubiquitous dust of Avertori’s lowest level.

  Like layers of moss and mold at the bases of trees, dreary shops and tenement houses huddled around the bases of the high rises. These scabby structures were filled with millions of residents preparing for the New Year’s celebration and a night of revelry. For those who lived this low, the celebration meant nothing more than drinking into oblivion and whatever other debauchery they could indulge in.

  As Kieler progressed higher, there would be many other varieties of entertainment, both finer and coarser.

  He moved to one side of the plaza and his eyes were drawn to a tower shooting up some distance away. This tower, its three-spired top blocked from view by a tangle of skyways and suspended terraces, supported the palace of the Executive Chair. Tonight, every family with power would be celebrating the New Year in that palace by special invitation.

  Kieler had written his own invitation.

  From the darkened alcoves of the surrounding buildings, shadows stirred to life, roused by the opening of the Dragon’s Gate. Kieler’s identity as Geren was probably known to these watchers, and his disguise should abate their desire to kill him. After quick consideration, he decided he could use their pursuit to wrap up a few loose ends. As he headed purposefully for a narrow alley, three of the shadows resolved into the forms of seedy men.

  To them, Geren was a black market business lackey, supposedly a lowly magal worker by day, but well connected. And that was Kieler’s cover, a man who chummed the water so that bigger fish could make deals and move contraband outside the official channels of Avertori’s controlled economy. He was small fry, tolerated, but always tailed because of the people he connected. There was no way of knowing whether they would follow him because he was Geren, or because they somehow suspected his real identity.

  The constricting space of the alley allowed him to exactly mark the three men following him. Two were short and the third was of medium height and far less nervous.

  Kieler cursed. Bottom feeders. He expected company but losing three tails might be a problem.

  The curving alley led to the crusty base of the nearest tower. Once an elaborately decorated entryway to a posh hotel, the heavy door was now coated with grime. Inside the formerly grand lobby were many establishments considered disreputable, even in this part of The Glums. As Kieler walked across the age-worn black and white tile floor, he glanced up into the hollow center of the tower. Stretching up into the darkness was a shaft ringed by six broken-down elevators. It was like looking up the barrel of a maggun.

  After striding directly through the center of the bank of elevators,
Kieler walked boldly into The Bottom of the Barrel, a pub with a high opinion of its lowly status. He had to walk around the smashed shell of a fallen elevator car, showcased as the centerpiece of the pub’s twisted décor. He moved directly to Ogard, the barkeep and a regular informant for all sides of the black-market trade.

  “G’day, O’!” Kieler greeted Ogard. Being loyal to everybody (and therefore no one), Ogard was neither friend nor enemy. Both knew their roles and played them well. Ogard poured a drink, and Kieler threw him a coin.

  “G’day, Geren,” Ogard returned. “You look as though you’re about a weighty errand on this day of light-hearted drunkenness.”

  “Perceptive as always, Ogard. I’m headin’ out. I gotta take a trip to Govian to see about getting a supply chain set up. We found a group of farmers willing to trade off the grid.” It was a total lie, but Kieler just wanted everyone to know he was going to be gone for a while.

  Ogard nodded, making his mental notes so he could pass it on.

  “Anyway, the goons are going to miss me.” The three tails had entered and stood by the bar rather conspicuously. “My assignment is remote and my little excursion will take some months.”

  This was news indeed to Ogard, who showed some surprise. “Look on it as a holiday.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” Kieler nodded. “I’ve never been out of Avertori before.” Though if things go as planned, I’ll still be here, Kieler thought. Just not in The Glums.

  “I’ll pass on the tale, Geren, true or no,” Ogard said with a wink.

  Kieler regarded him with a smile. Ogard was a good lot. He knew the game, managing to stay in business, stay alive and stay in the good graces of both the familial goons and the goons like Geren. Kieler decided he might actually miss him.

  Kieler leaned in confidentially. “If you can hold on to that news till tomorrow, I’d appreciate it. They don’t like my sort traveling out of sight.” He slipped Ogard a few silver ril, the more valued currency of the black market. It was considered an insult to use the paper dras, the official currency of Avertori, for a bribe.

  Ogard nodded, quickly removing the coins from sight. It was generous for such a short delay.

  As Kieler looked at Ogard, he realized how many people in his usual haunts he wouldn’t be seeing for a while, if ever.

  The awkward pause was noticed and prompted a vague though genuine smile by the barkeep, “Fare you well then!”

  Nodding, Kieler turned and made his way out of the pub in such a way as to keep the crashed elevator car in between him and his unwanted companions. By doubling back, Kieler didn’t give them the chance to talk to Ogard. They had to follow him now or lose him.

  The Bottom of the Barrel was actually on the ground floor of one of the taller towers in Avertori, reaching some hundred and fifty stories. Kieler noted the irony of this: it would have been fastest to go straight up, but the elevator car in the middle of the pub was in no condition to make the trip. Typical of lower Avertori.

  Residents who could afford to live on the upper levels saw little value in maintaining easy vertical access. As a result Kieler’s route would have to be highly circuitous.

  Now that the news had been planted that he would be gone a while, he needed to get gone. He needed to cut off his tail.

  He walked briskly to the nearest InterTram station. He had to laugh at the agents following him. They wanted to be discreet, to blend in, but all other foot traffic was exiting the station to join the festivities in the plaza. They stood out like new guys, which they were, except for the third one. On another night he might have played a little game of chasey with them, but tonight… he just had to dump them.

  He walked onto the tram and stood next to the door.

  Two of them followed him aboard and took up separate positions on the tram, looking like perfect strangers. They had even chosen spots as physically far apart as possible. More experienced agents would have realized the conspicuous situation and pretended to be friends. The odd agent didn’t board but stood a step outside the doors as nonchalantly as if this wasn’t the train he was waiting for. Kieler frowned internally.

  Just as the doors closed, Kieler jumped off the tram and let the other two embarrassed agents enjoy their ride to the next station. It wasn’t a subtle move, but Geren was not subtle.

  The train started off and Kieler allowed himself the pleasure of looking back through the windows at the men scrambling for the door. Discarding the masquerade of pretending not to notice his pursuers, Kieler turned and looked the remaining man up and down, outwardly scowling now. At first the man seemed to be pretending to ignore him, but then Kieler got the distinct impression that the man was bored and genuinely uninterested in what Kieler did.

  The man struck him as odd, though Kieler couldn’t place exactly why. His clothes were old, though of good quality and tailoring. He was shorter than Kieler, and his ears and nose were larger than normal. Though Kieler had never seen him before, the man’s jet-black hair obliquely reminded Kieler of Movus.

  Kieler stroked his fake beard and considered. This was inconvenient. He had to lose this guy before he changed his identity. Then he could pursue his goal on the higher levels of the city without unwanted company.

  Striding over to the tram going the opposite direction, Kieler pretended to be unphased. But the cards were on the table, and right now the black-haired man had the better hand. Again Kieler thought this would have been entertaining if the stakes were not desperately high. He would not get a chance like this until the next New Year. No, he thought again, the opportunity wouldn’t even be there next year.

  Kieler and Movus had painstakingly prepared the ruling houses for his arrival by implanting false credentials with key people. The rumors were peaked; the stage was set. This was his only shot.

  Chapter Five

  Velirith stood at a bay window in the top floor apartment of Vel-Taradan and looked out over Plaza Floreneva. The triangular central plaza reminded her of the Theater Tri back home in Velakun. There were many differences, but both plazas were the center of social activity in their respective cities.

  Plaza Floreneva was surrounded by three tiers of arched colonnades which provided covered walkways to the myriad of shops and cafés surrounding the plaza. Many of these were closed now, victims of the various monopolies enforced by the trade houses.

  In each corner of the triangular plaza stood a magnificent structure with layered accents of a style that was both dramatic and suggestive of indulgence beyond mere functionality. The Arena, the cathedral and the Oraflora Theater; all were built to bring people together. She noticed, not for the first time, her inward revulsion and intentional ignoring of the Arena.

  She forced her gaze east, up the Stair to the left, and sighed a small sigh as she looked upon the claw-like spires that pierced Garrist Ring and supported the Executive Chair’s overdone palace.

  That palace was her destination this evening. That her habiliments not only made a subtle statement of confidence but were practical as well, placed her in the position of being ready early, allowing her this time for reflection. She felt a strange mix of nervousness, peace and excitement in the unhurried interval before heading up the Stair to the Gala.

  As majestic as the view was, she closed her eyes and shut it out. She needed some introspection before facing the people she would face tonight and doing the things she would do.

  Concentrating, she pictured herself, dressed as she was for the New Year’s Eve Gala. Velirith had prepared for this evening’s party in a very different way than just the primp, preen, and pomp of most of the “noble” ladies. Certainly she had dressed well, wearing the silver-lined, deep blue of House Vel. In an unusual twist of creativity, she had chosen a very feminine adaptation of Vel’s traditionally male dress uniform. The long coat preserved some of the flow of a dress, emphasizing her form nicely, but pants gave her more freedom of movement. She wore her dark hair a bit short, curving around to frame her oval face.

 
I look good, she decided internally, smiling to herself. It was an unselfconscious, non-arrogant assessment. She had, she thought, a more handsome than delicate beauty. And she was happy with that.

  She focused further, imagining looking into her own reflective, silver eyes. She noted the smile that played around the edges. She took measure of what she saw; humor, judgment… mischief.

  I don’t like the judgment, she concluded, resolving that was something she could change. But I like the mischief. And she grinned a beautiful smile of straight white teeth.

  Mischief. Usually Velirith despised these parties, but she had to admit, she was more excited about tonight’s New Year’s Gala than any she had ever attended. It wasn’t the fancy clothes, or the fine food, or the “important” people. Certainly every family with any economic influence would be in attendance. But Velirith detested these shows of narcissism.

  Her excitement had begun two days earlier with a visit from Moshalli MgFellis. Moshalli was the same age as Velirith. The two had played together as young girls when Velator, Velirith’s father, had spent much more time in Avertori.

  But Moshalli’s house was not of the same class as Velirith’s. That didn’t matter to Velirith or her father, but it did matter to many. MgFellis had served the House of Ek as a proximal house for hundreds of years. When House Ek was elevated to Executive Chair, leader of the Omeron of Zotikas, the MgFellis house was, in its own way, elevated as well. Moshalli was unashamedly proud of the fact that her family lived in the tower quarters below the Executive Chair’s palace and was always well informed of the happenings in the palace and throughout Avertori.

  So two days before tonight’s party, Velirith had been writing a play. She was stuck. It seemed to lack the heart of true Theatre Velaki. The script lay spread out on the low table before the bay window overlooking Avertori’s Grand Stair. The same window before which she now stood, playing back the scene.