The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  Jaresh sensed an easing of tension as the large drover grunted, the anger slowly fading from his eyes. “I suppose the fault for our accidental ill Cohesion was mine as much as yours,” he responded, his voice deep and seeming to echo. A smile flicked across his face. “I’m sure balancing the ledgers waits for no man,” he said in a teasing tone, mistakenly believing Jaresh was a typical Sentya accountant.

  Jaresh saw no reason to correct the man. It wasn’t worth the time. He smiled. “No they do not,” Jaresh agreed in an amiable tone. He bowed slightly. “Again, my apologies for your troubles, Cohesor.”

  He had noticed the tattoo on the Duriah’s forearm depicting strips of metal twisted into a braid. The tattoo denoted the man’s standing as a master in his Caste. He wasn’t just a drover; he was a smith.

  The Duriah smiled, all the anger gone as suddenly as it had arrived, another trait of his Caste. “Well, best be moving along. Work doesn’t do itself.” He nodded in farewell. “Take care young man and be more careful next time.”

  “Be well.” Jaresh replied, glad he had taken Nanna’s advice: a kind word could often defuse a tense situation.

  Jaresh paid more attention to his surroundings and headed for Hart’s Stand, an area of fine trade shops, artisans studios, restaurants, and pubs. It was late afternoon, a few hours before supper, and the streets were starting to fill as folk rushed to finish the last of their work before heading home. Many stopped to grab a quick bite to eat from one of the many portable food carts as vendors sold the last of their hot snacks before supper. The spicy aroma of bhaji, samosas, and falafel filled the air.

  Jaresh’s stomach growled in response to the fine smelling food, but he ignored his hunger and continued on. He had to hurry if he wanted to be in time for his meeting.

  The traffic grew more congested, and he passed several heavy wagons loaded with early summer crops as they crawled through the crowded streets. The Muran drovers sat stiffly in their seats, many with pipes held between their lips as they stroked their full, thick beards. Sentya bureaucrats rushed about with harried expressions, offering profuse if absentminded apologies as they went about their business.

  Jaresh respectfully stepped aside as a Brace of Rahail swept toward him, marching through the middle of the street. There were about twelve of them, men and women of all ages, formed up in a triangle with all of them focusing their Jivatma on their leader, typically the oldest of them. Everyone gave the Brace a deferential berth, not wanting to distract them from their work, and they worked even as they strode past. Caste Rahail were the only ones with the Talent to maintain and repair the city’s Oasis, a task paramount above all others.

  As he neared Hart’s Stand, the quietness of Widow Cavern ended abruptly. The sound of buskers, most of whom were probably from the Ahura Temple – one of the Sentya schools of music – competed with the cries of vendors and the hammering of Duriah blacksmiths. Hart’s Stand was a place where several neighborhoods came together. As a result, it had become a place for commerce. There were many merchants and vendors hawking their wares from canvass covered stalls leased to them by the city, as well as a number of tradesmen, such as coopers, shoemakers, and plumbers with more permanent shops.

  Jaresh skirted the edge of Hart’s Stand and took a smaller road heading southeast. A few turns later he was past most of the noise of the Stand. Blessed quiet once more. With a sense of relief, he finally came upon his destination – the Long Pull, one of his favorite pubs. An old, wooden sign rattled above the entrance: an overflowing tankard. Months ago, before Rukh’s departure, the two of them used to come here a lot. It had been one of their favorite watering holes with the best whiskey in the city. He missed hitting the pubs with Rukh. The two of them never got stinking drunk, but they always had a good time of it.

  And after a hard, frustrating day, Jaresh needed a drink – a shot of something strong would be a nice start – but he had another reason for coming. While at the Library, he had received a message. Nanna wanted to meet him here tonight. No further explanation had been included. Not that Jaresh had expected one. He did wonder why they were meeting here instead of Nanna’s study. He didn’t imagine it was because Nanna wanted to go out drinking. Jaresh smiled at the thought. Nanna rarely drank, and he never got drunk.

  Jaresh slapped the sign before opening the door – an old habit – pausing inside the entrance to the pub as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. This early, the tavern was all but empty. Ten or twelve tables were scattered around the large room with several lamps hanging unlit along the pub’s brick walls. The bar was on the wall facing the front entrance. It ran nearly the entire length of the pub before ending in the far right corner at a door opening out to the courtyard in the rear. To the left of the bar, a swinging door led to the kitchen while a large, empty fireplace dominated the right-hand wall. Sunlight passed through the floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows facing out onto the street and highlighting the wide-planked wooden floor, faded and worn by thousands of feet and stained with spilled beer. A permanent smoky odor permeated the air, but the aroma of cooking food, chicken tikka maybe, floated out of the kitchen making Jaresh’s mouth water.

  Three men sat at a table near the bar laughing quietly over a joke. Each held a flagon of beer. The barkeep and proprietor, Gris Holianth, a stocky man of medium height and middle years, stood wiping clean several dented mugs with a rag. His skin, dark as cured walnut, proclaimed him to be of Caste Shiyen, and his shiny pate gleamed in the dull light. Gris gestured out back.

  Jaresh stepped through the open door.

  The square courtyard was entirely enclosed with the pub, kitchen, and living quarters for Mr. Holianth’s family forming three sides while the fourth was comprised of a stout brick wall. Tall, white candles provided a pleasant light as they burned in hurricane vases placed on all three tables set outside. Otherwise, the courtyard was empty except for Nanna and Bree, both of whom sat with a tall flagon of something foamy before them.

  What was Bree doing here? He mentally shrugged, knowing Nanna would explain it all shortly.

  He poked his head back inside and called for a beer before joining his family outside.

  “How goes the search,” Nanna asked as Jaresh hitched a chair.

  “It doesn’t,” Jaresh replied, glancing at Bree, wondering if she knew what they were talking about.

  “Withering Knife. Souleater. Search Ashoka’s Library. Nanna already filled me in,” Bree said, responding to his speculative glance. “I already figured out he had you and Mira working on something related to the murder. The timing of it all with the two of you both suddenly doing research in the Cellar so soon after Master Barnel’s death…it was just too coincidental.”

  Jaresh sat back in his chair, surprised by how much Bree had figured out on her own. “I’m impressed,” Jaresh said.

  Bree chuckled, a throaty laugh. “I’m just glad it wasn’t me down in the Cellar getting my nose all filthy.”

  Jaresh smiled. “No, we wouldn’t want to get the Princess’ hands dirty,” he replied, teasing her with a childhood nickname she hated.

  Bree rolled her eyes. “That name hasn’t bothered me in years.”

  “Then why were…”

  They were interrupted when Mr. Holianth set a mug of beer on the table. They waited until after he had collected his fifty pence wooden token and headed back inside before continuing their conversation.

  Nanna cleared his throat, gathering their attention. “I asked the two of you to meet with me here because of a rather delicate matter. Should this ever come to public awareness, it will undoubtedly ruin our House.”

  Jaresh shared a wondering glance with Bree and set aside his mug.

  Nanna’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “What I am about to tell you is known only to me. It has to do with Kuldige Prayvar, born into House Trektim, and known to you as Kul’El Shektan, the founder of our House,” Nanna said. “Several years ago, I found a small diary tucked away in a hidden drawer
within my desk, the same desk inherited and passed down by the ‘Els of our House since its founding. It was written in the hand of Kul’El, and I don’t think he meant for it to be read by anyone else. The information contained within his journal is repulsive.” Nanna’s voice dropped to whisper. “By his own admission, our founder was a member of the Sil Lor Kum.”

  Nanna’s words dropped into a dead silence. Jaresh and Bree shared a look of stunned disbelief. That could not be right. Only twisted degenerates sought membership in the Sil Lor Kum, not someone noble like the founder of House Shektan.

  “That is imposs…” Jaresh began loudly, cut off as Nanna dug hard fingernails into his forearm.

  His eyes flashed. “Quietly,” he hissed. “There may be no other ears about, but we can’t take any chances. It’s the reason we are here and not the House Seat – too many chances of being overheard.”

  Jaresh made himself relax and let out a shuddering breath. Nanna held a moment longer, but at Jaresh’s nod, he released his arm.

  “Unfortunately, what I just said is all too true,” Nanna said, still grimacing in disgust. “But Kul’El was not just a member of the Sil Lor Kum, he was their SuDin, their commander. In our House records, we know Kul’El was, at best, a middling warrior. He completed three Trials, and somehow, through extremely fortuitous investments, he became wealthy enough to found House Shektan. Now, we know how those lucky turns of events came to pass. Kul’El possessed information unavailable to others, and he was able to make those spectacularly prudent investments because of his role as SuDin to the Sil Lor Kum.”

  Jaresh felt sick. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like drinking the rest of his beer. He pushed it away.

  Bree looked heartbroken. “Our House was founded on a lie, and by the worst kind of criminal imaginable. How do we walk the streets with such shame hanging upon us?” she cried out. “We’ve lost all honor.”

  “His sin was his. It is not ours,” Nanna answered, fiercely. “Our honor is intact.” He stared Bree in the eyes, willing her to accept his words.

  “A home is only as strong as its foundation,” she replied, reciting an old adage.

  “Our foundation does not stem from the House we were born into,” Nanna continued. “I know this better than just about anyone else. Nor does it emanate from the actions of our ancestors. In the end, we will all have to face the divining and dividing sword of Devesh. Our only armor during His final judgment will be how we acquitted ourselves on this world. The actions of our forebears can neither stain nor cleanse us.”

  Bree didn’t say anything. She still looked troubled.

  Jaresh understood exactly what she was going through since he was struggling with the same issues.

  “There is more,” Nanna said after a moment.

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” Jaresh said.

  “I know what I’ve told you is disturbing…” Nanna began.

  “Bit of an understatement,” Bree muttered.

  Nanna shrugged. “Imagine how I felt when I learned the truth,” he replied. “While the two of you can confide your thoughts and fears with one another, I had no one. At least not until Rukh forced me to explain why I was so agitated.”

  “Rukh knows?” Bree asked. “Should have figured he would.”

  “I don’t remember you being sad or downcast,” Jaresh said.

  For as long as Jaresh could remember, their nanna had always had a smooth and unruffled equilibrium no matter how difficult the situation. Nanna was a rock – nothing bothered him. It was part of the reason he was such an effective ‘El. Others might lose themselves in anger or false bravado, but Nanna did not. He always coolly focused on the problem at hand and never let his emotions get the better of him.

  Nanna smiled. “It was a few days after I’d come across the journal. One afternoon, Rukh walked into the library and…” he shrugged. “He must have seen something in my face or my posture…whatever it was, he knew something was wrong.” He chuckled. “He badgered me until I told him what it was.”

  “And he’s never said a word this entire time,” Bree said.

  “For two years now, he and I kept our secret shame hidden,” Nanna said, “and so will you,” he added, obdurate hardness in his voice.

  “We will,” Jaresh promised. “Now, what was this other thing you wanted to tell us?”

  Nanna took a sip of his warm beer. “The Withering Knife. The Souleater. It is mentioned in Kul’El’s journal, but he is frustratingly close-lipped about it. He merely restates what we already know: it is an ancient weapon, used by Suwraith at the dawn of our world, on the Night of Sorrows, and perhaps, on occasion, by the Sil Lor Kum. He suspects it gives the wielder the power to steal Jivatma from those who are slain with it.”

  Jaresh tried to keep the horror from his face.

  Jivatma was the essence of a person. It was their center, who they were in their heart-of-hearts. Some even said Jivatma was the soul itself, the part of a person living on after the death of their mortal form. And for it to be stolen …it would be the final death. All their futures and choices would be vanished, stolen from them. They could never be re-born on Arisa or ascend to Heaven. With the Knife, their death would be the end of them. They would be expunged from existence, as surely as if they had chosen to deny Devesh’s grace.

  Learning the truth about the founder of their House had been awful, but this was sickening beyond words. This was evil in its purest form. What kind of a sick mind would even think to fashion such a weapon? It was appalling. Worse was the fact that the Withering Knife might be in Ashoka, and if so, it had already been used on poor Felt Barnel. The knowledge leant new urgency to Jaresh’s work in the Cellar.

  “But you’re not certain it’s this Knife we’re dealing with?” Bree asked, cutting into Jaresh’s horrified thoughts. “More likely, it’s some naaja degenerate who needs to be put down.”

  “I am not entirely sure,” Nanna answered. “As I said, Kul’El’s journal is frustratingly opaque on the topic.” He turned to Jaresh. “We have to know the truth of this matter. Quickly and quietly. If it is the Sil Lor Kum with whom we are dealing, they must have no inkling we suspect their presence. They’ll only go deeper underground. We have to let them remain comfortable and confident in their anonymity, certain of their safety in the shadows.”

  “Until we shatter their smug assurance and kill them all,” Bree said with a fierce grimace.

  “Exactly,” Nanna said. “Which is why you will be helping your brother and Mira in their search.”

  Despite the sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jaresh had to smile, however fleeting. It looked like Bree would be getting her nose dirty after all.

  She saw his half-smile and must have guessed what he was thinking. She stuck her tongue out at him, briefly lightening the mood.

  Jaresh chuckled.

  Just then, a young man, a Shiyen burst into the Long Pull. Based on his build and preternaturally balding head, the owner’s son. He fairly bounced with excitement.

  “There’s another been murdered!” he shouted into the quiet. “Just like the last one!”

  Those who choose the twilight existence of the Sil Lor Kum are fools. But pity their children. What misery to be raised by such jackals!

  ~The Sorrows of Hume, AF 1789

  Silence fell in the pub before shouted questions were thrown at the young man, who struggled to answer them. He didn’t know much more than what he’d already said.

  Nanna turned to Jaresh. “Find Mira. We’ll meet you in my study in a few hours,” he said. “We need to discuss our plans.”

  “What about you?” Jaresh asked.

  “Bree and I will go to where the body was found,” Nanna answered. “And make sure your mother and Sophy are there also,” he added a moment later. “It’s time we informed them about this.”

  The three of them quickly left the bar, with Jaresh heading toward the House Seat, while Bree and their nanna went east along Scythe Cut toward Fragrance Wall to where
the body had been found. Nanna wanted to personally examine the area, hoping to learn something more of the killer they hunted. Perhaps there was a clue, something others might have overlooked. It was a reasonable expectation, especially since the Watch had apparently not yet recognized that the murderer was likely a Kumma.

  Bree followed silently in her nanna’s wake, but her mind was in turmoil. It had been a day of upheaval. So many ugly truths had come to light, and so many falsehoods had been revealed. She struggled to make sense of it all. For instance, who was she now? She was a Shektan and a Kumma. That much was still true, but was she still an upright woman? She feared she was not. Despite Nanna’s forceful assurance, she remained disturbed by a single question, one she could not answer: could grace and honesty rise from the wretched foundations laid by Kul’El Shektan?

  Nanna said people made their own honor, and Bree understood what he meant, at least from a logical perspective, but understanding wasn’t the same as believing. Nanna’s words were sophistry, a way to wash clean the sins of the past without actually confronting them. For instance, should a ghrina ever reach adulthood and procreate, the original sin of its birth would still be passed on to all of its progeny, no matter how many generations had passed. The ghrina’s stain could never be expunged. And if such things were true on an individual level, how could it not be the same for a House? No matter all the good works done later, if a House was born in sin, would it not carry the mark of such dishonor for the entirety of its existence?

  The past determined the present, or so the philosophers opined.