Zotikas: Episode 1: Clash of Heirs (2 page)

 The lock offered no challenge and
opened within seconds. He shoved a small rock in the door so that it would not
re-latch.

Passing through that door was like stepping
from hell directly into heaven. He stood in the rain at the edge of the immense
garden on the Cortatti estate; everything was perfectly manicured, as if the
greenery were built to precise specifications rather than allowed to grow.

Luzhril lanterns in ornate fixtures lined
cobbled paths that wound through lush grass, sculpted topiary, and perfectly
symmetrical trees of equal height. From his current position all he could see
of
the main residence was a hazy glow through the drizzly rain. The garden was
enormous.

The budget needed to maintain such
opulence—the garden alone—would feed many of the hundreds of thousands of
outcasts living under the Plate. Kieler admittedly would prefer wealth to
poverty, but he knew that the Cortattis had gained and maintained their riches
through the blood of others. Much of their income came from the production and
sale of weapons, and they promoted those weapons through the Arena, their “entertainment”
facility. Bloodsport.

Kieler couldn’t understand how such a thing
was tolerated. Human life sacrificed for the sick pleasure of others.

He kept off the path and ran through the
trees toward where he knew the Cortatti stronghold would be. After a quarter
mile jog the keep seemed to coalesce in the haze, first as a vague shadow, and
then—despite his preparation—as a ziggurat that both awed and daunted him in
its sheer immensity. The main keep stood thirty stories high and glistened in
luzhril-lit splendor; fountains, terraces, and unfortunately, guards. They
patrolled the terraces that surrounded the smooth stone edifice. Despite the
carefully scripted beauty of the grounds, the monstrous residence had no large
windows to view them, as if windows were a weakness to be kept to a minimum.

At the points of the hexagonal keep, six
bastions rose to three-quarters of the keep’s height. And atop each bastion,
more guards.

The object of his mission lay in the
library at the base of one of those towers. Movus had provided the intel on
this secret approach. Without it,  Kieler believed entrance to the keep
would have been impossible. What connections Movus had before he was exiled,
and what he had done to necessitate that exile, he had never shared with Kieler.

He spied what he was looking for: a line of
shrubbery, again perfectly trimmed, leading from near the treeline to a statue
nearer the citadel. He worked his way through the trees to where the shrubs
came closest. The rain blurred every image, and despite the bright lights, he
felt sure he was not seen as he scuttled out of the trees and dove behind the
bushes.

It was then a long, hard low-crawl to stay
beneath the short bushes and out of the line of sight of the tower guards. A
hundred yards found him at the edge of a paved circle around the statue near
the headquarters of Cortatti power.

Indeed, the keep itself was not his
immediate destination; it was the statue. From the cover of the bushes, Kieler
dodged over to the pedestal. He glanced up at the marble sculpture. Of all the
gaudy, vainglorious monuments, this one was of a Cortatti in military uniform
with a maggun, the magnetic rifle for which they were famous, held up like an
object of worship.

Diminished in comparison to the keep, the
statue was still thrice life size. The large pedestal bore a dull metal
engraving:

FOR THOSE DEFENDING

LOVED ONES BY THE

USE OF THESE
WEAPONS

As Kieler pulled out a simple iron
magnet—not its more active form magal—again he wondered,
how did Movus learn
of this?

He touched the magnet to the inscription in
sequence to the only singly occurring letters: W – A – R. And with a soft
click, the base unlatched and swung open to reveal a descending ladder.

He climbed down into a passage just under
the garden level. The deep darkness forced him to pull out a short rod with a
small shard of luzhril fastened to its end, though he was aware of how it
highlighted him. He walked toward the citadel through the narrow corridor.
Who
knows of this passage besides Movus
?
Feleanna Cortatti?
Feleanna was
now the very ambitious, defacto leader of House Cortatti, since her father was
said to be quite mad.

As he walked the tunnel, Kieler shed his
mask and outer garments, uncovering a Cortatti guard uniform. From a distance
he wouldn’t be out of place. Up close, he'd have to take his chances.

The narrow corridor led two hundred yards
straight under the garden and into a lower level of the weighty edifice above.
It ended at another ladder going up. The passage’s purpose seemed to be an
escape route, though obviously it might be used to reenter the main building in
secret as well. Its only defense was its secrecy, and that had been
compromised.

Kieler left his mask and cloak and climbed,
pulling back the latch to a trap door in the ceiling. He cautiously put his
shoulder to the hatch. It took more effort
then
he
expected to lift and peek out. He saw immediately that the floor around it was
expensive tile, probably from the quarries of eastern Coprackus. No wonder the
hatch was so heavy.

A strong pungency struck him as he climbed
into a wine cellar. He saw that the edge of the secret hatch abutted a wine
rack against the wall. Inside the rack was a well-hidden latch used to open the
trap door from above. It was cleverly and precisely made, and Kieler
appreciated such devices. He noted its location for his return trip, but on a
hunch, left the hatch open. Instinct told him this room would not be on a
patrol route.

Again he wondered who used this entrance
and how often.

His musings did not cause him to slow down,
however. There was no evidence that the guards from the powercoach gate had
alerted the main residence, but if a patrol spotted their ship in the rail yard
below, it was best that what he must do be done quickly. At least the rain and
the shadow of the freighter would make the sled very difficult to see.

The door to the wine room opened out to a
tasting area. It was cool, and the redolence of fine wines saturated his nose.
This scent, though exquisitely pleasant, somehow reminded him of the stale rank
of a pub he frequented in his information trade,
The Bottom of the Barrel.
The
alcoholic stench of that pub was an acquired tolerance.

No one was about. He exited the wine
chamber and followed the map Movus had provided and Kieler had memorized. He
moved with certainty through the exquisitely tiled lower level of the Cortatti
keep. This southwestern side was mostly residential. In fact, the map showed
Feleanna’s suites to be two and three floors directly above the wine rooms.

 The administrative and intelligence
headquarters occupied the north side of the keep. Kieler would stay well clear
of that as it was sure to be even more heavily guarded.

This lower corridor was cool with several
heavy wooden doors on either side. He passed one door on his right hung with a
sign that was strikingly out of place, considering the residential feel of this
part of the building. It read:
STAY OUT OR DIE
.

Not on Kieler’s route anyway. He continued
toward the stairway that led up to the great hall on the main floor. He spun
silently onto the stair and had gone but five steps when he simultaneously
heard and saw the feet of two guards coming down. Instantly he about-faced and
was off the stair, backtracking down the tiled hall. There were two doors
close, both locked, and then the STAY OUT door. Figuring it locked, he
nevertheless tried the lever as he passed. He was shocked to have it swing
open.

The guards were chatting, about to round
the corner from the stairs.

Be caught, stay out, or die.

He chose to risk dying.

Within, Kieler swung the door closed
quickly, slowing it an inch from the latch and then pushing it gently shut. His
quick glance around had revealed little, but no instant death came upon him.
Instead, the room was quiet, lit by a single source far across the room and
shaded by a curtain.

The voices in the hall were faint but did
not fade. The two guards had stopped somewhere outside the door. He leaned
close to the heavy door to try and hear words but could not.

Move on!
he mentally commanded, focusing on
their presence beyond.

What if they come in here?

What is in here, anyway?

Accompanying that thought came the uncanny
feeling that he was not alone. He turned his head slowly, eyes adjusting to the
dimmer light, and saw a faint silhouette against the backlit curtain.

The part of the room in which Kieler stood
was like a waiting room but with only one chair and one low cocktail table,
stacked with books. But separating the waiting area from the much larger
portion of the room were dark metal bars, spanning floor-to-ceiling, that he
hadn’t seen in the low light. The entire chamber was covered with a rich
carpet. Within the barred area was an ornate bedroom set, a full wall of bookshelves,
and a curtained private area from which the light shone.

These details he noted incidentally as he
tried to pierce the gloom and see more of the man standing not three feet
behind the bars. At first he thought the shadow might be a statue, still as it
was. But then he noticed a halo of thinning red hair and the slightest motion
of his shoulders. Hands behind his back and eyes shadowed, he silently watched
Kieler.

What kind of criminal gets this kind of
quarters?

Chilled and at a loss, Kieler didn’t know
whether to speak first or wait. He could not tackle the man, regardless of the
bars. The man could easily cry out an alert before Kieler reached him. And
besides,
a prisoner,
of sorts—he could have called out already had he
wished.

Waiting for the eerie man drove Kieler
crazy. He broke the silence with a whispered question, “What are you being held
for?”

Despite the shadowed face, Kieler knew the
man smiled slightly. He didn’t whisper but spoke quietly enough that the guards
could not hear. “I hear a voice.” His pitch was oddly high.

An answer or an observation?

Torn between wanting to get moving and not
wanting this man to sound the alarm, Kieler searched for the right thing to
say.

“Hearing voices is not a crime,” Kieler
remarked cautiously.

The man cocked his head, regarding him—or
listening. “Especially when the voice is the truth.” Another uncomfortable
pause. “But no one else seems to hear this voice.”

Having no idea what to make of that, Kieler
once again wondered what to do. He could still hear talking in the hall
outside. It seemed—had this been a normal conversation—that the man should be
asking Kieler a few questions like, “Why are you hiding from the guards in the
middle of the night?” or “What are you doing here?”

But something wasn’t normal about this
person.

Finally, the man did ask a question—a
question as unexpected as his behavior.

“Do you want to hear what the voice says
about you?”

There was silence. Complete silence. The
guards had moved on. Kieler was ready to run. Yet now his curiosity was piqued.
And the question remained; would this man give him away?

Kieler didn’t have time for distractions.
He peeked out the door, found it clear, and left. He hadn’t answered the man
and he hadn’t time for strange discussions. He ran down the empty hall.

Listening carefully this time, he hit the
stairs and bounded up them three at a time. At the top, a different kind of
disorientation hit him. There seemed to be nothing in front of him. A single
dim light shone behind him from the wall above the stairs, creating a small
semi-circle of light that faded into darkness before him. Above him was a
cavernous space so high it seemed to be open to the outside. For a moment he
was reminded of the main cavern beneath the Plate. That cavern, several miles
across, hosted Karst, city of exile.

Then he saw lights far away and knew this,
though enormous for a building, was not miles across. The lights marked the far
side of the Cortatti great hall, dimmed for night. The lights also pinpointed
his target: the bastion at the far east corner.

Before crossing the open space, Kieler
faded to his left and into the shadows. He looked up and back at the second
floor to watch the promenade that overlooked the great hall. Double doors and
windows, darkened, were probably Feleanna’s quarters. As he watched, a
patrolling guard passed indolently by those doors and continued farther south
along the high promenade. The guard was bored. Kieler could almost imagine the
man’s thoughts: “
Why am I here? No one would ever dare to intrude on the
Cortatti estate.”

Kieler grinned, and the thrill of what he
was doing rose in him. 

Kieler dared.

And he would dare much more at tomorrow
night’s New Year’s gala—provided he succeeded here tonight.

Once the guard was gone, Kieler forced
himself to stride confidently across the open area. Movus’ map had led Kieler
to expect big, but the magnitude of the great hall could not be gauged from a
mere blueprint. As he crossed he looked up and actually staggered with vertigo
from the emptiness above and before him. The ceiling, and he knew there had to
be one, was not visible. The great hall must have been open the full height to
the top of the ziggurat.

The lights of the far wall, like pinpoints
of stars, eventually resolved to show four rows of columns. The bases of the
immense columns were the size of buildings themselves, and they disappeared
upward toward the obscured ceiling.

He was awed.

Disgusted at his own reaction, Kieler
almost spat. This was typical of the gross opulence and pride of the ruling
houses. They must appear imposing beyond limits, untouchable, unapproachable.
As an archaic saying went, “Thus they lived, mere mortals; thus they ruled,
immortal.”

But he knew them to be men, with fears and
insecurities, hoarding wealth and holding it close so that no one could wrench
it from their clutching grasp. And the Cortattis, through violence and
deception, were one of the few houses that could actually maintain such
grandeur. Most of the rest of Avertori was in steep decline.

He smiled grimly. Here he was, about to
steal a symbol of house power from the most heavily armed, well-guarded,
ruthless house in history. And this was only the preamble. This was just
preparation for nothing short of a revolution.

Glancing up again, he kept his focus on the
lights on the nearing side of the empty gallery, acting out a courage he did
not feel. He felt exposed despite the keep's vast dimness. At least he was
moving. Poor Bags, sitting back there minding their ride, was probably pacing
the cargo hold.

Kieler reached the far wall and found the
columned entryway to their main library. He checked it clear, and dashed up to
the library doors at the base of the tower. He slipped the bolt with a tool
from inside his fake uniform jacket and passed inside.

Again the only proper descriptor was “awe.”
The library went both up and down, every wall of the hexagonal room filled with
shelves and books. Kieler had always heard people talk of House Cortatti as
mindless brutes—a stereotype Movus had warned Kieler not to believe. Most
people would be surprised that they could read. But that they maintained such a
well appointed
library—that surprised even Kieler.

In the center, hanging down from the
ceiling, was a globe lantern, mostly shuttered. But enough could be seen
through the shutters for Kieler to realize it held a cut stone of high-quality
luzhril the size of his head—a fortune in itself. The shutters were undoubtedly
magal, regulating the energy of the globe for safe use. An unbridled globe that
size would be so intense it would cause a sunburn in a very short time.

 The light escaping from the suspended
lantern allowed Kieler to make out the various artworks displayed around the
center of the athenaeum. While he was not a student of art, he was certain each
piece was phenomenally expensive. As he passed through the center to the stairs
on the far left wall, he could tell another thing too: the art was coordinated.
Each piece was carefully placed and set to match in style, size, form and
genre. They were on display not only as a show of power, but appreciation. He
wondered who had arranged the place.

None of these pieces were what he sought.
The cases of jewelry and ornate weapons, paintings and carvings—none were as
valuable to the Cortattis as the single item he was after.

He climbed a wrought-iron stair to the top
level and a recessed alcove. Another locked door barred his way, and this one
Movus had assured him he could not pick, its lock being both shaped and
magnetically coded within. But the door was simple dark glass.

Listening for a patrol and hearing nothing,
Kieler smashed a hole through the expensive glass and reached his hand in to
open the fancy and useless lock mechanism from the inside. The security design
was manifest arrogance.

Inside a small sitting room were three fine
chairs and a table on which to place their coveted treasures for admiring.
Kieler exposed the chip of luzhril on his sheathed rod. He quickly found a
small but heavy case on a shelf. The metalized glass was designed to sustain
and display four house sigils. Each piece was crafted of the finest luzhril
jewels; each unique in the colors of an ancient house. He opened the heavy,
magal-lined lid and the gems of each piece flashed to life—a dramatic and
inspiring effect. The symbols were designed to be worn on the formal attire of
a house prime as a statement of authority and authenticity. But none of these
was the Cortatti’s own signet. That they possessed these heirlooms was evidence
of treachery.

With a burst of anger, Kieler wanted to
scoop out every one of the signets, each representing an extinct house,
exterminated by Cortatti in the past. But Movus gave the orders. And he claimed
the signets were much more useful in the possession of the Cortattis as a means
to damn them; to convict them when the time was right.

But one of these symbols of house
legitimacy was needed by Kieler.

He picked up a jeweled signet in the shape
of a six-pointed star, alternating between three long and three short points.
The long points of the star were decorated with glittering green luzhril and
the short with a lovely golden amber, the stone of time. This iconic shape
symbolized history and was the preeminent mark on books and art that preserved
the rich achievements and foundational principles upon which a more visionary
Omeron had been established. This was the sigil handed down to the successors
of House Ortessi.

That the Cortattis held this jeweled emblem
was only rumored. The fire that destroyed every member of family Ortessi was
officially deemed an accidental tragedy. But every house knew who had arranged
it. And every house had looked away from pursuing justice because of the
personal cost. To do what was right would have attracted the retribution of
House Cortatti. No one wanted to add their own sigil to this growing
collection—it wasn’t worth the risk.

Kieler’s thoughts translated to his fierce
grip on the sharp-pointed clasp. He almost drew blood from his own hand before
the pain cut through his anger to his rational thought. Time to get out of
here. He had what he needed.

He took a long last look around. There were
so many artifacts of unimaginable value in the room around him. He licked his
lips. To take even one more piece—not to have but to sell—would change his
fortune forever. But Kieler had a higher calling; he wanted to bring down this
corrupt regime, not become like it. Besides, the other pieces were known to
belong to House Cortatti. Possessing one would incriminate Kieler.

This piece, this signet, was not supposed
to be here. They could accuse him of nothing without incriminating themselves.

He tucked it into the pocket of his coat
and turned to leave.

He spun out of the private collection room
and pulled up short—almost crashing into a guard. The man stood in numb
confusion, staring at the broken pane of glass. They stood frozen, mutually
shocked, trying to process implications.

While the lackadaisical guard could not
fathom that his cushy job had just turned into a nightmare, Kieler reached an
actionable decision: He smashed the guard’s face with the palm of his hand.

He had intended to knock him senseless,
forestalling any reaction by the guard. But instead the man fell backward,
losing his maggun down the metal stairs. Whether he was conscious or not, the
metal gun on two stories of metal stairs clanged and echoed as loudly and
effectively as any alarm bell.

Kieler flew down after him, barely touching
every fifth step.

He dashed from the library and hit the
grand hall—and hesitated. He didn’t want to cross that open area. But it was
the shortest and surest route back to the secret exit. He ran.

Before he was half way across he saw guards
coming from the sides to investigate the odd alarm. One was coming straight
toward him.

Kieler didn’t slow but called out to the
approaching man. “It’s Corwain! He fell down the stairs and hit his head. I’m
going for help!”

The guard, not recognizing Kieler, but also
not able to believe he could be an infiltrator in the dead center of the keep,
stopped and motioned for Kieler to stop. “Who’s Corwain?”

Kieler passed him running and called back.
“The new guy. Get a doctor!”

The man started chasing Kieler, slowly at
first. “Who are you?”

But Kieler had run out of names and
diversions. He poured on the speed. He heard the whine of a maggun being
powered up. He started veering randomly to make a harder target, opening up the
distance.