Zotikas: Episode 1: Clash of Heirs (7 page)

Tonight, Kieler barely glanced at it. He scanned constantly
and inconspicuously for more Omeron agents. Still dressed as Geren, full beard
and work clothes, he certainly wouldn’t match the description Feleanna would
have issued from their encounter last night. Of course, this outfit would be
out of place when he reached the financial district of Garrist Ring.

Street vendors hawked their treats for the evening’s
festivities. Buskers juggled, singers crooned, and as he neared the base of the
Grand Stair, he couldn’t help but be distracted by a troupe of unusually
talented acrobats. Dressed all in white with red sashes and black masks, they
performed elaborately coordinated tricks. As Kieler passed, one of the
performers dove from the top of a human pyramid straight at the hard tile of
the plaza. With no one there to catch the headfirst diver, Kieler, like the
other spectators, thought they had made a deadly error. But in a mere blink,
the launching pyramid dissolved into a flurry of bodies and four of its members
appeared at precisely the right spot to catch, swing and re-launch the diving
performer. He seemed to float and slowly flip before rolling across the tiles
back to a standing position and a flourish.

Wadded paper money flew in the direction of their caps
as the assembled audience exploded with appreciation.

Kieler climbed. The Grand Stair was a half-mile long
stretch of the most prestigious real estate in Zotikas. Of the shops,
restaurants, banks and cafes that lined the sides of the Stair or terraced its
center, few of these were closed. They catered to the elite, and the elite
lived in the apartments and office towers that graced the centerline of the
Stair. Already Kieler felt underdressed.

But covering his features now was more important than
dressing up. He could still be a worker on a last minute job until the top of
the Stair. He spotted a couple agents as he climbed; men dressed in sturdy but
tidy suits with bulging overcoats. They looked up from their papers too often.
Lounged by the rails too casually. All the while they scanned the stairs and
lacked the purposeful demeanor of workers going home or party-goers heading for
an alcoholic destination.

From Vel-Taradan and past the multitude of House
edifices, the route was always up. Most people, traveling to the topmost plaza,
would have taken the tram that ran up the underside of the Stair.

As he finally neared the top, Kieler found the
deepening shadow of a terraced café. Here he shed his beard, work clothes and
shambling gait to emerge in a finely tailored, grey cut of cloth trimmed in
black suitable for a Bintle financial clerk. House Bintle had, from the time of
Velik, run the banking system. Now corrupt, family members and functionaries
were quite common on the Garrist Ring.

He reached into the breast pocket and placed hexagonal
eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose. Now he was Niven Wensith, his hair short,
his walk the stiff, cocky and brisk stride of a confident, drab accountant
needing to get to the Charlaise building for some final business before the
closing at full dark.

As Rei finally retired, its fading beams settling into
the western sea, Kieler gained the promenade at Garrist Ring. Garrist was a
toroid of the highest rising financial structures. A wide walkway circled the
inner gap, allowing pedestrians an inspired view straight down to the Plate and
an equally inspiring view of the void-piercing spire that supported the
Executive Chair's Palace.

That spire stood directly before Kieler as he topped
the stairs and was taller by far than even the sky-scratching structures
surrounding it on the Ring.

In contrast to the purposely expansive Plaza Floreneva
below, Garrist was imposingly vertical. Between the spire and the inside
promenade of Garrist was a dizzying, empty gap from the greatest heights of the
city straight down to the very Plate itself. Kieler admired the engineering but
loathed the hubris.

There were two standard approaches to the palace of
the EC; first, a narrow bridge in front of the Grand Stair spanned the gap
(over which ran the FamTram), and second, access to the palace above could be
gained by coming up the center of the ancient spire from the depths below. Both
choke points were heavily guarded—not so much to prevent deviants like himself
from causing mischief, Kieler realized, but to keep the untrusted competing
houses from getting too ambitious.

Kieler, however, had devised a third way.

He turned right and angled toward the Charlaise
building a quarter way round the Ring. This alone would throw the Cortatti
grevons off his scent. To them, the only way to Kieler’s inevitable destination
was across that single span. He noticed to his great satisfaction a man leaning
against a newsstand reading, who glanced up at him, saw the bored expression of
an overworked, hope-drained financial pawn fixed inanely on Kieler’s face, and
look back down. Despite his intentionally minimal disguise, the proper
countenance conveyed the proper profession.

Out of his peripheral vision, Kieler noted at least a
half dozen men more interested in who approached the bridge than in what they
were doing that evening. He had to tightly stifle a grin. Others waited at
building corners, in arched alcoves, or at shop windows. Either Kieler was
paranoid—or egotistical—or there were a lot of Cortatti goons determined to get
him.

The sky was darkening and would soon be lit with the
fireworks that marked the beginning of the New Year’s Eve celebration.

The incognito sentinels thinned out significantly as
he left the bridge behind. Without falling out of character he relaxed
mentally. He would make the Charlaise Building, headquarters of Bank Bintle. It
was with that thought that he noticed something disturbing—some
one,
actually, leaning spiritlessly against the right side of the Charlaise
Building. His tail from the tram was ahead of him.

With forty paces to go, as used to pretending as he
was, as much as he had practiced, he slipped out of character.

His pace must have quickened and he glanced left. A
man near the edge of the ring noticed him and suddenly dropped the pretense of
waiting for the fireworks. Worse, Kieler recognized the man! It was the same
guard he’d passed in the Grand Hall of the Cortatti keep the night before.

At the same moment, Kieler’s old tail spotted him,
straightened and waited nonchalantly for him to get closer.

Kieler looked back at the man angling towards him,
pulling a maggun out from under his overcoat. The Charlaise building was still
thirty yards away. There was no doubt that before Kieler reached the building,
the men would intercept him.

On the top floor of Vel-Taradan, Velator stood waiting
for her in front of a suspended tram. Her father’s eyes widened as Velirith
approached.

Velirith smiled, wondering what he would choose to
comment on. She inclined her head, “Father.”

He paused, obviously considering his words carefully.
Velirith had always liked this about him. He thought about what he was going to
say, rarely speaking offhand.

“Your smile is gorgeous, but it doesn’t quite hide the
threat.”

She dropped her smile immediately, surprised. It was
rare for someone to surprise her, but she knew she got her intuition from
somewhere. Even though her father didn’t see through people like she could, he
knew
her
well enough.

Feigning innocence, she said, “What do you mean,
Father?”

“
Mmm
,” he shook his head
slowly, “mischief.”

He shrugged, as if dismissing the thought. Instead, he
regarded her from top to bottom and nodded approval. “You certainly have
creative genius, my daughter. You’ve managed to make our Vel formal uniform
look beautifully feminine.”

She almost blushed, but instead, twirled, unable to
curb a girlish delight in the spotlight of her father’s approval. The long-cut
coat flared out like a dress when she spun.
She
, at least, would look
good in the dance.

Her father smiled. “Not that I fear some young
gentleman sweeping you up. They may
try
, but I’m certain no one will
measure up.”

She scowled at the last comment. “Funny, you should
say that, Father. I have just noticed how judgmental I can be. I’m never wrong
about people, but I don’t know if I like ‘judgmental’ as an epitaph.”

Seeing she was sincere, he drew her into a warm hug.
“Moral introspection, followed by resolve, will serve you well, Velirith.”

Buried in her father’s embrace, she frowned. Tonight’s
escapade probably didn’t meet the requirements of the first step.
At least
my resolve is in place.

They stepped onto the suspended FamTram and it
immediately started northeast and up. Velirith looked down onto the Grand Stair
below and watched the throngs hurrying both up and down in the long shadows of
the towers lining the edge of the Stair. Rei was setting and everyone was
speeding toward one pleasure or another. She felt much more distant than thirty
floors of altitude could account for. Their lives were so meaningless—her
judgment coming through again—but for that matter, so was hers. She wanted so
much for her life to have significance.

They passed through two familial towers on the Stair
and stopped inside the third to pick up some members of the Merckle family.
Velator stood as Lhea Margríte Merckle and her two sons boarded. Like the
Vel’s, the Merckles were required to attend the gala without their bodyguards.

“Margríte, good evening,” he greeted.

“Good evening, Velator.” Lhea Merckle, despite being a
manipulative opportunist, genuinely respected Velirith’s father. Velirith could
tell. All the house matrons respected him, except Feleanna Cortatti.
Undoubtedly that was because he treated everyone one respectfully—despite their
deep differences.

Margríte Merckle’s sons were a couple of years older
than Velirith. That certainly didn’t stop them from looking at her. Velirith
gave them a straightforward, disinterested look to discourage them from staring
or stealing glances at her. She could feel her father taking note of the
adolescent exchange.

A FamTram gondola was smaller than Avertori’s public
trams and was supported from above rather than below. It covered a shorter
distance and carried a very limited clientele. But tonight it stopped at
several more familial high-rises. When Ferdando Ashperis boarded from his
parents’ agriculture headquarters, she felt the judgment rise in her again.
The
coward. He’ll get a little taste of judgment tonight.
She suppressed her
excitement and tried to ignore the fact that he too was looking at her.

I must look good.

The tram stopped climbing and flattened out over the
Garrist Ring. Shortly thereafter they were cruising above the narrow bridge
that spanned the empty space between Garrist and the spire supporting the lofty
palace of the Executive Chair. From Garrist, the spire branched up and out into
three curving fingers between which, far above, was a garden terrace, and in
the middle of that terrace, the palace.

Velirith looked down toward the Plate over a quarter
mile below. She liked the excitement of heights and the gaping distance
reminded her of the towering city of Velakun that was her home. Velakun was a
much smaller city, but more aesthetically developed.

The tram entered a portal in the cream-colored spire
and they were soon disembarking to board an elevator. The clear elevators
ascended diagonally up the underside of one of the finger spires to the edge of
the flared terrace hosting the Executive Chair’s air garden. It forced the
occupants to look down into the gaping distance.

She loved it. And she loved it more to watch the young
men pull back from the edge with vertigo as they rose without visual
references. Of course, they probably hadn’t used their city as a playground the
way she had used her home of Velakun. But when she flew at home, she didn’t
have such a view.

Rei touched the horizon far to the west as it fell
through a layer of clouds. The city spread out around Velirith like a
twinkling, three-dimensional puzzle. And the sea, visible from this height on
all sides, wrapped around the Isle of Threes like a protective mother.

High above Garrist Ring, they disembarked at the edge
of the air garden. Velirith on her father’s arm, the group of guests proceeded
through the widely spaced trees and statuary toward the stairs leading up to
the great hall. One reason she had chosen pants for her outfit design was that
the quirky breezes at this height teased the ladies’ dresses and had them
clutching their hats. But tonight, she noticed, the winds were calm.

Velirith decided she didn’t like the palace design.
Too ostentatious. Too grandiose. She did appreciate the myriad balconies,
though. Every level, both above and below the great hall along the spire, was
speckled with both private and public balconies, sometimes with decorative plants
to add greenery to the entirely manmade edifice.

From Velirith’s previous visits to the palace, she
knew the layout. Bored, she had thoroughly explored both upward and downward in
the lofty palace, dodging or charming the sparse guards. Most of Ek’s sentries
remained at the entrances or within the great hall itself. Still, her
explorations here didn’t compare to those of the hidden ways and intriguing
architecture of her home in ancient Velakun.

Together with their small group from the elevator,
Velirith and her father made their way through the air gardens. When she was
younger, she’d found the trek frightening; now she just found it to be
frighteningly bad taste.

Greenery was sparse, considering it was a garden. As
the visitors neared the great hall they were channeled between two rows of
gigantic statues, three or four times life-size. On either side of them—
looking
down on us
,
Velirith thought
—were the dark likenesses of… House Ek!

The statues were odd not just because of their size,
but because they were grey. It was a good color for a tacky effigy—dark, loamy
grey, as if the sculptor was short on funds so the material was pulled out of a
magal mine, lumped into a mold, and then fired to harden into some stodgy
ancestor of Ek Threzhel.
Which is exactly what they did
, Velirith
realized
.
But the
oddest
thing about the score of superhuman
statues lining the path to the great hall was that they were very highly
magnetic, completely cast of magal.

Velirith shook her head at one particularly stern Ek
looking down at her accusingly. It evoked an emotional response she could not
help voicing, “
Ek!
”

Because of the proliferation of magnetic statuary, it
was well known that one did not wear steel to the New Year’s Gala. Buckles,
swords, and particularly lady’s brooches that could tear away, all had to be
non-ferrous. Otherwise one was suddenly and unnaturally attracted to the
masculine figures lining the approach.

This presented a problem Velirith hoped she could overcome.
In her satchel was a tiny cord knife. It was a dull, wooden hook with the only
metal being an incredibly sharp blade around its inside curve. It was used in
theatre when a strap or small rope needed to be surreptitiously cut to bring
down a dramatic effect. It could be hooked around a cord and, with the flick of
a wrist, slice through a line of fair strength.

Unfortunately, the cutting edge itself was made of
steel.

Holding her father’s arm with her left hand, she
clutched her satchel in her right, fiercely pushing down on the satchel to keep
it from flying out toward the magnetic Eks.

Even though the sharp sliver of metal around the
inside hook was lighter than a hatpin, Velirith could feel the piece jerking
the purse from side to side as the massive statues fought for possession. She
gently nudged her father so that she was precisely in the middle of the
opposing statues. Though she tried to be graceful, her steps wavered.

Her father gave her a sidelong, curious look, but this
time said nothing, perhaps attributing it to her nerves.

They climbed the stairs up to the stone promenade
surrounding the great hall and entered through its towering doors, joining the
queue for Ek Threzhel’s receiving line. Predictably, and the pinnacle of
gaudiness in Velirith’s opinion, a magal statue of Ek Threzhel himself stood
behind the flesh and blood model at the end of the receiving line. It seemed
taller than the others and no less repulsive.

Waiting to greet the Executive Chair, Velirith surveyed
the huge interior of the great hall. The domed ceiling of the oval hall was
easily sixty feet above them. The room was longer than wide, but not by much.
In the center was a mosaic tile pattern typical to all Avertori, a large
honeycomb consisting of smaller hexagonal pieces. This was the floor on which
the dancers would be paired in the Family Harmony Dance. She involuntarily
tightened her grip on her father’s arm at the thought of the dance.

“You okay, Velirith?” he asked.

She forced herself to relax. “Yes, fine, Father. Just
jittery. You know I have trouble with events like this.”

Velator nodded, accepting her excuse. Around the dance
floor, to both the right and left, were high tables and chairs, all assigned to
specific guests. Velirith assumed these were carefully segregated for minimum
conflict just as the partnering in the dance was supposed to be.

The assignments did make it easier for the wait staff
to find people, especially for the task of delivering New Year’s Greetings
during the social hour before the fireworks. The tradition of notes, begun long
ago, was initially a warm, loving way for families to uniquely express
appreciation or well-wishes to another cherished family. Some families still
honored the tradition. But nowadays, many used it as an anonymous way to jab or
jibe a rival house. It could get brutal.

The tradition allowed for only one greeting from each
person, making the note particularly special. Velirith winced inwardly,
realizing that the twenty-two notes in her purse would definitely not add to
“family harmony.” But they might make a point that reform was necessary—no, she
refused to delude herself: This was a practical joke for her own amusement and
to antagonize people who definitely deserved it.

The first person to greet them in the receiving line
was Fechua MgFellis, Moshalli’s mother.

“Velator! Velirith! Wonderful to see you,” she smiled
broadly.
Genuine affection still exists,
Velirith noted. It struck her
how similar Fechua’s greeting was to her daughter’s just two days earlier.
Velirith let go of her father with her left hand and briefly embraced her
friend’s mother. Immediately her satchel swung out behind her,
repelled
by the magnetic statue behind the EC. Of course, that statue would be designed
to
push
steel away from the EC, not draw it in.

Her bag tugged at her shoulder. Without looking,
Velirith stretched out her right arm to clutch the willful satchel and hauled
it back as gracefully as possible.

Fechua seemed to notice nothing and asked if they had
their New Year’s Greetings ready. Velator handed her an elegant envelope which
she passed to an assistant behind her.

“I’m sorry, Fechua. I’m not done with mine,” Velirith
apologized. “May I bring it up in just a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly. You’re not the only one. Just hand it to
the attendant at the table.”

           
The man behind Fechua took Velator’s greeting over to an elegantly decorated
table guarded by another attendant.

“Velirith, that uniform, you designed it, didn’t you?”

Velirith nodded. “Working with theater costumes has
serendipities.”

“It is both beautiful and striking,” Fechua admired.