The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  “He’s an older Kumma,” Ular blubbered. “A man of wealth. Probably an ‘El.”

  “All this I already know,” Dar’El hissed. “Give me his name, or the Isle of the Crows will be your final bed.”

  “I don’t know his name,” Ular wailed. He shrieked when Dar’El grabbed him again. “He’s the SuDin. Our leader. I’ve never learned his name,” the Muran babbled. “But I know the names of all the other MalDins. I know them all. You’ll be able to clear out the Sil Lor Kum, destroy it entirely. All I ask in return is sanctuary.”

  “You think you should be allowed to live after what you’ve done?” Dar’El snarled. “It will not happen.”

  “It has to happen, or you’ll learn nothing.”

  “Or maybe I should break your fingers. One at a time,” Dar’El threatened. “We’ll see how well you maintain your silence then.”

  Ular blanched.

  Dar’El was equally appalled by his words. What was he saying? Threatening torture? Even someone as degenerate as Ular didn’t deserve a fate so terrible. But then again, what about the promised death to which the man would be subjected? Was it not a form of torture? Dar’El growled in frustration. Now wasn’t the time for philosophical meanderings.

  Ular used Dar’El’s momentary distraction to regain a measure of his courage. “You won’t do that. I know you too well. You’re a man of conviction and honor. Morality is bred into your bones and blood.” He swallowed heavily. “You will meet my demands, or you will learn nothing.”

  Dar’El released his grip. “It is not my place to make such a promise. Only the Magisterium can do what you want.”

  “Then make them see reason!” Ular pleaded.

  “If the Magisterium learns your name, they will gut you. You’ll be clutching your entrails while the crows peck out your eyes,” Dar’El said. “On the other hand, I can give you an easy death.”

  “An easy death is still a death,” Ular said. “I want to live!” He lifted his chin defiantly. “If you tell the Magisterium who I am, my life may end in torment, but it won’t help you learn what you want to know.”

  Dar’El gazed upon the old man in sadness and revulsion. Had there ever been any honor or decency to Ular Sathin? Had it all been a sham? How could someone smile and share friendship with others, all the while lying to them and betraying everything they held dear? “Or I can tell the Magisterium your name, and they can make you the same promise I offer.”

  “I won’t be taken by them,” Ular vowed. “You have five hours to save my life. Otherwise, I’ll take my secrets to the pyre.”

  Dar’El moved to seize him. The old man couldn’t kill himself if he was tied up.

  Ular held up a forestalling hand. “I have a means to end my life even in your custody. Let me walk out of here, and you can go about saving me. Then I’ll talk.”

  Dar’El growled. “Five hours then.”

  There were times when Hal’El was certain he had been marked for glory. How else to explain everything he had accomplished? He was the finest warrior of his generation and had survived more Trials than any man since Hume. From there, he had gone on to become the ruling ‘El of one of the oldest, most powerful Houses in Ashoka. And during all this, he’d managed to keep secret his membership in the Sil Lor Kum, even rising to leadership of that hated organization. Then had come the unsought boon of the Withering Knife. With the black blade in his hands, Hal’El had dared hope he now possessed the means by which he could save Ashoka, and defeat Suwraith Herself. The murders he’d committed with the Knife, the rush of stolen Jivatma, it had filled with him heady assuredness. He was more powerful than he had ever been when young and all his injuries, including the damaged knee, had all been miraculously Healed. Devesh, or some being of power, must have marked Hal’El for greatness and glory.

  But then had arisen the voices in his head, whispering hatred and dire punishment. Aqua Oilhue, Felt Barnel, and Van Jinnu; the names of those he’d murdered; victims who had refused to remain dead. Now, they lingered in his mind like phantasms of revenge; and all his certainty was gone like sandcastles before the tide. His future, like that of Ashoka itself, was uncertain. Would the Sorrow Bringer come against the city this summer as She had vowed? If so, there was nothing Hal’El could do to stop Her. It seemed the future was doomed. They were all going to die.

  Once he had thought using the Knife would give him strength enough to challenge Suwraith, but he knew better now. The Knife granted power, but the cost was the wielder’s sanity. It wasn’t a price Hal’El was willing to pay. He wondered if Suwraith might have once been Human. Had She been faced with a choice similar to his: destruction of all She had loved versus Her sanity? Perhaps She had used the Knife and it had given Her unstoppable power even as it drove Her mad.

  With thoughts of loss and death on his mind, he almost didn’t recognize Ular Sathin when the old man brushed by him. The Muran was a half a dozen steps past, when Hal’El realized who he was. He had looked upset, his face puffy and his eyes red, as though he’d been crying.

  Curious, Hal’El turned to follow. He’d long ago learned to trust his instincts when it came to these type of matters. Something was wrong with Ular, and if so, it might affect the Sil Lor Kum, and through it, Hal’El and Varesea.

  Ular walked swiftly back to his home, a row house in Hart’s Stand with quiet Rahails living on all sides of his own. Foot traffic dwindled, and Hal’El took the opportunity to duck into a nearby alley and Blend. He’d somehow tortured the knowledge from Van Jinnu and Felt Barnel. He still wasn’t sure how he had done so, nor was he particularly proud of his actions, but in the end he wasn’t ashamed. If those he’d murdered insisted on staying with him, the least they could be was be useful.

  He stepped back onto the street, but by then Ular had already entered his home. All the curtains were drawn, but a light leaked out from around one of them. At least Ular wasn’t huddled in total darkness. Just then, the curtain was pulled back a fraction, and Hal’El saw Ular’s frightened face peer out into the street.

  Even more curious.

  Hal’El made his way to the rear of the home. He tested a door half-hidden beneath a clematis-covered pergola. It was unlocked. Hal’El smiled. Ular was spooked, and in his panic, the old fool must have overlooked it. Hal’El eased open the door and stepped inside Ular’s home.

  He’d never been here before, and he took a moment to get his bearings. He was in a narrow, galley style kitchen that was as neat and tidy as a penitent's mind. A door on the far wall led further into the house, and the room it led to was obviously meant for dining. A rectangular table, four chairs, and white walls were the entirety of the furnishings within it.

  It seemed Ular’s house was a reflection of his passionless nature.

  Movement and sound came from further inside, and Hal’El crept toward it. The next room was a sitting area with a couch, coffee table, and an unlit hearth. A narrow staircase to the side of the front entry led upstairs, and a single firefly lantern on the mantle provided the light.

  Ular paced before the fireplace. He was sweating profusely. It was unlike the old man who was known for his cold dispassion.

  Hal’El stepped forward. “You seem nervous,” he said.

  Ular shrieked and darted his gaze about. “Who’s there?” he said in a tremulous voice.

  “The SuDin,” Hal’El said, maintaining his Blend, though it was growing taxing. “Why do you appear so frightened?”

  “Who wouldn’t be startled when a voice from nowhere suddenly speaks to them?” Ular said. He drew himself up, trying to regain his composure. “Why don’t you show yourself?”

  Hal’El chuckled. “I think it best if you don’t know who I am,” he replied. “Although….” He withdrew into the dining room and donned a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. He released the Blend and stepped back into the sitting area. “Better?”

  Ular nodded.

  “Good. Now you can tell me why you appear as frightened as a gazelle bef
ore a Shylow,” Hal’El said. “Or is my presence truly so fearsome?”

  Ular glanced at the door.

  “You’re expecting someone?” Hal’El asked. Ular shot another glance. “Or you’re wondering if you can get out of this house before I stop you.” Ular startled and a look of nervousness took hold over his face. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Ular said, the panic evident in his voice.

  Hal’El knew it was a lie, but the question was, what was the old Muran hiding? He thought about it as he studied Ular. He rocked back when the answer came to him. Ular must have betrayed the Sil Lor Kum. He’d been a member of the organization for decades, and he’d sold them out. It was the only thing that made sense. The only remaining questions were what Ular had been paid for his treachery? And who had he spoken to? Hal’El withdrew the Withering Knife, letting the old man see it. “Who else knows about you?” he demanded.

  Ular’s eyes grew huge, and he swallowed convulsively. “Kill me and you learn nothing,” he vowed.

  Ular’s death was assured, but not until Hal’El knew who the Muran had been talking to. He had to know. His life and Varesea’s might depend on what he learned. “I won’t kill you,” he said with a chill smile. “I’ll cut you. Only once, and you’ll feel your Jivatma rip apart. You’ll feel your soul shred. I can’t imagine anything more painful.” He took a step forward. “Tell me who you’ve spoken to!”

  Ular darted to the mantle. On it was a clear glass of water. He upended it, pouring the liquid down his throat.

  Hal’El cursed, realizing too late what the old man intended. He tore the glass away, but it was already over. Ular frothed at the mouth. His eyes bulged and blood poured from his nose. He would be dead in minutes.

  Ular’s legs gave way and Hal’El caught him before he fell. “Who did you speak to?” he demanded, shaking the old man in his urgency.

  Ular clutched Hal’El’s handkerchief and pulled it down. The old Muran smiled at the last. “I always thought it was you, Hal’El Wrestiva.”

  Despite hurrying as best he could, it turned out Rector was still the last one to arrive for the meeting he had requested. Jaresh, Bree, and Mira were already there, waiting at a square table. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, but their conversation ceased when they saw him. Jaresh and Bree gave him wary looks, as if he was an unpredictable dog who might lunge and bite at any moment, while Mira shrugged as if to say it was his own fault for the others’ hostility.

  Rector mentally sighed.

  It was to be expected given what he’d done to them. What he’d done to Rukh. He deserved every ounce of Jaresh and Bree’s distrust, even their hatred if it came to it. He just hoped there would come a time when he could make restitution for his offenses and earn their forgiveness. Perhaps it could begin now that Rukh was no longer considered Unworthy. In just a few days, Farn Arnicep would lead the very first Trial to Stronghold. Jaresh was supposed to go with him, too, and if everything went well, they would bring Rukh home. He doubted it would change anything between himself and Dar’El’s family, but stranger things had happened.

  Rector shook off his thoughts and took the remaining seat at the table. He looked around at the looming walls of bookshelves on all four sides, and shifted uncomfortably. The Cellar, with its poor lighting and claustrophobic spaces, was reminiscent of a dank, dark cave. Rector felt hemmed in, and he wondered how Jaresh and Mira had tolerated the months they’d spent down here during their search for clues about the Withering Knife.

  Bree cleared her throat and gave him a pointed look.

  Rector took the hint. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I was finishing up some paperwork, and the time got away from me.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us what you learned?” Mira suggested.

  “I’ve discovered some information which I think might aid our cause,” he said. “I was able to make some headway on whoever owns the warehouse I oversee. The bookkeeping made it nearly impossible, but I think I might be able to figure it out.” He flashed a hesitant smile. “Deciphering accounts and ledgers is not my strong suit, but from what I’ve ascertained, ownership of the warehouse is held jointly by a company titled Quality Building Divisions and an unnamed silent partner.”

  “Who’s the silent partner?” Bree asked.

  “It might be a Rahail,” Rector replied. “There was a note inside one of the books I found, and it referred to ‘our dear Rahail partner’.”

  “It’s not much to go on,” Jaresh mused.

  “Which is why I brought the actual ledgers with me,” Rector said. “There’s something unusual about them. Mira mentioned it I think.”

  Jaresh nodded. “Letters bolded or capitalized when they need not be.”

  “I tried applying the code you used on that journal you found, the one from the caravan master who transported the Withering Knife to Rock.” He chewed a lip. “It didn’t work, so I was hoping you could take a look at them.” He passed over a set of bound papers.

  Jaresh took the ledgers without comment and flipped through the pages. “How soon do you need these back?” he asked.

  “Tonight,” Rector replied. “The accountants throw a fuss whenever they see me thumbing through their works,” he said. “I’d hate to see their reaction if they discover these books are missing.”

  Bree looked at him in surprise. “You think the accountants are Sil Lor Kum?” she asked. “Every one of them?”

  Rector shook his head. “No. Just someone to whom they answer. That person would be of the Sil Lor Kum.”

  “And you have no idea who it might be?” Mira asked.

  Rector gave her a wry expression. “What do you suppose would happen if I did know?”

  Mira chuckled. “Probably the same as what happened to the Rahail who attacked Bree and Jaresh.”

  Bree gave Mira a sour look before turning to Rector. “We never thanked you properly for your help,” she said.

  Jaresh glanced up from the ledger. “Yes. We owe you a certain debt for what you’ve done,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” Rector said politely, although the double meaning in Bree and Jaresh’s statements was readily evident.

  “It is a code,” Jaresh announced. He didn’t look up from the ledger, and his hand groped across the table, seemingly searching for something.

  Without comment or having to ask what he needed, Mira passed him a pencil and a clean sheet of paper.

  Jaresh nodded his ‘thanks’, and the paper was soon filled with a trail of letters.

  As he worked, Bree and Mira spoke softly of Farn’s impending departure while Rector sat ignored.

  It was to be expected. The other three here were Shektans, while Rector was nominally a Wrestiva. He was the outsider amongst the four of them, the one who didn’t belong. And with the way his life had shaken out, it seemed like there was nowhere he did belong. He was a spy, which was the same as a liar and a thief. As a result, Rector found it impossible to join in the laughter and fellowship of his family and friends given how much he detested who he had become.

  Choices had consequences, and Rector had made a rather spectacularly poor one many months ago. He should have remained loyal to Dar’El rather than spill everything he knew to House Wrestiva. He had thought he was maintaining the honor of his Caste by exposing Rukh’s Talents, but it wasn’t the case. He had done as he had because of his arrogant pride.

  Now Rector had to work hard in order to keep those same mistakes from defining who he was or what he might become. If he could make amends for what he’d done, Dar’El’s heart might soften, especially once Rukh returned. Perhaps then, Rector would be allowed to join a House of his own choosing, and this time, offer it his full loyalty. So much of it was out of his control, and Rector could only do whatever tasks he was assigned to the best of his ability. And while he hated the role he had to play, at least his work on behalf of House Shektan had proven useful.

  Rector watched as Jaresh set aside the ledger and focused on the letters he had tran
scribed. The Sentya’s lips moved silently as his brow furrowed in concentration. Sooner than Rector would have imagined possible, he grinned.

  “Whoever devised this must not have had much knowledge of codes,” Jaresh said. “It’s a simple substitution cipher: one letter corresponds to another.”

  Rector had always known Jaresh was clever, but with this, his estimation of the man rose once more. Jaresh had managed to break the code in less time than it would have taken Rector to read the morning broadsheet.

  “The journal hides a conversation between two people,” Jaresh continued. “I think one of them is a woman. Her letters are more curved, and she’s left-handed.”

  “Do they say anything important?” Bree asked, leaning forward with an intense, almost lupine expression on her face.

  Jaresh grinned. “Nothing except businesses and buildings where these two have dealings. Not all of it is clear-cut, but with time, we should be able to learn who they are.”

  “We’ll have them gutted before the end of the month,” Mira said with a cold, deadly smile.

  Her attitude was so different from how she usually behaved. Mira could be proud and dismissive when she was made truly angry, but usually she was just matter-of-fact and businesslike. Rector had never seen her display this predatory side before.

  Jaresh appeared just as ready for blood. “When we find out who they are, we should,—”

  “Not you,” Bree interrupted. “You’re leaving for Stronghold in a few days.”

  Jaresh grimaced. “I so wanted to be there when we brought them to justice,” he said. “I wanted to see them pay for their crimes.”

  Rector sympathized with Jaresh’s sentiments. He felt the same way. He wouldn’t shed a single tear when every member of the Sil Lor Kum was staked out on the Isle of the Crow. In fact, it would be a glad day for everyone involved.

  A clock struck the time, and Rector realized he had to go. “I need to get the ledgers back to the warehouse,” he said, rising to leave.