The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  They should have known better. Joining the Sil Lor Kum meant more than merely making money or gaining power. It was more than just running a gambling house or funneling drugs to various restaurants and bars. At its most fundamental, joining the Sil Lor Kum meant service to the Queen, and if She demanded their obedience, then obedience would be offered – up to and including – aid in the destruction of their homes. The MalDin had never expected this day would come, blinded as they were by ambition and the easy acquisition of money and power. But now the Queen was calling in Her chits, and the MalDin had to pay. They were afraid.

  Frag them. The SuDin listened with contempt as they bleated on about surviving Suwraith. They were all fools. They should have better prepared for this eventuality. The Queen was coming and no one had ever survived Her, possibly not even the Sil Lor Kum. A man of vision, though…he could save his Caste or maybe even the entire city. The SuDin smiled. And the Queen had perhaps given him the means to do so. She had given him the Withering Knife, the legendary blade that myths claimed could steal Jivatma.

  He rapped his knuckles and told the MalDin a mixture of lies and truth. He showed them the Withering Knife, but feigned ignorance as to how it worked. They listened closely as the SuDin explained his plans, a small alteration of the one with which Suwraith had charged him.

  “And we’re to survive how exactly?” Pera Obbe asked in her grating voice.

  The SuDin smiled generously, as if happy to field her question. He answered, assuring Pera and the others of their safety. He told them what they wanted to hear, letting them believe that places had already been prepared for them in cities throughout the world. He continued on, explaining how easily their wealth would be transferred to these new homes abroad. All of them would survive in prosperity and happiness. They stared at him after he finished speaking, wearing the hungry and desperate looks of the condemned who suddenly saw a means to their survival.

  He wanted to laugh in their faces.

  None of it was true. They would all die, and the SuDin would be glad. He would miss Varesea, though. He glanced and caught her gaze. She knew he was lying. He could see the realization in her eyes. She understood there was much he wasn’t telling them. Varesea knew him too well, and he could see he would have to explain his plans more fully to her later tonight. It went without saying: she would not hear the entire truth.

  Smooth lies continued to flow from his lips as he gave false hope to the MalDin. Suwraith would kill them all.

  Steen Trist awoke early in the morning, well before dawn. He read through his anatomy notes one last time, trying to burn the information into his head. The origin of the long head of the biceps brachii is the supraglenoid tubercle of the scapula, while the short head originates from the coracoid process. The two heads then insert into…! Where did they insert? Damn it! The radial tuberosity.

  Idiot.

  Why couldn’t he remember something so basic?

  Steen glared at his notes in frustration. He was a first-year student at Verchow College of Medicine, and he had his finals in anatomy later that day. He felt woefully unprepared. The test would only cover the upper extremities and the thoracic cavity, but it was still a lot to learn.

  His parents were extremely proud of Steen, and he wasn’t as afraid of failure as he was of disappointing them. Their family hadn’t produced a physician in over three generations, and although the larger Shiyen community did not look down upon them – his parents were skilled craftsmen and quite well-to-do in their own right – they both still felt an underlying sense of doubt about their own worth. They were Shiyens and Shiyens were supposed to Heal. It was the Talent of the Caste.

  But, to become a physician, a person had to do very well on the rigorous entrance exams, and only the best were selected to attend either Verchow or Alminius, the two medical colleges in Ashoka. Steen had been overjoyed, just as his entire family had been, when he had been accepted to Verchow.

  A year into his studies, though, he wasn’t sure if it had been the right choice for him. It wasn’t because the material was too hard for him but because the material was so deadly dull. Steen couldn’t imagine anything more boring than some of the topics they were expected to master. For instance, why did they have to memorize the blood vessels in the brain? No one ever did surgery on the brain, so why did it matter? Steen couldn’t drop out, though. His parents would be crushed if he did.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No time to think about that now. Focus. Alright, let’s see. The triceps brachii has three heads. The long head originates below the infraglenoid tubercle, the lateral head from the posterior shaft of the humerus above the deltoid tuberosity, and the medial head comes from the posterior shaft below the deltoid tuberosity, all the way to the lateral epicondyle. The three heads insert into the ulnar olecranon.

  He felt a small measure of triumph. Yes! One simple fact memorized, a thousand more to go. He kept at it for another few hours. By then, the sun had risen, and the delicious smell of pastries filled the air. His nanna was a jewelry maker, but he also loved baking. He took pride in making his own sweets and breads to serve the customers as they tried on the various necklaces, pendants, and jewels in the store.

  Steen closed his books. If he didn’t have the material memorized by now, another few minutes of studying wouldn’t help. He stood and stretched, yawning mightily. He was about to leave his room, but noticed how rumpled his clothes were. His hair was also a mess. He took a moment to straighten up before trotting down the stairs. He darted into the kitchen, meaning to grab some bread and eat it on the way to school.

  Nanna glanced up from the counter. He had already cut several slices of bread and even had them buttered. Looking at Nanna sometimes made Steen cringe. His father had the walnut complexion, high, prominent cheekbones, and midnight dark, almond eyes of their Caste, but while most Shiyens were merely stocky, Nanna was fat. It was a cruel thing to say, but it was true. And unfortunately, Steen could easily see himself following in his nanna’s footsteps. He glanced down at the large roll bulging around his midsection. Maybe he should cut back and get some exercise.

  The smell of the buttered bread made his mouth water

  Some other time. He needed the fuel for his mind and today’s test. He swiped the bread, thanking Nanna before heading out.

  “Good luck, son,” Nanna yelled to him as he stepped out the back door and onto the narrow lane that ran behind their house.

  Steen took a deep breath. Ah! Warm weather. Summer was almost here, which meant an end to the school year. He smiled in anticipation. No more classes or studying for two solid months. He paused as he was about to pass by the alleyway running between his parents’ home and that of the Barnels next door. There was something down there, lying on the ground, deep in the shadows. Something vaguely man-shaped. He frowned as he tried to figure out what he was seeing. His frown cleared as he realized what it was. It was probably just some drunk, passed out after getting lost and wandering into their neighborhood. He hesitated but eventually decided he had to make sure the fool was alright.

  Steen stepped into the alley. “Hello?” he queried.

  He waited for a moment, but there was no response. The drunk must have drank enough to sink a boat.

  Steen stepped further into the alley.

  The person on the ground was unmoving.

  A sense of foreboding took him. Suddenly, the shadowed alley seemed darker, more menacing. Steen swallowed heavily as a trickle of fear made its way down his back. He tried to set aside his rising anxiety, seeking to replace it with anger, mostly at himself for being afraid. After all, there was no reason for it. He’d been down this lane a thousand times. It had never caused him a moment of worry before. So then why were all these chills racing up and down his spine? He glanced back to the entrance of the alley. The bright sunlight looked so far away.

  He approached closer. Dread rose. His instincts told him to run. Something bad had happened here. He could feel it.


  He inched closer. Details became clearer. He recognized the coat the person was wearing. It belonged to Master Barnel, the next-door neighbor. The man was lying face down, hands tucked under his body. His clothes looked strangely large, billowy about the man’s unmoving frame, and Steen wondered if this might be someone else. Maybe a relative? But then again, there was Master Barnel’s white hair.

  “Master Barnel?” Steen croaked, his voice cracking from his nervousness.

  Silence.

  Steen turned the man over and screamed.

  He stumbled away from the corpse, terror gripping his heart. What could do that to a man? He stood up, and without a backward glance, ran out of the alley, still screaming. It had indeed been Master Barnel or what was left of him. All that remained now was a brittle husk. A corpse with a gaping bloodstained wound in his chest.

  Master Barnel had been murdered.

  The most holy room in a man’s house should be his library. It is the same when it comes to one’s city.

  ~Sooths and Small Sayings by Tramed Billow, AF 1387

  Mira followed Dar’El into the City Morgue. It was a dimly lit space in the basement below Ashoka’s main hospice. A bone-deep chill penetrated the dark, windowless hallway and rooms, all of which were colored a drab gray. A smell, acrid and harsh, hung in the air, but it couldn’t completely mask the smell of blood and death. Mira couldn’t imagine a more uninviting and depressing place. The bodies temporarily stored in the morgue were generally of those who had died accidentally or for whom a post-mortem was required. Then there were the bodies of the impoverished, whose families couldn’t afford a proper funeral pyre. The City’s Treasury took care of those unfortunate cases.

  According to rumor a new category of dead was now to be found in the Morgue: a murder victim from yesterday, the first in over fifteen years. The killing had rocked the city and everyone seemed to have an opinion as to what had happened. It was the primary topic of discussion in most of the restaurants, pubs, and theaters throughout the city, capturing the attention of all. It didn’t matter if they were rich or poor or to what Caste they belonged – most everybody was busy gossiping about the murder.

  Mira had been no less entranced and horrified by the death as anyone else. She and her friends had endlessly theorized as to what might have happened, and their guesses had gyrated wildly between the ludicrous and the hideous. Occasionally, they had laughed or felt guilty over their morbid fascination, but it hadn’t ended their speculation. However, during all those conversations, Mira had never suspected she herself might soon be involved in the solving of the murder. But then why else would Dar’El have ordered her to meet with him here at the morgue? It was the only explanation she could think of, and it left her feeling more than a little trepidatious. She had only recently completed her apprenticeship with House Suzay, and her first assignment with House Shektan might be something of potential importance for the entire city. It was a bit daunting, but also very exciting.

  As they walked the echoing and empty hallway, her nervousness grew and she finally had to break the silence. “Why are we here?” she asked.

  “We’re here for him,” Dar’El said, opening a door and gesturing to a plain, black granite table centered within the room and held up by a single stone pillar. Upon the slab was laid out a corpse, covered by a black sheet and leaving only the face exposed. The only light in the space came from a set of firefly lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their brightness focused on the stone table.

  Mira glanced at Dar’El. “This is the man who was murdered yesterday, isn’t he?”

  Dar’El nodded. “Dr. Redhes, the chief of pathology, has never seen anything like it,” he said. “Pull back the sheets, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Mira approached the body. At first she thought the victim must have been tremendously old since the face and head had the tight, pinched look sometimes seen in the elderly, but this was different. The man’s skin didn’t have the thin, almost translucent look sometimes seen in the aged. Instead it was dry and brittle, appearing like it had been baked and pulled so tightly against the bones of his face that the teeth were exposed in a rictus of a grin. Mira swallowed back her revulsion. This had been no ordinary death. She pulled back the sheet and gasped. A gaping maw was all that was left of the man’s chest. Inside it, she could see his heart and lungs. They were hard nuggets of flesh.

  Mira stepped back in horror. “What could have done something like this?” she whispered in shock.

  “I don’t know,” Dar’El replied. “The means of his death is as much a mystery as the murder itself.”

  “Who was he?” Mira asked, tearing her gaze away from the corpse.

  “His name was Felt Barnel. A Muran glassblower, and according to his wife, he was alive and healthy the evening prior to his discovery. His neighbor’s son, a student from Verchow, found him on the morning in question, murdered in the alley between their two homes.”

  “You’re saying he was alive one evening and dead by the next morning?” Mira asked in disbelief. “He looks like he was left out for weeks in the sun or put in a kiln or something like that.”

  “And yet his corpse shows no evidence of exposure to the elements or charring.”

  Mira stepped away from the table. What had happened to Felt Barnel was too horrible for words, and she was both embarrassed and guilty for the selfish excitement she had earlier felt. Yes, she might be able to help solve the mystery of his murder – she had no idea how – but Master Barnel would still be dead. Justice would be too late for him.

  “And my role in all of this?” Mira asked. “Aren’t murders under the purview of the City Watch?”

  A thin wisp of a smile ghosted across Dar’El’s face. “They are, but murders are so rare. No one is an expert in the solving of such crimes.” He turned away from his study of the corpse, moving to face her. “But the investigation of the murder isn’t why I called you here.”

  “Then what is?”

  He paused, as if searching for a word. “I have my concerns,” he said. “And I have a job for you. One suited to your skills.”

  Dar’El was certainly being mysterious.

  “What am I to do?” she asked.

  “Let’s go to where Master Barnel was found, and we’ll discuss it then.”

  Dar’El re-covered the corpse and led her out of the Morgue and into the warmth of the bright afternoon sunshine.

  As soon as she stepped outside, she turned her face up to the sky and the sun, letting its heat warm her chilled skin and heart. She shivered, trying to set aside the horrifying image of Felt Barnel. How painful his death must have been. No one deserved what had happened to him, and anyone who could do such an evil deed was someone she would happily see hang.

  She and Dar‘El walked the short distance from the hospice to Sunpalm Orchard. This was where many of Caste Shiyen made their home, the place where most of Ashoka’s physicians and their families resided. It was a wealthy neighborhood of stately town homes fronting narrow, tree-lined streets built around a central district of taller buildings, typically housing a business on the first floor and flats and apartments above. Many of the roads had a slender median within which were planted a single row of gardenias. The plants were the height of a man and were heavy with ripe blossoms. Their fragrant aroma filled the air, carried throughout Sunpalm and beyond by a warm, spring breeze.

  Mira took in their lovely scent, so alive and heady, especially after the harsh, dead smell of the morgue.

  “This way,” Dar’El said, turning down a side street. He led her into a narrow alley between several homes where the week’s refuse and detritus were placed for the city’s garbage collectors to pick up. “This is where he was found.” Dar’El bent to the ground.

  “Felt Barnel lived nearby?”

  Dar’El pointed to the house to their right. “He lived there. He had his workshop on the bottom floor. His family lived on the second.”

  “Business must have been good for him to h
ave been able to afford a place like this, especially being a Muran in a neighborhood of Shiyens,” Mira said, looking at the handsome and well-maintained houses in the area.

  “I suppose so,” Dar’El said. “He was said to have been quite skilled, but I’m more interested in what he did before becoming a glass blower. He was a warrior with two Trials to his name. It is how he made his fortune. I understand he was still an active member of the City Guard as well.”

  Mira whistled appreciation. “Sounds like he was a tough man.”

  “By all accounts, he could handle himself,” Dar’El confirmed. “And he was all but helpless before whoever attacked him.” He pointed out a few details in the alley. “Look: hardly any signs of a struggle. A knocked over refuse urn. A smashed flower pot. A few droplets of blood. That’s it. Whoever took him was skilled.” Dar’El met her gaze. “Very skilled.”

  Only one Caste bred warriors so proficient in killing. Mira knew what Dar’El implied, and she frowned in distaste. “Kumma,” she guessed, appalled that one of her own Caste could be the murderer.

  “Kumma,” Dar’El replied in agreement. “Only one of us could have taken him down so easily.”

  Mira repressed a shudder. The murderer was a Kumma. She still found it hard to fathom. How could a warrior be so debased? The man shamed all of them. Her jaw firmed with resolve. She wanted to help bring this traitor down. “You still haven’t told me what you need me to do,” she said.

  Dar’El smiled faintly, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I need you to do research for me. I want you to search the City Library for any information you can find on something called the Withering Knife. It might also be called the Souleater. It is reputed to be a weapon once used by Suwraith Herself on the Night of Sorrows.”