Outcaste

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “Despite the fact that she’s underage and her clients should be in prison.”

  “I have no factual knowledge of Rahel’s activities outside of this pleasure house. What I do have is an understanding of the difficulties she has faced and the limited options available to her.”

  She dared a glance at her mother and saw the flinch.

  “Rahel is a remarkable young woman who is not afraid to explore paths others leave untrodden,” Sharro continued. “If I could help her find a path that kept her safer, then I was happy to do so. What she did with that knowledge was up to her.”

  Unwilling to let this turn into a repeat of whatever had happened with Deme Isanelle, Rahel spoke up. “My options are a lot less limited now. Mother is inscribing me in the warrior caste today.”

  Sharro sat up straight. “You are?”

  “Yes. I may have been the last person on Alsea to figure it out, but I did eventually see that Rahel will never be a merchant.”

  “You’re not the last,” Rahel said.

  “That’s not a great consolation.”

  Sharro’s dimple appeared. “You’re listening to her truth again.”

  “I . . . yes.” Her mother took a too-large gulp of summer cider. “I didn’t realize I had stopped.”

  “It’s easy to see the world as we want it to be. Seeing it as it truly is—that takes a different sort of vision. One that looks out, rather than looking in.”

  “You can’t have a normal conversation with Sharro,” Rahel explained. “I spend half my time in here trying to translate.”

  Her mother pinned Sharro with an appraising stare. “I didn’t expect to meet a philosopher in this room.”

  Sharro inclined her head. Today she was in white trousers and a black shirt, and the matching black stripe in her silver hair gave her a more formal appearance than usual. Rahel envisioned her at the head of a class and thought she would fit in quite well.

  “Priming and comfort giving are both matters of psychology and philosophy. If I’m to help others, I need to understand them. To do that, I need to understand myself and the world we all move through.”

  “And that’s how you’ve been helping Rahel?” her mother asked in a challenging voice. “Teaching her philosophy?”

  “Among other things, yes. But you’re really asking if I’ve taught an underage girl things that no mother would want her to know. I can only answer that Rahel came to me already much too aware of things you would not want her to know. What I taught her was how to avoid those situations.”

  “By making her better at getting into similar ones.”

  “No. Not remotely similar.”

  “Mother, they don’t touch me.” She had to stop this before it got worse. “Not like that. They did before, and I hated it. Sharro saved me from that. And she’s taught me so much more.” She hesitated, wondering how to explain all that she had learned in this room. It was like trying to explain the ocean: too vast to be encompassed in mere words.

  “Hasil teaches me how to use my body,” she said slowly. “And how to make the rest of me get out of the way so my body can do what I want. Deme Isanelle teaches me how to use my mind. She broke the rules for me when I lost my work permit, because I was never late bringing my books back and she didn’t want me to lose access to the library. She said I had a vibrant mind and made me promise not to let it go.” She looked over at her mentor. “And Sharro—she teaches me how to see. I see so much more because of her.”

  Sharro gave her a proud smile. “Spoken like a philosopher.”

  Her mother watched them with a closed face that Rahel could not read. At last she said, “When you ran away from home, I worried about so many things. I worried about where you would live, how you would eat, who might hurt you . . . and then you sent that message through the caste house and oh, what a relief. I could stop worrying about your basic survival. Then I worried about your education.” Her expression softened. “Now I’m realizing that should have been the least of my concerns. You’ve had three teachers all along, haven’t you?”

  “Four. Mouse taught me everything I needed to know to survive. I wouldn’t have made it three moons without him.”

  “I’m not sure whether to thank him or throw him in the bay. If you hadn’t met him, you might have come home.”

  Rahel’s first thought was to hold her tongue. Then she remembered her earlier vow. “If I hadn’t met him, I’d probably be dead.”

  Seeing the horrified reaction, she quickly decided that the vow would not apply to the murder attempt. “I got thrown out of both social assistance centers. I didn’t know where else I could sleep, so I crawled up on a pile of crates on the ship I was loading, after everyone else left for the night. I did that for a nineday, and Mouse said it was a miracle I hadn’t been caught. He said if the crew had caught me there, they would have thrown me off the top deck. It’s a long way down. And back then, I didn’t know how to swim.”

  “He wasn’t exaggerating,” Sharro said. “Ship crews are notorious for their abuse of outcaste dockworkers. Now and again, bodies do wash up in Wildwind Bay.”

  “Fahla.” Her mother took another large gulp. “I thought . . . well, never mind what I thought.”

  “Priming illegally is not without its risks.” Sharro was using her matter-of-fact tone. “Neither is walking down the street. To live is to risk. The best we can do is try to understand the risks and decide which ones are worth taking. Working the docks is very risky, especially for a child of fifteen or sixteen. Priming, by comparison—”

  “I’m so much safer,” Rahel said. “I choose my clients now. I’ve rejected the ones who didn’t feel right. I hold all the power, because they give it to me.”

  “You choose them now? Aren’t you done with this? You’ll have a warrior caste ID; you can work legally.”

  There hadn’t been time to plan that far ahead. “I don’t know. Training is intensive. I can’t do that and work full-time, too. I missed the earlier training that would have made it easier. How much is Father willing to spend on me?”

  “As much as I tell him we are, or his body may wash up in Wildwind Bay. No,” her mother said decisively. “I can’t let you do this any longer. It’s illegal, it’s not safe—”

  “You haven’t let me do anything for two cycles!” Rahel snapped. “Don’t think you get to start now. Or are you going to hold my caste choice hostage again?”

  The sudden silence in the room was oppressive. Her mother looked down and carefully set her glass on the table.

  “I know I’m having to earn back your faith,” she said. “But I am still your mother. I will always want you to be safe, and it’s only been a few hanticks since I found out—” Abruptly, she pushed out of the chair and crossed to the glass wall, where she wrapped her arms around herself and stared out into the courtyard.

  Sharro caught Rahel’s eye and tilted her head toward the still figure at the window. Give comfort, her gesture seemed to say. That was, after all, what this room was for.

  She moved up beside her mother. This close, she could sense the same pain that she had felt in her holding cell. It was less raw but no less bitter, and the flavor of failure was even stronger.

  With a gradual lean, she rested their shoulders together—and realized they were the same height.

  So many things had changed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m used to making my own decisions now.”

  “That’s obvious.” Her mother unwound one arm and slipped it around Rahel’s waist. “Look out there. Isn’t it beautiful? This has to be the nicest pleasure house I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ve never been in any other.”

  “Mine would fit in the courtyard.” She tightened her grip. “If you were past your Rite of Ascension and decided to be a prime, I’d support you every step of the way. Because you would work in a place like this. Sharro’s clients have to pass a screening. They have to show caste ID for those kinds of services, so they can be tracked down if th
ey . . . act badly. That’s assuming the pleasure house security doesn’t catch them first. I’m sure Sharro has a call pad in her room.”

  “I do.” Sharro appeared at Rahel’s other shoulder. “In the last five cycles, I’ve used it twice. Both times I was very glad to have it.”

  “And that was with clients who passed a screening. They were coming to a place they knew had security. Where do you meet your clients, in an inn that trades cash for a blind eye? I’m not trying to take away your choices again. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “I know, but I don’t think—”

  “Rahel,” Sharro interrupted. “I helped you because you were forced to choose between bad and worse. You’re no longer in that position. Now your choice is between legal and illegal. If you choose illegal, I can’t help you any longer.”

  Bracketed between them, Rahel felt her anger rise once more. They were teaming up on her, making decisions for her, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that her mother could walk in this room and turn Sharro against her.

  Sharro reached out and brushed Rahel’s hair away from her forehead. “My fierce warrior,” she said softly. “You don’t always have to fight.”

  Rahel crumpled, falling back against her mother. It was as if Sharro had spoken directly to her body, telling it that it could relax. That it didn’t have to be on alert, watching for the latest threat. That it was safe.

  She was still angry, but this was the kind of anger she sometimes felt with Mouse, when she didn’t know how to fix it but trusted that they would.

  Her mother wrapped both arms around her. “That’s my job, to fight for you. Children aren’t supposed to have to fight for themselves. You’ve been doing it since you were thirteen, and I am so sorry about that. I didn’t understand that was what was happening. But I understand now. You’ve proven yourself. You don’t have to keep doing it.”

  “Your mother is listening to your truth. Now it’s your turn to listen to hers.”

  She had never thought of it that way. Of course her mother had a truth. Her father probably did, too, but she didn’t give a fanten fart about that. He had written himself out of her life. But her mother was here. She had always been here. Rahel had not gone back to that house in two cycles, but her mother had come to Whitesun every moon. It was not a short journey, yet she had never said a word about how long it took or what she might have been giving up to do it. And every time she came, all Rahel could think about was how little she understood. How much of a stranger she had become.

  How could she listen to the truth when Rahel had not given it to her?

  She turned around and breathed in her scent, that familiar blend of spicy soap and the tang of metal dust.

  “I never . . .” she began, and had to stop to breathe again. “I never wanted anything more than for you to fight for me.”

  “I’m here.” Her mother held on tightly. “I’m here and I’m fighting for you.”

  She was still angry. But she trusted.

  25

  RISK

  Watching her mother and Sharro chat like good friends was one of the most surreal experiences Rahel could imagine. Once Sharro had proven herself—and Rahel did have an uncharitable thought about how much her mother seemed to need proof from people—they got along very well. So well, in fact, that Rahel was sent out the door at the end of their meeting so the two adults could speak privately.

  She grumbled to herself as she walked to the landing at the top of the outdoor stairs. When her mother joined her several ticks later, she had to ask.

  “What was that about?”

  “I thanked her.”

  “For?”

  Her mother started down the steps without answering. They were on the ground-level walkway before she said, “For doing my job.”

  Rahel puzzled over that. “Sharro never fought for me. We don’t see each other anywhere but here.”

  “How much did she charge you for your lessons in priming?”

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  “She fought for you the only way she could. She gave you the one thing she had that could make you safer, and she took a considerable risk doing it. That’s not counting the value of her time. I don’t even want to know what her rates are.”

  Rahel was stuck on one word. “What risk?”

  “Do you know what the penalty is for involving a child in illegal joining services?”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s not a client. She’s—” Rahel stopped walking as the implications hit.

  “I could file a report right now and have her dragged out of here. Do you think she would pass an empathic scan to determine whether she knew what you were doing? Or whether she knew she was enabling it?”

  “You wouldn’t,” she breathed. Panic rooted her to the spot. If she had ruined Sharro by bringing her mother here . . .

  “Rahel, stop. It’s all right. I would never do that. At this point, I’m thinking I should build a sculpture in her honor and have it delivered here. It would look very nice by that cinnoralis tree.”

  Panic didn’t leave a body as quickly as it entered. Rahel was still shaky on her feet. “I didn’t—”

  “You took what she offered and didn’t think about the risk to her. She understands, Rahel. She’s the adult; it was her risk to take. Her choice.” She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. “A simple thank-you hardly seems enough. It was bad enough learning what I did this morning, but it could have been so much worse. You could have been abused for a cycle instead of a few ninedays. Sharro saved you from that. I would never repay her with—” She blinked back tears. “You have quite a team working for you. Sharro said I raised a wonderful young woman. I told her I only wish I could take the credit for it. This is all you.”

  She offered a watery smile and turned back toward the entrance.

  They passed through the entryway, crossed the street, and found the right magtran line to take them to the central park. As they sat in their capsule, waiting to leave the station, her mother said, “One more thing. I don’t know if you’ll ever speak to your father again. But if you do, don’t mention Sharro.”

  Rahel scoffed. “That’s never going to happen.”

  “Or Hasil. He wouldn’t be in nearly as much trouble, but he still taught you without our authorization. For two cycles.”

  She stared out the window as their capsule accelerated up to join the magtran in the main line. It had never occurred to her just how much her mentors had risked. She wondered if Deme Isanelle could get in trouble for letting her take out books without a caste ID. Surely even the Head Librarian answered to someone.

  Thank Fahla her father had not been the one to come and get her out of the detention center. Not that she would have told him anything, but still . . .

  She looked back at her mother. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not doing what you could have.”

  The flare of pain brushed her senses. “I think the problem all along is that I haven’t been doing what I could have.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her mother gazed at Wildwind Bay, now gray and rippled with wind as the rain poured down. “You were right about the rain. I hope we can get into the caste house before it comes ashore.” After a pause, she added, “Protecting you means protecting your team, too. I just needed to meet them first. To see who these people were that you turned to.”

  “They’re good people.”

  “They are. So are you.”

  Nothing more was said as their magtran sped toward the center of the city.

  26

  CASTE HOUSE

  If Rahel had thought it was surreal to watch her mother with Sharro, that didn’t compare to walking into the warrior caste house with her.

  “Needs more art,” her mother said as she looked around the high-ceilinged lobby. “They should have an exchange program with the crafter caste house. But—hoi, look at the swords!” She strode across to the oldest swords on display. �
�These are precollapsible! Great Mother, look at that metalwork. Exquisite.”

  Rahel was normally very appreciative of ancient weaponry, but she had waited long enough. “Mother . . .”

  “Yes, sorry. But we’re not leaving until I get a better look at these.”

  They walked to the back of the lobby, where the enormous semicircular entry desk took up most of the wall. Behind it were several warriors working at clerical positions, and behind them was the archway leading back to the archives. Her mother had to examine the desk, too, and comment on the artistry of the woodwork. By the time a tall, thin warrior in a full cape came to help them, Rahel was nearly vibrating with anticipation.

  “I want to challenge into the warrior caste,” she told him. “My mother is supporting my challenge.”

  The warrior, who was not as welcoming as the one she remembered from two cycles ago, asked for both of their names and thumbprints. This was followed by a phenomenal number of questions about how she had trained prior to this, the names of her trainers and their houses, what types of jobs she had held, why she wanted to challenge, what she thought the warrior caste could offer her, what she thought she could offer the caste, and on and on until she was ready to scream. She was prepared for tests of any kind but the test of patience.

  After what felt like an entire day, the warrior finally nodded and asked them to wait in the lobby while he checked the records. If her information met the requirements, she would be taken into one of the meeting rooms for her first test.

  They passed the time examining all of the swords and other weaponry, as well as the various banners, shields, and tapestries, and finally ended in a pair of chairs between two tall windows.

  “What kinds of tests will you have to pass?” her mother asked.

  “One for intelligence, one to determine my aptitude for any of a whole list of things they look for, one for the dance of combat, and one for ethics and morals.” Rahel had researched this long ago.

  “Ethics and morals, really? Then it’s not just a stereotype about warrior honor.”

  “Well, if you’re born into the caste, you don’t have to pass the test. But I’ve been learning about warrior honor since my first class with Brasdo, so I think it’s part of everyone’s training. Mouse says my sense of honor is inconvenient.”