Zotikas: Episode 1: Clash of Heirs (4 page)

“A market system that allows you to make even more
money, Zroom, without risking your neck smuggling,” Bags poked.

Color rose in Zroom's face, making him look a little
like the purplish truffles he sold. “Who else in this hell-hole knows anything
about systems! Sparks doesn't remember anything other than
waifing
around these tunnels trying to survive. And you, Bags are a bottom-beaten
lackey who toadied for Telander until he woke you up by rap—“

So much for patience. Bags’ huge fist swung around
like a runaway powercoach. Nevertheless, it was astonishing how fast the
bedraggled looking farmer could move when he realized he had overstepped his
provocation. There were no good-byes. Zroom ran for the door and out. With jaws
so tightly clenched he could have ground off the tops of his teeth, Bags
returned to Kieler, who was nauseous with the pain of having two stitches
ripped out by Bags' outburst.

Bags' temper cooled instantly when he saw what he had
done to his friend. “I'm sorry, Sparks,” he muttered. Instantly his eyes were
wet. “I'm sorry. That prog— My Eznea—”

In silence Bags finished the rest of the procedure and
bound up Kieler's shoulder.

Kieler looked away from the operation now, his stomach
not quite settled. He found distraction in a globe of Zotikas—their world—that
Movus had evidently found in the depths of the rubble. The ancient globe spun
perpetually but was not physically supported in its gimbals. Bemused by pain,
he became simultaneously aware of the sheer mass of wrecked city around him.
This private library, filled with ancient texts and artifacts, was itself
surrounded by rubble; above, around and beneath.
      

An arm's length in front of him, the vast lands of
Zotikas passed in and out of view. Avertori came round into sight, sitting on
the island in the center of the world; its unique position at the convergence
of three continents and three seas. To the northeast, Ardan; to the southeast,
rugged Coprackus; and to the northwest, the fertile plains of Govian.

But the place names on
this
globe were not the
same. They were from a different time, long forgotten. And this library and the
rubble around it gave testimony to the greater civilization that had once
thrived here.

“Can you imagine how huge the city of the Dead Ones
must have been?” Kieler mused.

Bags took a moment to reply. He was nearly finished
playing surgeon and his fatigue seemed to be catching up with him as his
emotional energy ebbed. “Hmm. Couldn’t have been much bigger than Avertori is
now. Our city covers the whole island and more.”

Frowning, Kieler disagreed. “I think it was bigger—not
in width, but height. Just looking at how much rubble there is, it must have
reached far into the sky. It must have been a truly great civilization.”

Bags snorted. “Still fell. We live in their trash.”

Kieler shrugged. “
Mmm
. True,
but those times had to be better than these. We’ve
got
to make this
world better…”

Bags said nothing and Kieler guessed they were both
thinking of past pain. They weren’t the only ones. Bleakness and pain seemed to
be engulfing their world. Every person under the Plate had a story of
heartbreak.

Kieler shifted his
attention to the gimbals around the globe. Battered but functional, there was
little left of the embossed inscription. In the flickering red light of the
room, he read what remained:
While we live, let us live
. Movus had
suggested it as the motto of the Coin, and the subtly rebellious message was
quickly adopted by the underworld organization.

Slumping into a thickly
padded chair, Bags closed his eyes.

Kieler rose slowly and turned from the globe to pace
slowly around the library. He strode beneath the vaulted stone ceiling toward
the center of the triangular room. All three walls were stacked top to bottom
with
artifacts of such a wide variety that he had
difficulty imagining how Movus could have collected them all in one lifetime.

In a corner was a simple
spear that bore no markings save a single inscription:
Ride fast. Fly
true.
Spears hadn’t been used in nearly a thousand years.
Where did he
get that?
On a shelf near the ancient weapon stood a cloudy frame with a
three dimensional image of an island burned into the mist. That technology was
a complete mystery, not of this era either.

Kieler stopped next to
the most prominent of all the collected artifacts: a large glowing sphere of
red luzhril on a pedestal. The sphere supplied light and some heat to the
subterranean library. It was not as bright as normal white luzhril, but it’s rare,
burgundy color probably made it even more valuable than the Cortatti’s library
globe.

Turning back to the table
they had commandeered as an operating slab, he shuffled through the two years’
worth of work that lay stacked and spread before him. Even now he resisted
reviewing the documents one more time. The red glow of the sphere and something
about the table and its one empty chair brought back a memory.

It was the memory of
himself, sitting in that same chair; he must have been about sixteen or seventeen.
He was looking up at Movus, who was doing what Kieler had just been doing,
standing and staring into the swirling opalescence of the red sphere. Kieler
had asked, “May I ask you, why did you have to leave the city above?”

Not replying immediately,
something between a smile and a grimace played on his face. “No, you may not,”
Movus replied definitively. His jet black, straight hair reflected the deep red
light, and his very light brown eyes, usually the color of sun-ripened grain
common to those of Govian descent, shone with the sphere’s light. He looked
down at Kieler. “Suffice to say I was treated horribly. I went from prophet to
pariah, shunned.”

Though he said no more,
Kieler could read deep pain in Movus' light eyes, a pain he felt keenly himself.
Never could Kieler forget the deaths of his parents, or the highborns who
caused it. The reflected orb-light danced with the intense fire of revenge. The
look frightened Kieler, though he was already a savvy young man.

Nodding, Kieler returned to the present, and realized
he’d memorized every detail of the plan on the papers in front of him. It was
the first major step of revolution; a revolution designed to end his world's
pain and bring purpose to his own suffering. Obviously it would bring some solace
to his mentor's hidden grieving as well. That the smelly, arrogant farmer Zroom
wasn't a privileged member of those making things happen—that was just as well.

Kieler turned and once again stared into the warmth
and swirling luminescence of the unique red lamp, visualizing in his mind
exactly how their plan would manifest.

The civilization of Avertori was ruled by the prime
houses, dynasties that had hoarded power for generations. Kieler and Movus had
worked out a plan to gain Kieler a strategic position amongst them, a position
to strike from.

When House Ortessi had been destroyed twenty years ago
in a “mysterious” fire, one body was never found: that of the child Orlazrus,
the youngest son. Movus had used his contacts to drop hints that the now grown
Orlazrus was planning his return.

Kieler picked up the sigil from the table and twisted
it in his hand, his fingers between the points of the star. The Ortessi Sigil
would give his claim great credibility. Only Feleanna Cortatti would know the
truth and she wouldn’t be able to say anything without incriminating her own
house.

Once rumors had spread, it had been relatively simple
to get the other houses fighting over the “privilege” of introducing Orlazrus
at court. But spreading rumors had been much simpler than his next task:
showing up to the party alive.

“So where’s Movus?” Bags asked groggily, not opening
his eyes.

“I never know,” Kieler replied. “Running the largest
spy network on the planet; it’s probably best he stays invisible.”

“Even to you? But he practically raised you.”

Kieler shrugged and walked back to the spinning globe
of Zotikas. “I never even saw much of him growing up. He showed up to guide me
and teach me: how to observe, how to fight… to dance.”

Without turning, Kieler saw Bags crack open one eye.
“To dance? Why?”

Kieler smiled. “If you’re a good spy captain, maybe
he’ll teach you someday too.”

Letting out a grunt, Bags closed his eyes again.
Within moments his breathing evened out into a light snore.

“We're doing something, Bags,” Kieler whispered
excitedly, not really wanting to wake him. “I'm actually point man for
something that will make a difference in our world.” He reached out and put a
hand on the globe to stop it, but the slippery sphere just kept spinning.

It was a pit.

The nethercity was a big, dark hole in the ground
where people had thrown the junk of an entire ruined civilization. Kieler stood
alone atop an ancient mountain of debris and looked out over Karst. From this
vantage he could see the dim outlines of the scattered dwellings below,
thousands of hovels of arranged rubble lit by the faint glow of luminescent
lichen. Very few were lucky enough to own even a splinter of luzhril. Jars of
light lugs bobbed in lines indicating the movement of people through the
ever-dark city.

Rising up from amongst the faint lights of humanity
were darker shadows of various shapes and heights. Some of these “mountains”
reached all the way to the underside of the Plate and indicated a portal
through which those above had dumped refuse until they had literally piled it
to the top.

The middle of the Karst Borough was interrupted by a
gash of even deeper darkness. The enormous chasm, unimaginatively called the
Abyss, separated the east side of the sunless city from the west. The only
connection was a half-mile section of fallen tower serving as a bridge, though
by going out of the way, one could skirt the ends of the gap.

Above, Kieler felt the oppressive weight of the Plate
sealing the city like the lid of an enormous coffin. Spiking through the Plate
at regular intervals, except for where the expanse of the Abyss dropped into
nothingness, were dozens of immense, black columns. These pillars reached from
the bedrock far below to the highest levels of the city above. It was these
timeless structures, built by a civilization long gone, that formed the
cornerstones upon which the great trade houses of the current era had fashioned
their Rei-lit metropolis.

But the people below, subsisting on the shadowy plain
beneath the Plate, were Kieler’s friends, outcasts, just like him. Rejected by
the major houses, they fled here, or if they could make it, to some remote
outland location beyond the reach of the Omeron. At least they weren’t criminals
bound for Feleanna’s arena.

This city is reversed
, he thought.
The random specks of light and life
below are like stars, and the unseen, shallow, metal Plate above like a
reflection-less sea
.

Curiously, as he looked up at the bottom of the Plate,
in one area he saw faint but definite points of light, different from the weak
aura of lichen. It was like a cluster of a half dozen stars. Odd, but not
Kieler’s concern as he mustered himself to leave the dim underworld.

Dropping his gaze from the wispy light, Kieler
wondered if he would ever see this shadow-city again, his home for most of his
life.

After the raid on the Cortatti compound, he had
napped, packed, and finally donned his disguise to climb to this point. Behind
him, away from the slope of rubbish leading down to Karst, stood a heavy stone
arch, marking the beginning of the main path out of the nethercity.

Years ago, Kieler had made this trip in reverse with
his father. In self-imposed exile, his father had led him through the Dragon’s
Gate, down the crumbling, pillared path and under the Arch of Darkness to dwell
in the city of night. Most, like his father, never saw the light of Rei again.

Kieler remembered the fear of that moment, standing in
this same spot, a child of eight, clinging to his father’s side. His fear now
was just as real, but this time it was a result of his own choice to leave.

Growing up here had been a depressing adventure.
Kieler couldn’t just sit by and watch his father work obsessively on his processes
and engines. So he explored. He knew this place. He knew more of this labyrinth
of tunnels, passages, crawlspaces, sewers, nooks, hideouts and boroughs than
almost anyone alive. This had been his perpetually gloomy playground.

More than once he had become lost deep down below
Avertori, to the point of thinking he would never find his way back.

Yet he always had. And he had made a life for himself
here. After his father was killed, Movus gave Kieler opportunity and direction
through the Coin, despite the infrequency of his actual presence. Kieler had
striven for advancement and risen quickly in the ranks.

Now he was leaving his life underground and taking on
a new life above, a life not his own, and the life, he thought wryly, of a
supposed dead man.

He was point man for a revolution. Most people, below
and above, had little hope or purpose in their lives. He had both, and it made
the prize worth the risks.

He took a last look at the faint sparks of light
below, lights that represented people he knew, and cared about. That he was
fighting for them, and the respect of Movus, made him proud.

Given it was a pit—it was still home.

Kieler turned and stepped through the Arch.

Before him lay a low-ceilinged subterranean road that
led to the Dragon’s Gate, a portal between the cities of light and dark that
opened to a public square in a rough part of Avertori. As the most well-known
entrance, those who lived in the light often threatened their small children
with it. “You keep up like that, young man, and I’ll send you down the Dragon’s
throat!”

Kieler didn’t want to use this gate. He would have
preferred to sneak through one of the most hidden access portals, but he knew
he probably wasn’t the only one to know even that entrance. And now, as Zroom
had pointed out, they had sparked the wrath of the Cortatti’s: every gate would
be watched. It would be better if he exited into a public place. At least he’d
have a chance of getting on his way and shaking off sure pursuit.

The road upward must have been grand thousands of
years ago. The fluted columns, now mere stubs, lined the pebbled path every few
steps. What esteemed property it had announced, Kieler had no idea. Everything
below whispered of something lost long past.

He passed a splintery wood counter to the right of the
path between two columns. Behind the counter, in the gloom, was a shadowy crack
where the proprietor of this strange general store lived. Al, who Kieler now
knew well, sold necessities to the exiles as they filed down this wrecked
promenade to their new home.

On that very counter, Al had
thunked
the first jar of light lugs Kieler had ever seen, frightening them into light.
They were a necessity to be sure, but they were also a rampant pest, easily
caught once you knew what you were doing. Kieler’s father had paid a premium
price for those bugs many years ago.

But now, the fact that Al wasn’t tending store at the
moment made Kieler’s journey up even lonelier. He took a deep breath and
continued climbing the desolate road toward Avertori and the light of the
fading day.

The broken columns on either side of him echoed with
greatness and disaster. Beyond the columns lurked dark niches and a shadowed
silence—deep and heavy. As the road climbed toward the surface, Kieler could
feel the Plate pressing down on him.

His confidence and resolve hardened as he strode up
the path through the rubbish-packed landscape. His first identity was Geren, a
street-wise magal loader. His face was hidden in fake, unkempt facial hair and
he wore rough work clothes. It was a persona he’d used many times in his
dealings for the Coin.

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, O
pen 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. Party-goers 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 man-made 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.