The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  “Was there anything else?” Mira asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  Rector shook his head. “I just found the boxes a few days ago. Other than what I said, they seem pretty innocuous.” He chuckled. “Although the author has poor penmanship.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every so often, certain letters are capitalized for no reason.”

  His words had Mira sitting up straight. “Have you transcribed them?” she asked.

  Rector frowned, puzzled by her interest. “What are you thinking?”

  “It could be a cipher,” she said, going on to remind him of the one Jaresh had solved and by doing so, had confirmed the existence of the Withering Knife.

  “It was clever how he figured it out,” Rector said. He shifted in his seat, as a troubling thought came to him. “If there is a code, then the Withering Knife murderer has to be of House Wrestiva. It might even be Hal’El himself.”

  Mira chuckled. “That would be too much to hope for,” she said.

  They fell silent and Rector studied her over the lip of his glass of water, wavering over whether to ask her a question that had long since troubled him.

  “What is it?” Mira asked. She smiled at his surprise. “You want to ask me something. It’s written on your face.”

  “Do you think there is any honor left to our Caste?” Rector asked, unsure why her opinion mattered to him. “Or are we just a selfish and greedy shambles of what we were meant to be?”

  “We have honor aplenty,” Mira said. “Too much in some instances.” She stared him in the eyes, letting him know without words exactly to whom she was referring.

  Rector flushed. “How were you able to tolerate me?” he asked. “I was so self-righteous.”

  Mira laughed. “Well you were most definitely self-righteous,” she replied, “but who says I tolerated you?”

  Rector rolled his eyes before breaking into a grin. Six months ago, he would have scowled.

  “She’s doing fine, by the way,” Mira said. “Bree,” she explained when he didn’t respond. “Since you didn’t ask, I thought I’d tell you. She should be fully recovered in the next few weeks. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “So I heard,” Rector said, confused. “Was there some other reason you brought this up?”

  “You were her friend once,” Mira said with a shrug. “That’s the only reason I meant.”

  “Friends.” Rector gave a bitter chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so, but I’m sure it’s a friendship she regrets and one long since turned to dust. I made sure of that when I offered up her brother to the Wrestivas.”

  “But knowing what you do now, given the same choice, I’m sure you would have decided otherwise.”

  Rector nodded. “I would have.”

  Mira smiled. “Just making sure you haven’t changed your mind again.”

  “I haven’t,” Rector said. “A few months ago, I told you I would have remained quiet, but back then, I would have done so because it would have been easier on me. Now—” he shrugged. “—I would have remained silent because it would have been the right thing to do. The moral thing. Rukh was…is a hero. He should have never been found Unworthy.”

  “And his relationship with Jessira?”

  “I don’t know,” Rector replied, picking at the corner of the table. “Maybe that’s a bridge too far for me to cross. I know it’s Rukh’s business, but somehow, it still affects all of us.” He grinned suddenly. “But I don’t envy him trying to make peace with a woman like Jessira. Do you remember what she said to us? The quote from The Book of All Souls: Across the world, the Lord stretched forth His hand and caused Life. And those whom he gave understanding, He named as brothers and sisters.” He allowed admiration to tinge his voice. “In the heart of our home, the heart of her enemy and she claimed sisterhood. She was utterly fearless.”

  Rector laughed at Mira’s open-mouthed shock at his words.

  In a nondescript room in a nondescript building, somewhere to the south of Semaphore Walk, the Council of Rule held a meeting. There were no windows there, and a dim light emanated from several turned-down firefly lamps. It was always thus with the Sil Lor Kum. They were creatures of shadows and deceit.

  Or so Ular Sathin believed. The knowledge brought him neither comfort nor guilt. It was simply an unimportant truth, an inconsequential fact to be accepted and forgotten.

  He looked at the others seated around the table.

  As always, his fellow MalDin wore stylized masks, a means to maintain their anonymity. Despite the precautions, Ular knew the names of nearly everyone here.

  Only the SuDin remained unidentified. Ular hated his lack of insight into the Kumma. He had always been an enigma, and in all the years Ular had known him, he had yet to divine the SuDin’s true name. It was maddening. In all spheres of life, knowledge was power—even more so amongst the Sil Lor Kum—and to have such a vital piece of information elude his grip for so many years caused Ular no end of grief.

  As for the others, at least their names were not a mystery.

  There sat the slimy cretin, Moke Urn, the MalDin for Caste Sentya. His skill with numbers and profit made him useful, but his lust for the decadent Mesa Reed made him pathetic. Mesa, the MalDin of Caste Cherid, was a vicious woman, her cruelty masked by her lush beauty and abundant womanly features. Only a fool would bed such a serpent, and such a fool was Yuthero Gaste, the Shiyen MalDin. He was a man rightly lauded for his brilliance—his professorship at Alminius College of Medicine spoke for itself. Nevertheless, Yuthero was a young man with a young man’s lusts. Mesa had him by the tenders.

  Then there was Varesea Apter, the lovely Rahail MalDin. Ular tapped his chin as he considered her. What had happened to Varesea? She was no longer the quietly competent woman she had once been. She was reticent now, barely speaking a single sentence in the Council meetings. And her eyes—there was a haunted quality to them. Some might assume it was because of her husband’s death, but Ular knew better. The man had been a wife-beater. Varesea had little reason to mourn his passing. Why then did Varesea appear so troubled?

  Ular didn’t know—at least not yet. But he aimed to find out.

  The final MalDin, Pera Obbe of Caste Duriah, was a woman Ular wished he could leave unconsidered. She was as unpleasant in demeanor as she was unlovely in appearance, a near incompetent collection of pride and vitriol. And her significance as a MalDin barely merited mention. In fact, her ascension to the Council spoke volumes about the worthlessness of others from her Caste who were also members of the Sil Lor Kum.

  Ular Sathin drew back from his speculation and listened more closely as the SuDin began speaking.

  “There is a method by which Shiyens can cause an individual to appear dead, but in reality they are merely in a deep slumber.”

  Ular had never heard of such a drug or method, but it didn’t mean such a procedure didn’t exist. He noticed Yuthero nodding as the SuDin spoke. Mesa as well. Their expressions of agreement had Ular wondering. Was the drug real, or were the other two somehow involved in a secret plan concocted by the SuDin?

  He didn’t know, but in his decades as a MalDin, he’d learned to trust his instincts. And he didn’t trust the SuDin. Therefore, he couldn’t trust Yuthero or Mesa either.

  The SuDin continued. “There are Trials scheduled to leave in the coming months. There will be others of our kind, fellow Sil Lor Kum, who will help spirit us away from Ashoka.”

  “And I suppose you will be the first to leave,” Pera said in a sarcastic tone.

  The SuDin smiled. “No. It will actually be you,” he replied, surprising Pera into silence. “Every arrangement has been made. By next summer, you will be safely ensconced in your new home in Kush.”

  “Hmm,” Pera mused, her eyes hooded in thought. They brightened a moment later. “I like it. Kush. A warm city with a view of the water. Well done.” She offered the praise as if she were commending a particularly clever dog.

  The SuDin blinked, his only react
ion to the insult. He continued on. “Your skills will be sorely missed by the Council,” he said, “but another will be raised to take your place and—”

  Pera snorted. “There are only four Duriahs in all the Sil Lor Kum,” she said. “One of them is competent in his current role, but none of them have the requisite skills to do the job as I have.” She grinned evilly. “Good luck replacing me.”

  Ular mentally groaned. The woman just needed to shut her mouth. What an idiot. She had just let everyone know the strength of her Caste. It was as weak as Pera’s intelligence. As for the SuDin’s vow to see her settled in another city—if Pera truly believed him, she was an even bigger fool than Ular had taken her for. This procedure meant to replicate death would more likely result in Pera’s actual demise.

  The others watched, rapt as starving dogs offered a steak while the Su Din continued his explanation of what he intended. Ular discounted it all.

  What lies.

  Hours later, Hal’El finally had an opportunity to break away from House Wrestiva business and see Varesea. It had been weeks since the two of them had found time to be alone, and as such, he had a far different reunion in mind than the one in which they were currently engaged.

  Varesea was waiting for him in their Stone Cavern room, The Tryst Palace. Her unhappy countenance as she tapped her fingernails on the pine table spoke to a deep-seated annoyance. Hal’El hoped her disquiet wasn’t because of her dead husband. She still had episodes when Slathtril’s voice would rise in her mind, haranguing her, raging with fury, and promising bitter punishment. Over time, Varesea had learned to shut out her husband’s lunatic ravings. She no longer tore at her hair or screamed silently, but by the time her husband’s voice finally subsided into silence, she was often left limp and drained.

  But right now, she appeared anything but exhausted. She looked angry.

  “What is it?” Hal’El asked, taking a seat across from her.

  “You’re sending Pera to her death,” Varesea charged.

  Hal’El scowled. Why did she care so much if he sent that pompous, potato-faced Duriah to her well-deserved ending? “No I’m not,” he lied.

  Varesea took a moment to study his face before she snorted in derision. “You’re lying,” she accused. “Perhaps by omission, but it’s still a lie. If you aren’t sending her to her death; nevertheless, you will see her dead.”

  Hal’El sighed. He could never fool Varesea. She was too perceptive. “It is necessary,” he said.

  “Why?” Varesea challenged.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because the others aren’t stupid. They’ll know death awaits them. Even if Mesa and Yuthero have agreed to lie on your behalf, they’ll eventually learn the truth and pull you down.”

  Hal’El sat back in his chair and worked through his response. He was unprepared for this conversation. The questions were ones to which he didn’t have a complete answer. “There truly is a drug and procedure that can do as I promised.”

  “And Mesa and Yuthero think you’ll keep your promise to them?” Varesea scoffed.

  Hal’El stiffened in irritation. Varesea’s demeanor toward him was no longer gentle and loving. She had changed. Too often, she was curt and disrespectful. Hal’El didn’t appreciate it. He had even spoken to her about it on several occasions, and while Varesea would tearfully promise to curb her tongue, thus far, she had not done so. Hal’El suspected she might not be able to, something to do with her dead husband. Varesea had never been the same after Slathtril’s murder. He realized she likely never would be…but Hal’El loved her just the same.

  “Mesa and Yuthero are too clever to eliminate in such an obvious fashion, but I still plan on ridding myself of that pest, Pera Obbe,” Hal’El said.

  “Why do you need to get rid of her?” Varesea asked, this time her tone more courteous.

  “The Queen wants the Sil Lor Kum pacified,” Hal’El explained. “I must do as She demands given how I’ve defied Her on other matters.”

  Varesea startled. She leaned forward wearing a look of worried interest. “What aren’t you telling me,” she said. “In what way have you defied the Queen?”

  “I haven’t murdered anyone else,” he said. “Van Jinnu was the last person either of us killed.”

  “What about Dr. Verle,” Varesea reminded him. “We both know he didn’t hang himself.”

  Hal’El grimaced. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “If I’d been minutes slower, Bree Shektan might have caught me at the doctor’s residence.”

  It was Varesea’s turn to grimace. “Bree Shektan,” she spat. “She and that naaja brother of hers need to be ended.”

  Hal’El smiled at her vindictive tone. Varesea could be generous and patient but not with those whom she deemed an enemy. “All in good time,” Hal’El promised.

  “You still haven’t explained what you mean by ‘defying the Queen’,” Varesea reminded him.

  Hal’El had hoped she’d forgotten, but it was too much to expect. “The Withering Knife,” he said. “The Queen demands more deaths.”

  Varesea’s brows knitted in thought. “There has to be a reason why the Queen wants this,” she said. “Her claptrap about weakening the Oasis has never made sense.”

  “I think you’re right,” Hal’El said. “The Queen said something once—it was in the midst of Her mad ranting, and I was meant to know it—but according to Her own words, the deaths committed with the Knife prime it.”

  “Prime it?” Varesea’s brows remained knitted. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Hal’El replied, “but I won’t do what She wants.”

  Varesea hissed. “She’ll punish you if you don’t.”

  “Let her,” Hal’El said, his words sounding bolder than he felt. “I am punished enough as it is. What’s one more raving voice in my head?”

  “You still hear them?” Varesea asked in a soft, worried tone. She pulled his hands into her own, searching intently into his eyes.

  “I hear them,” Hal’El answered, not wanting to admit the truth. The murmurings of those he had murdered, Aqua Oilhue, Van Jinnu, and Felt Barnel, continued. At first, he had been able to pretend they were merely his imaginations; but the voices persisted, growing steadily louder and more distinct. At times, he could even hear words amongst the rumbling susurrations. What they vowed was a painful death for Hal’El.

  The Withering Knife stole Jivatma, and those so killed never truly died but lingered on in the minds of their murderers. Of this, Hal’El was now certain, just as he was certain that Varesea’s ordeals with Slathtril were real. Slathtril was real. He lived on, hidden in some dark, deep recess of Varesea’s mind; just like Aqua, Van, and Felt hid within Hal’El’s. The notion left him cold with terror.

  “You think they’re real, too, don’t you?” Varesea whispered. “The voices.”

  Hal’El tried to shrug off her worry. “Who can say?” he answered, hoping she didn’t hear the lie. “Perhaps we could learn the truth if we had more time to understand the Knife.”

  “Time is not on our side,” Varesea said.

  “No it isn’t,” Hal’El agreed. “The Queen vows to come for Ashoka as soon as She completes the destruction of some place named Craven.” He snorted. “She claims it’s Ashoka’s sister city.”

  “There is no such place,” Varesea said. “She truly is mad.”

  “Yes, She is,” Hal’El said. Unvoiced was the thought: and all-too soon, we shall be as well.

  After an early lunch, Jaresh sat at a table in the sunroom, poring over some financial documents Amma wanted him to audit. She could have had the matter looked into by Magistrate Belt’s forensic financial service, but instead she had asked Jaresh to do the work. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at her trust. Amma didn’t offer false praise.

  Jaresh’s lips pursed in concentration as he tried to make sense of the sloppy record-keeping and read the crabbed handwriting. He traced numbers across columns and rows, trying to understan
d what was being recorded. Whoever had kept the records needed a remedial course in handwriting and basic bookkeeping. What a mess. Mistakes were piled upon more mistakes, growing more obvious with every page. Profits were shown where there should have been a loss and vice versa. Finally, there came a quarterly report where the author of the accounts claimed that one of House Shektan’s holdings included a negative amount of wheat.

  Jaresh groaned at the incompetence. He was wrong about the record-keeper. A remedial course in handwriting or bookkeeping wouldn’t have done him any good. The man should simply have been fired. He thumbed through the rest of the thick ledger. It would take him hours to audit it.

  And there were three more volumes to go after this one.

  With a disappointed shake of his head, he returned to the work. It was going to be a long day.

  “What a beautiful day,” Bree said, walking into the room. She stood by the windows, basking in the happy sunshine pouring in.

  Jaresh looked her way. It was good to see her up and about. For most of the three weeks since the attack in the alley, Bree had been convalescing at home. In fact, she’d only started using stairs a week ago. Until then, she had essentially been a prisoner in her bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” Bree asked, walking over to the table and peering over his shoulder.

  Jaresh explained his work to her.

  “Do you want any help?” she asked.

  Jaresh glanced at her in surprise. Bree generally detested anything to do with record-keeping.

  She laughed at his reaction. “We both know I hate accounting,” she said, unconsciously echoing his thoughts, “but there’s only so much sitting around a person can do. I need to be useful.” She looked to Jaresh with a hopeful expression.

  Silently, he passed her one of the ledgers. She winced as she pulled it toward her.

  “Still hurts?” Jaresh asked.

  She nodded. “A little less every day,” she replied. “I’ll be happy when I can take a deep breath without hurting.”