A Warrior's Path (The Castes and the OutCastes) (32 page)

It seemed few people cared to study the world as it was prior to Suwraith.  Perhaps it was because the First World had been so lovely and peaceful in comparison to the one found now.

Mira sneezed.  Again.  The dust and mold were getting to her.  Her eyes itched, her nose dripped, and her sinuses were swelling shut.  She should have taken her allergy medication before coming here.

“This is the place,” Mira said.  “Ready for a few months of painful slogging
?”

“Absolutely,” Jaresh said with false levity.  “Searching through thousands of mildewy tomes…what a way to spend the spring and summer.” 
He sighed.  “Tell me again why Nanna asked you to look for this Withering Knife?  Is he punishing you for some reason?”

“Not as
far as I can tell,” Mira answered with an arch to an eyebrow.  “Why?  Is he punishing you, maybe?”

“I hope not,” Jaresh replied.  “And he didn’t say anything else about why we’re down here?”

Mira shrugged.  “Not really.  You know how he is.”

“Mysterious and all-knowing?”

Mira smiled.  “Exactly.”  She sneezed again.

Jaresh chuckled.  “Why don’t you wait by the table?  I can bring the books and scrolls over,”
he said, gesturing to the shelves around them.  “There’s probably going to be another cloud of dust billowing into the air when I pull them down, and I don’t think your sinuses could take much more.”

Mira threw him a grateful look.  “Thank you,” she said.

“Leave the lantern,” Jaresh added as she was turning to leave.  “I can’t make anything out in this light.”  He waved a large sheet of paper.  On it was the cribbed handwriting of the librarian in charge of antiquities, and a long list of books and scrolls the old Sentya had suggested they start with.

Mira left the lantern and retreated.  She waited for Jaresh in one of the few reading
alcoves found in the Cellar.  It was a small space, able to house a couple of rectangular tables, each with seating for four.  An ineffectual chandelier shed just enough light by which to read but not enough to drive away the gloom.  The oppressive feel was made worse by the looming, shadowed shelves pressed in all around the nook.

A few minutes later, Jaresh returned with a large stack of books cradled in his hands and against his chest.  They were piled one atop the other up to his chin.  He dropped them with a grateful sigh, letting them thud onto the old, oak table.

“Sadly, this is only a very small fraction of what we’ll need to go through,” Jaresh said.

Mira took a deep breath.  “Better get to work then,” she
replied.

Hours later, neither she nor Jaresh had managed to find a single reference to the Withering Knife.

“How many manus
cripts do you think we’ve gone through?” Mira asked.

“Five hundred and twenty nine,” Jaresh said, not missing a beat.

“Five hundred and twenty nine?” Mira asked in surprise.  “You’ve been keeping track of the exact number?”

“Sure,” he agreed, amiably.  He grinned a moment later.  “Actually, I have no idea,” he said.  “I just made it up.”

Mira laughed.  “I should have known.”

“Why don’t we just say we’ve gone through a lot and have a lot more to go
through.  Enough to sink a boat.”

“It’s going to take us weeks to
finish this task,” Mira complained, hating the petulant tone in her voice.

“More like months.”

Mira groaned.

“It could be worse,” Jaresh said.

“How so?”

“You could be doing this by yourself.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jaresh looked up from the manuscript he had been studying, a twinkle in his eyes.  “Do you think we could get Bree to help us?”

“I think she’d be more of a hindrance than a help,” Mira said with a chuckle.  She gestured around them.  “Or do you actually think she would appreciate hours of solitary, mind-numbing research?”

Jaresh laughed.  “Not really her forte is it?”

“No, and definitely not your brother’s.”

“Rukh?” Jaresh asked, sounding surprised.

“He just doesn’t seem the type to work on a project like this.  I’m sure he’d rather be off practicing with his sword.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jaresh
asked.  “Reading a text isn’t going to keep him alive like mastering the blade.”  He had the obstinate look of someone who was about to be offended, and Mira knew she had to step carefully with him.  Jaresh obviously loved and respected his brother quite a lot.

“No it isn’t, and I understand why he focused so much on learning to fight,”
Mira said.  “It’s just that your father is so well-read and intelligent.  I think Rukh could learn a lot from him,” she said.  “This isn’t meant as a criticism of Rukh.  He’s a tremendous warrior, but maybe Kummas should value intelligence just as highly.  Our Caste traditionally chooses our leaders based on their fighting prowess – the other Houses certainly have – but ours didn’t, and it’s made all the difference.  Dar’El wasn’t the greatest warrior of his generation, but he is certainly the most cunning.  He and your mother see five moves ahead where most other ‘Els might see only two or three.  It’s why our House has become so wealthy and powerful so quickly.”

“And you think Rukh lacks those qualities?  Their guile?”  Jaresh shook his head.  “You don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

Mira frowned.  “How so?”

“He isn’t as cunning as Amma or even Nanna, but he can see the larger issues at hand in a way they maybe can’t.  Rukh has always wanted to understand the truth of a matter.  He’s never accepted received wisdom without challenging it first.”

“Such as?”

“Like whether a Sentya should be trained in the sword,” Jaresh replied.  “We were only six and f
ive, but he was the one who somehow convinced Amma to have Durmer start teaching me.  I remember overhearing Amma and Nanna talking about it after they thought I was asleep.  Rukh basically told them that if I was a Shektan, then I was all-but a Kumma, which meant if I wanted, I should be taught the sword.  I remember Nanna being impressed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Few do, and I’m grateful Rukh spoke up when he did.  For me, it’s made all the difference.”  He smiled.  “And if Nanna had asked him to help you, he would have.  He isn’t too proud to get his hands dirty.”

Mira leaned back in her chair and considered Jaresh’s words.

Rukh getting his hands and face dirty in the Cellar?  It was hard to credit.  In fact, Jaresh’s description of his brother was almost completely at odds with how Mira had always thought of Rukh.  He had always struck her as somewhat simple and naive.  Nothing more pressing than mastery of the sword to ever clutter his mind.  It was hard to reconcile the persona she had of him with the complex, intelligent, compassionate man Jaresh described.

Had she really
misjudged him so terribly over the years?  Jaresh seemed to think so, but she wondered if his view wasn’t colored by a younger brother’s adulation of his adored and admired older brother.  Indeed, while Bree was undeniably brilliant, it was actually Jaresh whom Mira thought of as the brightest and most levelheaded of Dar’El’s three children.  Given his good looks, kindness, Talents, and wealth, Jaresh would make some Sentya woman incredibly happy one day, but Mira wondered what he might have been able to accomplish had he been born a Kumma, rather than just adopted into a Kumma House.

Jaresh laughed.  “I can see you d
oubt everything I’ve said so far, but I guess I can let you in on the secret now that he’s off on Trial: Rukh read voraciously.  All the time.  In some ways, he’s even more of an intellectual than Nanna.  He’s certainly more of a dreamer anyway.”

Mira frowned as she mulled over his words.  “I think of a dreamer as a being a visionary, as someone who accomplishes true greatness.  He builds the things others say
are impossible and raises us all up higher than we can reach.  For example, it would have made more sense and been more practical for Dar’El to have remained with his birth House rather than transfer to House Shektan, but by doing so he helped create something extraordinary.”  She paused a moment, letting her words sink in.  “So what does Rukh dream of building?”

Jaresh didn’t answer at first, mulling over her words.  “I don’t know,” he finally answered.  “But whatever it is, I hope it is something grand, maybe even more than what Nanna has accomplished.”

“You really think it’s possible?”

“I think Rukh has true greatness in him.
  Yes.”

Mira smiled.  Rukh was a fine warrior, and maybe he was even the man Jaresh believed him to be: intelligent and wise, but she doubted he was also a visionary.  It was too much.  No man should be blessed with so many gifts.

She didn’t want to argue the issue, though.  What would be the point?  Instead, she changed the subject.  “And do you dream?” Mira asked.  She was surprised to see a look of fleeting sorrow overtake Jaresh’s face.

“I have dreams,” he said, somewhat softly.

She waited to hear if he would say more, but he remained silent.

According to
The Book of All-Souls
, the sins of a man are said to be burned away upon his death, and if his
Jivatma
is made pure, he will be elevated to Heaven through Devesh’s grace, to stand at our Lord’s feet as a Holy Mahatma.  But, if he is unable to endure the cleansing, his soul
re-enters the cycle of Life to be re-born on Arisa.  Where then are the Mahatmas?  Perhaps they are absent because a man’s sins are not his alone.  Perhaps they carry on in his blood.

-
Our Lives Alone
by Asias Athandra, AF 331

J
aresh was lost in his thoughts as he walked the southern leg of Bright Rose Road and took the long way home.  It had been another long, fruitless day of reading and deciphering the cramped, cryptic handwriting of scholars from ages past.  His eyes were tired, his head hurt, and he was frustrated.  So far, there had not even been the slightest shred of evidence, the smallest scrap of information to let them know that this so-called Withering Knife even existed.  It had been a month since he and Mira had started their search, and they had already worked their way through most of the manuscripts on their initial list.  They might soon have to expand the scope of their investigation.  It was an unpalatable thought.

He walked on, paying only minimal attention to his surroundings.  He knew he was nearing his destination.  All he had to do was stay on Bright Rose Road, the finely paved, large thoroughfare that circumnavigated Ashoka.  No obvious ruts or potholes marred the street’s surface, but small puddles of water from the late afternoon thundershower had collected in places where the street had settled.  The rain had washed away much of the day’s early summer humidity, and there was a fall-like nip to the air with a stiff breeze blowing in from the sea.  Jaresh shivered.  He was dressed for warmer weather, and the chill cut through his light clothing.

A gust of wind rustled the long line of rose bushes planted along the road’s median, carrying a hint of the floral scent to come.  The roses were the reason for Bright Rose’s name.  Right now, it was too early for them to bloom, but in a few months, the road would be a riot of colors: pink, yellow, red, and even purple.  It was then, during the height of summer’s warmth, that the lush, floral aroma would carry for miles and blanket the city with their fragrance, drawing thick bees and butterflies who would flitter amongst the flowers in rapturous delight.

Jaresh was
always surprised by the quietness of this area – Widow Cavern, just west of Mount Crone and east of Hart’s Stand along Bright Rose Road.  Here, the main boulevard along Ashoka’s perimeter was packed with rows of houses as well as shops and restaurants, but somehow, this neighborhood never seemed uproariously loud like the rest of the city.  Even with the looming bulk of the Inner Wall no more than several hundred yards away to help encapsulate any noises, it remained relatively quiet.  Maybe it was because the area here was mostly populated by Rahails, the quiet Caste.  They enjoyed their silence.  Even those who weren’t Rahails quickly learned to maintain a more unobtrusive manner of speaking when living amongst them.

Jaresh pondered this Rahail sentiment for quietness even as a group of buskers played a loud, lively jig down the corner from him.  Maybe their demand for silence didn’t apply to music.  He was about to cross to the broad median of rose bushes when a harsh cry, cursing and angry, broke through his reverie.  He was appalled to find the words were directed at him.

“Watch where you’re going, you jackass!”

Jaresh startled out of his thoughts and came to a sudden stop, two steps into the street and off the pedestrian byway, wondering why he was suddenly standing in shadow.  He glanced up, looking into the furious glare of a livid Duriah drove
r.  Jaresh had stepped out directly in front of the man’s heavily laden wagon.  Only a hard jerk on the reins and a pull to the side had saved Jaresh from getting flattened.

The Duriah breathed heavily, anger still blazing in his eyes.  “I almost killed you, fool.  Do you not have anything to say for yourself?” the Duriah demanded, speaking in the formal and clipped tones of his Caste.

Jaresh quickly sized up the man.  Based on his heavy leather apron, scorched in many places by burn marks, the man was a blacksmith and likely strong as an ox, given his bull-like build.  And the look in his almond-shaped eyes didn’t bode well.  Duriahs tended to anger easily.

Nanna had always impressed Jaresh with the importance of humility and courtesy when dealing with strangers of any Caste.  And not getting into a brawl with an angry Duriah was even more reason for a kind demeanor.

Jaresh apologized.  “I’m sorry sir.  I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.  Unfortunately, my mind was elsewhere; on a task set to me by my nanna.”

Most would have considered the apology excessively deferential, but for a Duriah it was just right.  They were a very formal and polite Caste and qu
ite the sticklers for etiquette.  And given the near disaster Jaresh had nearly caused, a
very
obsequious confession was required.  It did help that his mistake was due to his preoccupation with his work, an excuse generally considered good as gold to a Duriah.  For them, a man’s worth was directly related to how seriously he took his labor, especially one given to him by his elders.  Hopefully, the Duriah would see it the same way.

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 the 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 who
m 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.”