Sertorius; A Golden Dancer

Sertorius was not pleased by my request. I found it intolerable to leave the Anbar or even the cul-de-sac in which my residence stands, but I needed the care of a Physician. He carried with him his usual pleasant demeanor and delightful couchside manner, scoffing at my resistance to walk my own indolent ass into a more 'proper' district where a thorough examination could be conducted. After having a slave of his apply some antiseptic oils, scraping it clean with a stirgil, he saw to the retaping of my torso. I mentioned to him that it was a bit tight for my liking, but he merely muttered about my posture and left the dressing as it was.
I had plans for that evening, a fête of some sort for one of the politicians of Ar, a man named Bonnane. It was not my usual choice of entertainment, to be certain, but the invitation came from one of my peers in the Magisterial ranks and I was resolved not to remain a recluse forever. It seemed as good a time as any to be seen in public.
Flame-eaters, wire-walkers, jugglers and the sort performed in the spacious hall. The wine flowed freely and musicians kept the atmosphere festive. I was seated next to a rather large fellow, a man of Tor judging by his coloring and choice of dress. His name, too, suggested a southern origin. "Tal to you, man of Ar," he said. "I am Ibrahim, Merchant of the Kasbah!" I responded in kind, though I was starting to think it was a bit premature for me to be out of doors or, at least, my first destination might have been somewhere less ebullient. I had allowed Elise to accompany me, and indicated that she should pay attention to the technique of the men playing the tabor and kaska. She was given the opportunity to learn to play different hand drums and when a chance to further her training arises, I see to it she makes the most of it.
Bonnane, the guest of honor and owner of the House and Hall within which we dined, seemed in good spirits. Jovial, in his cups, his eyes lit when a golden cocoon started to lower from the ceiling. I had assumed it was a gift of some sort and that gift would be a woman. Ibrahim, the apparent giver of such generous measure, exchanged a smile with Bonnane, confirming my second assumption. The first assumption, that the gift was a woman, was confirmed as the cocoon unfurled to a hammock and a tall female with dark hair, painted from forehead to toes completely in gold, stepped out. She danced for a time, an elaborately choreographed routine that removed veil after veil from her face. I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy and that was only increased when the man Ibrahim gained my attention, sliding a lockbox my way before taking his leave. I was about to protest, not comfortable with accepting this fellow's parcel uninformed as to its contents, but the dancer turned her attention to me. Crawling, she removed her veil, the last veil, as she met my eyes. She placed a coquettish finger before her lips and uttered 'shhh.' I saw a small blade spring from a bracelet at her wrist. She then turned on her knees, stood and spun back toward the dais where the guest of honor sat with eager anticipation. As the music swirled, she flung herself between the man's legs, slicing at the high, inner part of his thigh. In the next moment, she was spinning away from him and being hurried from the room. The time between crawling to my table and doing murder between the legs of the guest of honor couldn't have been more than a few ihn. Had she not shown me the blade, I would have been as oblivious as the rest of the room to what occurred. I did not remain at my table for long, instructing Elise to carry the lockbox left by the man, Ibrahim. There was a truth that was starting to unnerve me as I took my leave from the house of the recently deceased politician Bonnane. It was a truth of many layers. The scent of clove root was on the air. The woman painted gold was no dancer. Most disturbingly, I knew the Killer of the recently deceased politician Bonnane.

Resolution

I never made it out of the cul-de-sac, having lost the desire to leave the sight of my Anbar domicile. The pull of sanctuary is strong and I've become a bit reclusive. In years past, I would have left for a time, forsaking the comfort of my city. Wanderlust is a strong pull. I have made a career of the vagabond life, but I have never considered walking away entirely. I could lose a year or two in the bazaars of Tor, I think. Donning the salwar and kameez southern men are often seen wearing, drinking the sweetened teas, learning the scents and cultural idiosyncracies of another city...all are appealing. I could venture north, instead, and revisit the mountain city of Thentis as a guest of Clark, of the House of Clark. Perhaps I would revisit, too, the notion of a companionship with Constance of the Vintners. She was young when her Father, a good man called Gerald, proposed the union. I had the glow of success about me at the time, I suppose. The Fall of Agamedes had just been staged in an outdoor amphitheater at the foot of the Sardar, a true world production. She was a lovely girl, a delightful, bright conversationalist and though it is not a requirement in such a relationship, I was assured by her hand maidens that she was not without beauty. She was simply too young. She deserved the chance, I thought, to mature a bit.
If not spicy, sweltering Tor or crisp, clean Thentis, there are a dozen other destinations that I feel a certain pull toward. Dawn on the road to Ko-ro-ba, Sunset on the Genesian Coast or the filthy wharf taverns in the Thassan Jewel, Port Kar, are all but a few. The low rolling hills north of Venna, too, with the groves of ka-la-na and olives viewed from a certain humble villa beg my attention. I know, however, that I will not be leaving. Not at the moment. If I am to see the world, I must first honor the duty I have to my city, to her People. I must gather the will to leave this lotus amongst the filth and show my resolve.

When I walk beside her
I am the Better Man
When I look to leave her
I always stagger back again

Once I built an Ivory Tower
So I could worship from above
When I climbed down to be set free
She took me in again

When she comes to greet me
She is mercy at my feet
When I see her bitter charm
She just throws it back at me

Once I dug an early grave
To find a better land
She just smiled and laughed at me
And took her blues back again

When I go to cross that River
She is comfort by my side
When I try to understand
She just opens up her hands

Once I stood to lose her
When I saw what I had done
Bound down and threw away the hours
Of her garden and her sun

So I tried to warn her
I turned to see her weep
Forty days and forty nights
And it's still coming down on me.

[Eddie Vedder. music from the motion picture Into the Wild]

Restless

In his own uniquely verbose, but ultimately obscure manner, Habib confirmed what I already suspected. The shortage was not orchestrated in collusion with the suppliers in the Tahari. It would have been a stretch, in my opinion, to have implicated the fiercely independent Salt Ubarate of the Tahari. The tales of the revolt in the mines, the ascension of desperate men, throwing off the chains of oppression to seize the throne of one of the world's most important commodities is legendary. Call me an idealist. I am not jaded enough - yet - to think such men would be party to this level of conspiracy. I may be wrong, but I would rather risk feeling dejected in the future than carry the weight of cynicism. I was, too, given names that seem to implicate a small band of cohorts. One more piece of circumstantial evidence that does little but whet the appetite of curiosity and stir the glowing embers of a building anger. Soon, I am told, there will be proof.

It is difficult to remain patient, to contend with this necessary, but tedious immurement. The Anbar residence is a quiet, calm sanctuary in the middle of a vibrant & lewd district. I have ventured as far as the end of the cul-de-sac, and even accepted a few visitors, but it is not enough. I will take a walk this evening, venture off this once infamous porch where the doors are no longer red. I need the care of a Physician to be certain I am healing correctly. I do not understand such things as the mending of tissue and the setting of bones. Such things are best left to those qualified. If pressed, I will admit in these pages if nowhere else that I do not much like the notion that I have been 'silenced.' The last time I was in the Great Square, I was rent through and bleeding like a stuck tarsk, unable to utter a word. I am stubborn. I know this. I do not wish to give whomever was responsible the pleasure of having delivered my full comeuppance.

A Missive from Tor

Noble Szol, Poet of Ar

I am devastated due the inability to render you timely assistance or, in lieu of such service, an answer to your dilemma. I will say, without the monumental vagary specificity would require, neither Aretai nor Kavar nor any tribes vassal are component to corruption on the scale your interview would imply. Look within the white walls for that which you seek.

May you always have water,

Habib of Tor

Duty; Responsibility

For the first time since it happened, I left the house. I did not go far, of course, still heavily taped and finding it difficult to breathe or exert myself much. I made it as far as the front stoop, but even that seemed to irk Mathor to no end. Apparently, the fellow feels somewhat responsible for what happened to me in ther Great Square. I told him it was nonsense. He was not even in attendance, nor does he have any explicit duty to guard my person, only my assets. "You are not of the Warriors," he said to me.He did not say much more, nor did I press him. To get more than five words out of his mouth on any given topic, let alone a coherent sentence, is a noteworthy achievement. He was nonplussed when I pointed out that it would be rude to turn Rufus the Player away when the fellow left his usual place in an alley adjacent to Sixth Street just to keep our standing appointment. "This is my street. This is my city. These are my people," I told him. I have said as much to more than one slave girl on my chain in recent days as well. I will not cower indoors. The men of my city are as larls. We are tarns. We are no urts, nor are we helpless verr. I do not wish to be perceived as such, nor do I wish that perception to be applied to my peers of low caste. I would be attacked for standing, rather than mocked for crawling. Yes, you have scratched me. I have bled. I am still here. The Game, of course, took its usual route, with Rufus utterly decimating my attempt at an offense and completely shattering the notion that I could defend against his attack. He plays the Game in such a fluid, eloquent style, progressing with nuance rather than something so clumsy as 'moves.' I will likely never beat Rufus at the Game, but I have learned an incredible amount in a short period of time; little of it having anything to do with a board of red and yellow squares. Kaissa is motive and intent. At times, it is about the imposition of will. It is about defining a goal and drawing a map to reach one's desired conclusion. There are rules, prescribed ways of doing things, but each man's Kaissa is different than that of his peers. Some are blunt. Some are subtle. Some employ Spearmen and the Riders of High Tharlarion. Others employ Assassins. In time, I will know where they have hidden the salt. Regardless, I must stand and finish what I started. Lo Szol, Civititas Aria.

Missing Pieces

It wasn't enough evidence to lay the blame at the feet of any one person or group, but it was enough to expose corruption at high levels. Were I permitted to finish the speech in the Great Square two nights prior, I would have encouraged the People to demand an accounting. The salt was still coming into the city. It was done efficiently. Quietly. Under cover of darkness. The Foreign Merchants had their scheduled deliveries, but the missing piece of the puzzle was to whom. On the last day of the Eight Passage Hand, I was fired upon; a warning shot that was meant to scare me off. Still, I continued to press. To make demands. To investigate. Two nights prior, the warning was somewhat more severe. The word 'corruption' was barely off my tongue when I felt one side of my body forced back. The pain was there, certainly, hot and white, throbbing and insistent, but it did not register immediately. My knees buckled when I saw the bolt protruding from my body, the blood quickly spreading out onto the fabric of my tunic. I wanted to speak. I wanted to finish the fucking speech, but my body wanted to crumble to the ground below. While the choice to stand is the domain of any free man, the ability to do so is sometimes compromised. I was aware of the shouting. And the screaming. It was an Assassin. In the crowd or on the rooftops, I do not know. I wanted to laugh. No, it was not funny. It would have been a rueful sort of laugh had I the courage to let it slip, but it hurt to breathe let alone speak. Laughing might have sent me into shock.
It was Savana's men, hirelings and thugs such as Mastavius that cleared the crowd and conducted me from the area. Not the usual sort of protection for a Magistrate of a city such as Ar, but I suppose I am not a usual sort of Magistrate. Elise was there. As was Portia. The Six Girl had the scent of the baths on her. Savana was politely scolding me for my foolishness. Her wealthy confidant, a recent recluse, was cautioning her, in turn, about some foolishness or the other. I remember seeing Tia the Baker briefly before her guard, Carl I think his name is, pulled her away. I don't blame the fellow. The job was not finished. There might have been another shot forthcoming. There was one in the crowd that searched for it. Perhaps many. It never came. It seems an evening of panic, a reminder of our humble place, was the purpose for this latest warning. There is still a piece to this puzzle that needs fitting. Until it is solved, I will draft the paperwork to repeal this tax for a second time. Whether the Administration is involved or not, it does not matter. There is salt. It is in the city. It will be found.
I do not intend to extend my convalescence in this clinic for more than the next few ahn. A fee cart is being fetched. The petitions, applications and other papers from the previous few days, too, are being fetched. I will have to rest, but it will be from my residence in the Anbar.

The Wisdom of a Player

"The right move is wrong from time to time. You may play a perfect Game and still lose."

[Rufus the Player Month 9 / Day 3 / Hand 4 / 10,157 C.A.]

I Speak With Tellius the Younger

"Where is Senecus the Younger?" I asked the functionary delivering the day's petitions, applications for license and other various paperwork that I find myself deluged with at the start of each hand. Senecus is the clerk that usually brings such documents.
"He did not report for work today, Magistrate," the man said to me as he turned the documents over for my perusal. His name was Tellius. He was also a 'younger.' His father served as a clerk for a Magistrate of one of the Districts. The Metellan, I think.
"Odd," I noted, thinking little of it at the time. "Tellius?"
"Magistrate?" he asked.
"Slip 1301, northwest corner of the Great Square," I mentioned. "I asked Senecus to keep an eye on the vendor. Did he mention anything?"
"The woman selling herbs and poultices and such?" Tellius nodded. "Yes. Said she seemed harmless enough. The people seem to be curious about her wares."
"Oh. Good to know. Run by Senecus' place later if you are able. Look in on him, would you?" I asked.
"Certainly, Magistrate," he answered.

I Speak Again With Lucius Verus

"That is a dangerous Game, Poet," the tall, fair man dressed in the unlikely garb of a desert peddler said to me. I had not known he was in the House. Indeed, I had not known he was in the city.

"Lucius Verus," I acknowledged, looking up from my tea. "You were due to return to Lara."

"You place far too much trust in your informant," he said to me. "There can be no trust between the two of you."

"Was it so different..." I started, "...then?"

"That is completely different, Szol," he answered angrily, "and you know it."

"No. What I know is the stewards of our well-being are duping us, taking advantage of our lack of a real voice," I said to him. "Were our informants so reputable back then?"

"There was a foreign power, usurping authority!" he said, his temper rising.

"It is much the better to be subdued by one's brother than one's enemy then?" I asked him, returning his ire. I have not slept properly in better than a passage hand. It is starting to get to me and I am not always as much in command of my anger as I would like.

"No, of course not," he said ruefully. "But you are putting yourself in harm's way needlessly."

"That is not the first time today I was cautioned thusly," I nodded.

"Perhaps you should listen, then," he said to me. "To someone."

"You are a good friend, Lucius Verus," I said to him. "You know me well enough to understand that I will see this through."

"All too well," he said evenly. "All too well."

Prelude

"Can she swim?" He asked me, he being a representative of the Capacian Bath House. The Pool of Blue Flowers is one of the most famous pools in Ar, in the world, in fact. It is a cool water pool, fragrant with the scent of veminium, after which it is named. The Pool of Blue Flowers was one of dozens at the Capacian Bath House.

"You approached me, fellow," I answered with a quiet smile, lifting my cup. We were watching the girl we spoke of dancing in the sands of The Braided Whip Tavern, which I own in partnership with a few others. "But to answer your question, I believe so."

"Before the offer is finalized, I would like to test her out," he said to me, lifting a hand to snap his fingers twice. Dahlia, a soft, lovely thing, hurried forth to refill his cup. "Put her through her paces in the water. See that she possesses the potential fitness necessary."

"I have no doubt she will meet or exceed your expectations," I answered, shooing away Dahlia with a dismissive gesture when she glanced up at me with an unspoken question. Dahlia is not a petulant thing, but she is a slave girl. She would need to be put to her belly and raped eventually. "You may, of course, put the girl through these tests to assure she is a good fit."

He nodded with a grunt as he watched Dahlia saunter off before returning his attention to me. "We need a new girl for the Pool of the Northern Forests," he intimated. "Am I wrong in detecting a certain fittingness?"

I let my gaze move back to the sands. The girl that sparked the man's interest moved and swayed. I suppose, after all of these years, there was a certain fittingness as he presumed. I nodded and said as much to him. "Long removed from her. Beaten from her, but latent. Certainly."

"You will, of course, be compensated during this time," he assured me.

"I will be certain to deduct that compensation from the price of her sale, should it result in that," I offered, assuring him in turn.

The Mystery of Free Women

In many ways, the free woman is a greater mystery than the slave girl. That should be prefaced, perhaps. A slave girl can potentially be a delight to a man for the length of his life or, at least, several years of it. She is a conquered thing, constantly striving to please. She enhances her essential self for her owner's pleasure and at her owner's pleasure. If he wishes her to be literate, she will be beaten until she can read, write and speak intelligently on a variety of topics. If he wishes her to cook, she will learn his favorite dishes and also learn to anticipate what he might find pleasing to eat, providing that to him in hopes she has learned his palate enough to delight him with something new now and again. And she will, in time, on his schedule, not her own, reveal every nuance of herself to him. Yes, he may spend months dallying over her physicality. Memorizing every curve and valley, every scent and sensation her body has to offer, but eventually he will plumb her depths. He will want to know her intimately, because he owns her. She is his. It is true that some men do not wait more than a few ehn to tear down a slave girl's walls, baring her soul. And some never bother to do so at all. In general, most men will want full value whether the girl was purchased or otherwise acquired. They will own her fully and, in doing so, will know her. Her mystery, whether she believes it or not, will be known to him.

The free woman, however, remains a mystery. For some, that seems like a good thing. A quality. Something to strive toward. I think it is an emptiness, however. A lack of fulfillment. Without the bravery to step forward and admit what she is, what all women, in essence, truly are, she must content herself with being a mystery. Hidden behind veils, she is constrained by the laws and social mores of her city, the expectations of her family. I admit to observing them, wondering after them. What man hasn't caught sight of an inadvertantly exposed ankle and pondered what else lay beneath the heavy brocade? Having seen an errant strand of hair, loose from its pins, would not most men consider her mane? I think most would. I have done so. However strong a draw the mystery is, the free woman is not a female slave. It takes very little to draw one's thoughts from contemplating a free woman. The scent of a slave girl's perfume on the air or even the sight of such a woman walking in her short, revealing garment is generally enough to distract any man. It is no wonder such women are sometimes cruel to their sisters of the brand and the collar. Sexual congress with a free woman may be enjoyable. It might even prove to be an excellent way to spend one's time. Such relationships with slave girls, however, are guaranteed to be pleasing. If not the slave may be severely beaten. The free woman, normally, would suffer no consequence for being less than adequate. It would be, in fact, somewhat suspect if she were skilled at pleasing a man past the rudimentary mechanics of the act.

I saw two free women in the Teiban Sul Market last evening, each with an agenda. Lady Tia of the Bakers wished to have a discussion, the topic of which was never revealed. I told her my door was open to her. I will speak with her, I assume, before the end of this hand. Noemi, too, wished to speak of matters not thoroughly explored at our last meeting. She also wished to bestow gifts upon the Girl Six and Elise. I am a particular fellow when it comes to garmenting and accessorizing my property. Scheduling meetings for the remainder of the hand as my trip to market concluded for the day was not the only event of note last evening. The rivalry between Noemi and Tia was a rather revealing incident. Tiffs between free women are generally limited to such things as a pointed scoff or disdain, public displays like the refusal to greet one another or the aversion of eyes, coupled by a haughty lift of chin. Occasionally, insults are tossed lightly at one another, stinging little barbs that point out the supposed inadequacy of one another's behavior. Noemi and Tia, however, were anything but limited in their vitriol. It was the pointed dismissal of Noemi by the Baker, turning her back to the woman, that escalated the affair. As it was a squabble between women, it was neither my place nor my inclination to get involved. When food was thrown and a market basket full of ripe, juicy peaches was used as a weapon, I did step between them, cautioning them to act in a more proprietous manner. We were, after all, in a public place. Were they slave girls, I might have taken a quirt to each of their behinds. Not for squabbling, of course. Nobody cares that slave girls fight, so long as they do not inflict serious injury or permanently mar one another's appearance. When it moves beyond a squabble and becomes a distraction that, for example, might require a free person to divert his path to avoid their tousle, then correction becomes necessary. They are only slaves. Free women, however, are generally separated by their Guards and conducted home, that they do not further embarass themselves in public, that their mystery be maintained.

Of Dancing and Dancers

The crowd left the Braided Whip early last evening, which is per usual in the middle of the hand. It is difficult to justify drinking late into the evening or, in essence, early into the next day, when one rises with Lar-Torvis as many in this district must. Some do linger, dallying with one of the rent girls or having lost track of time in conversation or, as it happens not too infrequently, in the Game. With the quiet drone of czezhar and a steady tempo provided by the tabla, I instructed the Girl, Six to remove her garment and step into the sands. I was not gentle in the instruction. Slaves do not respond positively to being coddled. Told to be compelling, she assumed a standard pose that lengthened her lines. I asked her if she intended to be a Dancer that drew men into the tavern or one that was fit to straddle a man's thigh in a dark corner. Any slave can dance, in my opinion. That includes women in collars and women not yet legally imbonded. The curvier sex is built for it, just as they are built to be overtaken, dominated and raped, held to a man's will. A woman can learn to hold a man's attention, to seduce and captivate a fellow, but a Dancer must hold an entire room, ignite the lust of thirty men or more. There is the distinction. Does she dance? Or is she a Dancer? I have seen some phenomenal dancers in my time. Aside from Emily, toward whom I am biased, Fateemah comes to mind. I saw her dance in chalwars and an open vest, her bosom ripe and heavy, like fruit ready to be picked. She perspired, slick-skinned under the gaze of men, the proud girl of a Pasha. Selke of Ianda, dark as Portia, a Merchant man's prize, could make you feel the breeze of her tropical home, intoxicate you with the controlled shake of her hips. As a guest in the House of Clark of Thentis, I was fortunate to see his matched pair, Phais & Tellia, dance. Blonde and fair like bond maids beneath the axe of a Son of Torvald, but built sleek like they prefer them in Thentis, the cold mountain climate was easily forgotten in the midst of those sirens. I challenged Six, a girl once permitted to be called Sana, to be as those girls were. I will push Portia similarly. The two of them earned well as Red Door whores. I expect them to be just as productive, if not more, in this new venture.

Fees, Licenses & Red Tape

I was reviewing the previous day's applications for vendor licenses. Most vendors, by nature, are of low caste. When we receive an influx of peddlers, sutlers, traders and the like, it makes sense to peruse the type of vendors that are entering the city. If too many are sellers of goods of the like that can already be purchased in the city, the licenses are denied or, if already granted, revoked. Those that sell a unique product are generally welcomed into the city. The bulk of fees for this administrative work finds its way back to the Office of the Magistrate to pay the various clerks and record-keepers. It has been my policy to redistribute the surplus evenly amongst the lower castes, sometimes defraying their tax or other various fees for doing business. It is generally not much more than a goodwill gesture, a show of faith that the administration, at my end of it, is not trying to turn a profit at the expense of the people it serves.
From time to time, we welcome vendors that can only be described as unique. Charlatans, tricksters and tellers of hoaxes to name a few. Some sell unseemly things such as hair-dyes and love tonics. Others sell bina, trying to pass it off as bana. From far off parts of the world, the distasteful practice of domesticating animals is brought to Ar, hobbling tiny Schendian birds in cages, for example, just to have their warbling on demand. The citizens are generally sharp enough to spot the less-than-genuine sorts, so most licenses are approved and then brought to my attention the following day. If something is out of the ordinary, I will send out a revoke notice and have the person escorted from the city. Other times, something will simply catch my eye as odd, but not warrant immediate action.

"Wait a moment," I said to the functionary, delivering the previous days applications for license.

"Magistrate?" he asked, pausing.


"This one," I said, holding up the license which was stamped for approval, the fees accepted. He leaned in a bit closer, scanned the document and nodded.


"Older woman. Called herself an al-kem-ist," he answered. "Seller of herbs or something. Al-kem-i-cal products. Medicines."


"Should irk the Physicians, but I doubt they will lend her much credence," I posited. "She was assigned slot 1301. Where is that?"


"The Great Square, Magistrate. Northwest corner. High Street," he answered.


"Alright then," I nodded. "Keep an eye on her."

The Braided Whip

When the Red Doors closed, I decided to increase my investment in another establishment. Adjacent to the Teiban Sul Market is a tavern in the vein of the famous Chatka & Curla. The Braided Whip features three floors with seating lining the curved walls, the center open for a view of the dancing sands. In the early days of the Boarding House, I invested a small amount of the earnings in the Whip. That investment steadily increased over time. Having a reputation as a whoremonger is not without benefit. I have partners, of course, but the profits earned from a greater investment allow me to divert my attention from an old business to a new one. With the brothel closed, the girls will learn the trade of tavern slave. They will join the dancer Keri, a sinuous slut from the wharf taverns of Port Kar, the alluring Dahlia and a host of rent girls, rotated in from the municipal pens of Ar. Elise, once the first girl of the famed Curulean, will manage these women. Perhaps others, in time, will be conscripted on a more permanent basis. For the moment, aside Keri and Dahlia, it will be up to the reputation of the former Red Door Whores to draw customers. Portia and Six have already started working there. Others will follow.
While it seems irresponsible to begin a new business venture with the difficulties I am experiencing as People's Magistrate, the truth is it is a burden lifted. There are partners in the tavern, others responsible for keeping the cash flow liquid and the balance statement reconciled. During the day, the women will be able to maintain the Anbar residence and focus on the transition between street whore and tavern slave. I have no doubt the transition will go smoothly. I wear a belt. Elise, I think, will have the most difficulty. While she has experience managing women, she is long removed from it. Keri, in particular, may prove her greatest challenge. She danced on the sea-warped planks of wharf taverns in Port Kar for years, captivating Sailors, Pirates and other rough trade in the Jewel of Thassa. She is a long girl. Leaner that most prefer, but undeniable in her appeal. Removed from the place she first submitted, she has proven herself in the world's greatest metropolis. She is an arrogant slave and, to some extent, she is allowed her arrogance. Elise will bend more than one switch to the point of breaking on that sultry bitch's ass. It will not be anything she hasn't already seen (and dealt with) at the Curulean.

Quid Pro Quo

"There is trust between us," I said to Lucius Verus, recently returned to Ar.

"Delightful, Poet," he answered. "But your faith is not shared by the rest of us."

"I do not have the resources," I responded.

"You will be held responsible for this choice," he told me.

"I am well aware of the gravity of my decision," I answered.

"I should have stayed in Lara," he muttered.

Lucius was once of the Caste of Scribes, he wore the Blue in the finest city of Gor. Respected. Trusted. A foremost researcher of a wide variety of subjects. During the Occupation, he was asked to compromise his ethics to support the puppet regime. When he refused, he was discredited. His residence was razed. His libraries were burned. Rather than suffer further ignominy, Lucius Verus left the city of his birth. His status in the Caste of Scribes was removed in absentia. He is a traveling peddler now. He sells trinkets and baubles in cities along the Vosk River, but mostly in Lara. Gaunt and tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he wears an unlikely turban and long robe more suited to a swarthier sort in a desert clime. The slander I've endured pales to that which Lucius suffered. The loss of his Caste was a serious blow. They did not ban him from the city, but the import of their actions were clear. It is not hard to comprehend why Lucius is cautious with trust. He will not stay long. What I've shared should not be shared, but I do not have the resources to solve this dilemma. I do not have a choice. Quid pro quo. An equitable exchange. I must change the Game. I will not surrender the Home Stone to the collective ego of the elite.

"Find the salt," I said to her.

Exposing the culprits and colluders, the guilty and the guileful, will benefit us both. Snakes and favors, a secret for a secret.

Seasons Change

My Game, tonight, as usual, was no match for the Player Rufus. After he thoroughly bested the Player Hephaistion, who holds a chair on the high bridges of Ar near the Central Cylinder, I took my place at his humble table in an alley just off of District Anbar's notorious Sixth Street. Our matches are not about winning and losing, so much as they are about spending time with one another, discussing the details of the day. Rufus is not so far removed from vagrancy that he does not see things others easily miss. My friendship with the fell-from-grace Player started during the Occupation and has continued since.

"He is not very good," a fellow watching us commented.

"No, but the Player enjoys his Game," another answered.

"He plays with no discernible strategy. He relies on the Scribe," the first argued. "Who relies on the Scribe?"

I was not offended by their comments. The Game is something men take seriously, most moreso than I. That they chose to watch and had any inkling of curiosity over what I might or might not do was compliment enough. Elise was with me, behind and a bit to the left where she belongs. She is not permitted to know much of the Game, so I had her face the other direction. I could sense her bristling at the frank manner in which men spoke of her owner's lack of anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of Kaissa, but she was cognizant of her own response enough to keep her chin low and her thoughts to herself.

"When the pantry is empty," the Player said to me. "Know what lies beneath."

"I know a way," I answered.

"Seasons change," he countered.

As we conversed, the pieces moved fluidly. Our conversation seemed independent of the match, but that is never the case. I would find an avenue and he would divert me another way. His comments seemingly cryptic and obtuse were rather pointed and direct. Piece by piece, he removed my men from the playing field.

"Dig a little deeper," he told me. "You will find what you are looking for."

It was inevitable I would lose the match, and when it came to a point that the yellow men were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded by a sea of red, I put my finger on the Home Stone. Rufus smiled and then spoke, "Lose when you must. Concede nothing. Let your mistakes play out."

Game is life. The more I play, the more I learn.

Closing Doors

It had a good run, the Boarding House, and it served its purpose. I have decided to close the doors on the most infamous brothel Ar has ever known. Some would argue that the various brothels on Ludmilla's nefarious alley are far less savory, far more scandalous, but I disagree. Where but the Boarding House could men part with as little as three copper tarsks (four for the blonde) to ride something as sinuous and seductively servile as what the Poet had to offer? Natives, barbarians, outlaw women. All trained to please the eye and stir the loins. Every one of them literate, able to converse intelligently if need be. Now, the property will serve as a residence.

Six will spend the afternoon sanding the doors down, removing the red paint. They will wear a more conservative brown, no longer a beacon for the satiation of lust. Consumer-driven carnality will be taken elsewhere, I suppose. There is a shortage of salt in my city, but there is never a shortage of slut. Of course, some of them may still be sent out to hook for coin. One must keep one's women productive. They will simply have to conduct their lewd transactions on street corners or down alleyways.

The notices have been put up on the boards in the Great Square and in the Anbar herself. It is both a somber day and a day fraught with possibility.

Sense & Probability

It could be anywhere. Or nowhere. I do not believe it is in the Anbar, nor the Metellan. I have been assured there is trust between us, those that oversee those districts and myself. Despite the talk that has cropped up in recent days, I choose to honor that trust. So that leaves the rest of the city, Glorious Ar in its entirety. Where would one hide enough salt to sate a city this size for a hand? For two hands? For a passage hand or more? Would they even be so bold as to hide it within the walls? It is hard to believe, and I do not have the resources to confirm my assumption regardless. Perhaps it is time to rely upon others, to delegate responsibilities rather than take this on myself. If it is, as it seems, corruption on a grand scale, I am ill-equipped to fight it alone. The first moves in a Game often spell the difference between victory and defeat. However, efficient strategy at mid-match can tip the scales in one's favor. I suppose I feel guilty for missing my match with Rufus this hand. Iam leaning too heavily upon Kaissa metaphors.

It is enough to say I have favors to ask. Decisions to make.

If the salt is not in the city, the first logical place it might be is Torcadino. Only a few days west of Ar, the colluders would be able to reintroduce the commodity back into the city at the most opportune moment, painting themselves as saviors and swaying public opinion in the same bold stroke. And while I thought earlier in terms of the potential profit, I wonder if bringing a city to its knees - just to demonstrate how magnanimously the Administration can help the population get back on its feet - is not profit enough? I despise politics. Worse, I despise having to think like a politician just to make sense of it all.

Slander & Correction

I sent Tupita to her kennels early last evening, allowing her the indulgence of her girl-kennel a few ahn earlier than what has become usual these past hands. I was visited by a woman in pristine white robes, trimmed in silver and complemented by beaded slippers and a pale pink veil. Noemi tends to dress for her audience. Her wardrobe ranges from the utterly scandalous to her own interpretation of current fashions. I suggested she wear no less than three veils and that wealthy women of Ar wear no less than five and as many as seven. Proprietous dressing was not the purpose for her visit, however. I have long maintained that the woman requires discipline. All women require discipline from time to time. It can take the form of a mild upbraiding or be meted out much more severely.

When it was mentioned that the Physician Claudius had taken an interest in pursuing a contract of companionship with the woman, I had assumed that he would tend to her sorely needed discipline. It has become clear that such a union is not forthcoming. Most recently, the unruly strumpet had the nerve to slander my name, perhaps assuming that my polite, affable demeanor somehow made me less likely to take exception. When she was told to remove her veil in my presence, she protested mildly, but acceded the directive when I asked her if she wished for me to repeat a command. She understood, of course, what it meant to face strip herself before a man, but she is a vain thing. Her face is not uknown to men. She was less inclined to remove the rest of her garment when I told her to do so. She rose dramatically and said a lot of things that I confess I do not remember. What I do remember is she was soon nude, her elaborate garments put aside. She similarly protested when she was directed to fetch the quirt I keep on the shelves in my office. It, too, was soon in hand, however. She has a curious nature, this woman. She protested every step of this discipline, but ultimately obeyed. Told to crawl, she scoffed, but she crawled. I was then kind enough to discipline the woman. I do not think her vanity prepared her for the type of discipline she received. It was certainly not what she would have liked, but it was exactly what she needed. Afterward, she was instructed to return the quirt to the shelves. I allowed her to dress herself. I, then, dismissed her.

Deeper

The Trevelyan District of my city is not a welcome place for strangers, particularly after dark. It is much like the Anbar in that respect, suspicious and quick to level judgment on those that wander into her midst. Having said that, I was not to be deterred. If the salt is making it into the city surreptitiously, held in reserve until the Administration has the population under control, it will be in the warehouses of the Trevelyan or somewhere equally foreboding. That is my assumption, that it will be kept where no one wishes to go looking for it, if it is in the city at all. I know it isn't in the Anbar, arguably the only place more foreboding than the Trevelyan in the entire city. There are few that would perpetrate such an insult against their neighbors in that District, the District in which I personally do business. If there is a perpetrator of this sort in that neighborhood, he will not have to worry over a mere Magistrate of the People when he is found out.

My sojourn into the Trevelyan last evening was ill-advised. My presence, particularly in an official capacity, was not welcome. I traveled with two slaves, Elise and Six, but they were unharmed. Rational men are unlikely to harm beautiful women. There are better uses to put such things to. I expected resistance, even hostility when I made my intent known. I would inspect the warehouses, unannounced, and demand an accounting of their inventories. I did not bring a cadre of armed men, for such a display only invites an armed defense. Also, I do not feel as if I can rely upon men not directly under my employ. I trusted the imperium of the Office, such that it is, and a self-assured tone would be enough. It was not. I was turned away by the man standing watch over the warehouse doors. And, to further the point, I was fired upon by an unseen assailant with a crossbow. In time, I am sure I will feel more shaken by the experience than I do right now. However, the sound of the bolt rushing by my ear and burying itself in the wood of the warehouse door isn't something I am able to get out of my head. The 'sssst' and the thunk as it struck the timbers brought me out of my sleep several times last evening. The only consolation is that it was obviously a warning and not an earnest attempt to put me down. I am running into too many obstacles in the search for answers. And I am in over my head.

Faith & Microeconomics

I am coming to the conclusion there is nothing I can do to disprove the legitimacy of the Salt Shortage within the walls of the city. Too, I cannot wait on return correspondence from Habib. There is no guarantee my Merchant contact is even in Tor to receive the missive. Also, much as I like Habib, I cannot vouch for his integrity on this matter. It could be that salt is being delivered, per usual, and stock-piled somewhere. Or, the chokepoint could be further south, back in the city of Tor herself. If so, those Merchants allegedly colluding with the Administration stand to make more money withholding their goods for future shipment than they do selling it at present market value. Economics is a Merchant science, but I have read enough to gain the understanding that demand equals profit. The longer the shortage continues, the greater the demand. The greater the demand, the higher the price. And the Administration, should all of this be true, benefits by profiting from hardship subsidies in the interim. I don't want that to be true. I would rather believe what I am told in those sequestered Council meetings; there is no salt to be had. Without proof otherwise, there is no point in continually repealing tax increases. I find myself in the unenviable position of being alienated by my Magisterial peers and, worse, the constituency that loses further faith with each passing day that I am unable to effect change.

"It is my right to speak out," the Lady Tia of the Bakers said to me. Particularly, she intimated, when the man elected to be her voice has failed. While her tone was unacceptable, her sentiment carried a rueful veracity that I could not argue. Unless I can discover some scandalous stockpile of salt, hidden away from the public behind the very walls of my city, I will take the road west to Torcadino. From there, I will journey south to Kasra and points beyond, including the desert destination of Tor.

Irony

"Post it in the Great Square, Tupita," I said to her, handing the shorn-headed slave that serves my Office the latest document for wide dissemination.
It put a sour taste in my mouth, honestly. I had no choice but to deem the latest tax increases 'reasonable.' I have no evidence otherwise. The city-wide shortage of salt, by definition, is a hardship to the state which allows a recalculation of tax assessments. To suggest, in light of that, the People not forward the amounts demanded, would be to endorse anarchy. Publically, I cannot call for such a thing. Privately, I do not know that it is such a bad idea. I have sincere doubt that the shortage of salt is anything but a strong-arm tactic by the Administration to put the lower castes 'in their place.' Suspecting such a thing and proving it are two very different notions.
Were I a politician, the reversal of my repeal would be a serious blow to my career, but I am not a politician. Nor am I concerned about a lengthy career in politics. I am not trying to curry favor by making empty promises. If there is power to be had in this office, that power belongs to the People this office represents. It does not belong to Szol of Ar. It takes so few whispers, however, to create so many rumors. If I cannot change the tack the Administration has taken, I may be the most convenient source for the People to vent their frustrations upon. For someone with such a dissident past, it is a bitter irony.

The Inevitable Course

There are notices on the Public Boards for citizens to pay their taxes or forfeit their properties. There is an inexplicable shortage of salt in the city that only worsens each day. I find constituents with brusque responses and wary glances cast my way or, at times, a physical reminder that their faith in best intentions and honest effort is fickle at best. We, the lower castes, are looking for someone to blame. It is disheartening to think that we would look amongst ourselves, amidst our own, for culpability. Those that know me remain unwavering, of course, but I have been elected to represent all with caste beneath the high five. Even those hostile. I understand the hostility, of course. I share it. For lack of a clear villain, the mob must sate its desire to vent. Gnieus Lelius was once labeled an enemy of amity, a subverter of peace and a tyrant. He had the unfortunate honor of holding the title of Regent during the occupation. History was not kind to Gnieus Lelius. He was, in my estimation, a good man. He was a competent administrator, overburdened and underappreciated. In the end, he was a victim of propaganda and a verr led to an all-too convenient slaughter. Those were dark days in my city. With Winter approaching, the time Lar Torvis shines shorter, I wonder just how dark it will get before we see the Spring.

Preservation

In recent days, there have been reports of mild violence; heated tempers and some instances of fisticuffs, in the various markets around the city. It turned out to have something to do with shortages of salt. What little is available for purchase has been priced out of the reach of most consumers and small business owners. I first became aware of it through the girl, Elise. She shops for dry goods several times a week, keeping the pantry of the Boarding House stocked. A fellow made mention to her that he wished to speak to me. I assume he wishes to voice his concerns and I am all too available to hear them, but I am not certain what I can do about the problem. Portia, too, has relayed tales of brawls in the street over perceived favoritism about some receiving more than their fair share and at what price.
It seemed, at first, an issue for the Caste of Merchants to handle directly. They oversee trade; the imports and exports of the City. If there is a shortage of salt, they should be brokering deals to obtain what the City needs to sate itself. However, after tiring extra-curricular research, I find that a shortage of salt can have a rippling effect on more than household consumers and purveyors of food. Most people understand that salt is used to season or preserve food. However, there are several salt-related by-products that do much more. There are medicinal and antiseptic products derived from salt, as well as tanning chemicals, cleansers and bleaches. The manufacture of bottle glass, too, requires salt. Just off the top of my head, the shortage of salt, then, would directly affect the Caste of Physicians, the Caste of Leather Workers and the Caste of Brewers, in addition to the Merchants and a myriad of sub-castes. Of course, any and all castes and vocations having to do with food and/or the preparation of food will be affected. Nearly one fourth of the world's salt comes from the region of the Tahari and, due to it's relative proximity, I assume my City relies upon that region for an even greater percent for its own share. I do not know if the shortage is due to our dealings with the desert or elsewhere, but it seems a logical conclusion. I know of two Merchants from that area; Hadj and Habib, both of Tor. Hadj is an acquaintance, he brings his rugs to my City once or twice per year. Habib is a friend, a man I have known for some time. I have traveled in his caravan on two or three occasions. He may know more. It is just a matter of finding him.

Game is Life

In an alley just off the District Anbar's recently infamous Sixth Street, Rufus the Player holds court. Until quite recently, he was Rufus the Vagrant. Or Rufus the Drunkard. Or Rufus the Unwashed. You get the idea. I have always known Rufus as a Player, though lamentably few share that cognizance. At the En'Kara Fair of 10,148, Rufus of Ar played a masterful Game against Karl of Kassau. It was not a Game on the main stage, of course, for neither Rufus nor Karl are of the prestige of a Scormus of Ar or even a Centius of Cos. It was, however, a memorable match. I do not know how Rufus became disillusioned and vagrant, a social outcast in a city that once sang his praises, but I hope a new board with finely tooled pieces will remind him that not all of us have forgotten him. I have a standing appointment with him once at the end of each hand to play. I am certainly no master of the Game, I merely know the movement of the pieces. I tend to rely far too much on the Scribe piece which, in northern Kaissa is called the Skald or the Singer. The reason for my preference for stratagem involving that piece seems self-evident. Still, Rufus insists I play with him. So I will play.

Some say life is Kaissa, and I do not dispute the notion. Every person is a piece on the board, each with his own attributes and his own purpose. The best Kaissa is nuanced; several factors, several components, several stories unfolding on a single plane that, in the hands of masters, manage to come together at the end. There are games within games. Some are distractions. Some are seemingly incidental but evolve into the main thrust of the advance. There are times you stare puzzled at a match, at the motives involved with the moves. 'Why did he do that?' 'He has left himself vulnerable!' Many times, the witness is perfectly astute in his observation, but from time to time he is witness to something unexpected. Perhaps the Player pairs unlikely pieces to achieve his desired end. That can be dangerous Kaissa, riddled with pitfalls. It can, however, against all the odds, change the Game forever.

Devotional

What one sees or
Believes to see
What one believes
Or seems to be
Would be pleased
To be set free
From the confines
What deter
-mines the whole?
Halved and halved again
Quartered once
Then once again
Bit by bloody bit
It all makes sense
Efficient fence
Of stolen thought
Wrought from visions
Envy taught
Denied derisions
Motive caught

Increasing Value; Utility

I put Elise and the girl, Portia, to an admittedly difficult task last hand. After my inability to contact a certain fellow I have employed in the past for handy work around the whore house, I charged the sluts with renovations I wanted in the main room. They were to break up the tile and ascertain the condition of the sub-flooring. I was interested in the hardwood I knew to be beneath it. Elise was given a purse with the mandate of keeping detailed receipts in order to purchase the supplies necessary to complete the task. Chisels, buckets and the like I imagined. They were fortunate. Apparently, the tile was not adhered directly to the wooden planks. It is more than I care to go into at the moment, as I am neither carpenter nor imbonded woman charged with gaining a rudimentary understanding of the skills that were necessary to complete this task, but suffice it to say each girl's worth was improved in the last five to seven days. The short version of the tale is that the wood flooring beneath the tile was recovered, sanded smooth to the touch and then sealed. The stain used, per my decision, was two shades lighter than the flooring on the third level of the house.

The day before last, I visited the market in anticipation that a certain vendor, Hadj of Tor, would be present. Hadj is in Ar once per year, twice at most. He brings the finest carpets from the Tahari region to my city. It is difficult to get rugs of this quality outside of Tor or, perhaps, during a Sardar Fair. I chose a large rug, one that would cover much of the newly revealed floor. It is deep red in color, the only color I find fitting for the floor of a brothel. Red is the color of blood; the heated blood of passion. Carpets of this region remain colorfast for decades, provided proper care is given. The weave is tight. They are meant to be lived upon, though many hang them upon their wall as art. I do not gainsay those that enjoy only the aesthetic beauty, for these carpets are beautiful. However, I have learned that it is well to get full utility out of one's possessions. Displayed, a thing is lovely. Used, a thing is so much more.

The Girl Tupita

Tupita did not deserve the rape I put upon her this afternoon but, even as the ink that pens these words will indelibly dry, that is the fate of women such as her. Slavery is not fair. It is not meant to be. It is a demanding thing on a woman, and a rewarding one. Such rewards come at a cost, however. At the end of my interview this morning, she made her way back into the office, ready to transcribe or file or fetch or whatever it is I required of her. Instead, she found herself stripped and thrown to her belly over the low table I conduct the business of the Magistracy upon. Her knees on the floor, ass in my hands, she was entered rudely. It was a quick, heated exchange that left her bruised, sweating and dismissed to the corner where she curled up and tried vainly not to moan for more. I did not apologize to her, nor do I intend to. While I am the Magistrate of the People, she is my slave. I domicile her in the kennels of this cylinder when I have no use for her. She is clothed in an unflattering smock of rep-cloth and her head is shorn to a fine, sueded stubble. She is not permitted cosmetic. Otherwise, she might prove an inappropriate distraction to the work I am pledged to do on behalf of the People. Ironically, from time to time, on days such as today, Tupita serves dutifully and delightfully to clear my mind of distractions.

I have much to complete today. I may have to gag the girl.

The Games People Play

I do not play the Game. I know something of the movement of the pieces. Most men do. I suppose it might have made sense to learn more than the mechanics of the Game. I have traveled much of the world and, in most places, the Game is played. There are variations, of course, which are mostly regional. For example, in Torvaldsland, the Skald is a piece on the board where in most places the Scribe occupies his square. In some cities, depending upon their prejudices and preconceptions, the standard pieces move differently. I imagine the tarnsmen in the camps of the Warriors of Treve have more power relative to Spearmen and the Riders of High Tharlarion. I cannot say that for certain, of course, it is just my own speculation.
When Gaius Claudius showed up at my end of the Anbar, gift in hand, it was natural to speculate. Why would he wish to give me a Player's board? He has made himself a proprietor in my District recently. No sooner than he does so, arson and murder come to the Anbar. There are coincidences and there are correlations. It is difficult not to correlate these events. I do not mean to paint the district as a kind and gentle place to take up residence. There is crime here and there are criminals. There are gangs of thugs and puppeteers pulling their strings. However, there is one unavoidable truth about such places and it holds true for the Anbar. Where there are criminals, where they live, where they congregate, there is little crime. When someone is foolish enough to kill someone of note in this district, when someone chooses to endanger the enterprise of others by starting fires, they will be dealt with.
Past the speculation about coincidence and correlation, my personal ethics make it unacceptable to accept such a gift, lovely as it was. As an elected official, I must be concerned with such things as fact and appearance. That is, the facts behind my behavior and the appearance of it. Simply put, it would not 'look good' to be accepting gifts from a man of high caste who endeavors to enter into companionship with a woman that was recently implicated in the death of an Anbar resident. The inability to prove her guilt notwithstanding changes nothing because, as I have said, what the facts are and what they appear to be are both important notions to consider.
After the attempt to bestow a gift upon me, Claudius wished me to know that he intends to petition the city to increase the number of guardsman patrolling the Anbar District. I do not take issue with that, but I do not know that the city will answer his request favorably either. It is possible. He left his gift on the front stoop of the Boarding House when he departed, well wishes in his ostentatious wake. For the record, the gift remains in the Anbar, but not in my possession. I am unable to accept such lavishments, lest they be seen as inducement.

Urban Fable

The too-white teeth of the carnivore
The gentle nature of the beast
Tharlarion oil from a heretic
Sage advice from the Priest-
Kings & Ubars of the street
Keep placid eyes and
Quick-step feet.
The too-white smile of an alleged whore
Back-handed round the cheek
“Seek and you shall find,” they say
The yellowed pages turned
Light the lamp and see what’s there
What has smoldered
What has burned.

Petitions & Pragmatism

The woman, Noemi, made an appearance at the Cylinder of Justice a few days ago. She brought her petition to have the property on Sixth Street in the District Anbar, the former Muse Cafe, returned to her. My investigation into the death of the former proprietor, while thoroughly conducted, lacked the testimony of an eye witness. Strictly speaking, the woman is a manumitted bred slave. If I wanted to pass judgment based upon circumstantial evidence, there is little or nothing she could do. I had made the assumption, however, that someone would come forward and offer the damning testimony required to support the charges. No one came forth. She was acquitted. Her petition was filed, as I have said, and it seemed to have all of the supporting documentation necessary for such a thing. Cleared of all charges, she had the right to sue for the return of the property bequeathed to her, save one thing. At the start of this investigation, she eluded questioning by submitting herself to someone she entrusted not to make the loss of status permanent. When she submitted herself, the property was in the custody of the city. The validity of her claim was being investigated. However, as a submitted woman, a slave, she forfeited everything the moment she surrendered her freedom. Therefore, upon regaining status as a free woman, nothing was due her, certainly not property in the custody of the city.

Having explained this to her, she seemed a little disturbed. That is unfortunate. She is a delightful woman to be around, if a bit tempermental. I do not blame her. The stock of the house that created her have always been highly sensitive, emotional beasts. Such women, untended, living without discipline, are prone to recalcitrance, to outburtsts. She simply needs to be beaten; reminded she is a woman. All women, from time to time, require it. I have a girl, for example, a curvy thing I dress in plain rep cloth, that is beaten every time the stripes from her previous correction have faded. It is cruel, some might say, or irrational, perhaps, but 'some' do not own the girl. I do. The point of that digression is simply that knowing she is owned, reminded she is owned, she is a better woman for it. Obedient, even.

When the petition to return the ownership of the Cafe on Sixth Street in the District Anbar to the woman, Noemi, was denied, the property was acquired rather swiftly by Claudius of the Physicians. It makes me wonder, with all the bureaucracy this Administration is shackled with how he was able to broker the deal so expeditiously, but it is beyond the scope of my office to question such things. I happened upon him the night before last, already visiting the still boarded up establishment now in his name. We spoke briefly as the girls Elise, Portia and Six knelt dutifully. He informed me that he intended to take a companion. I am a polite fellow. I offered him congratulations at the news. And when he told me the name of his intended companion, I did not find myself taken aback. Perhaps the fact that the woman he has chosen is without caste would cause some to be startled. The Physicians are an august group, perhaps the second or third highest caste below the Initiates. Companionships are contracted for a number of reasons. The romantic drink the wine to celebrate their love. The pragmatic care little for love. Their contract for companionship is like any other business transaction. They want something someone else has or, more specifically, something someone else can offer. Whether that is something tangible, such as money, land, or children, or something less tangible but no less real. I make no speculation as to why Claudius chose to pursue the woman, Noemi, save that I doubt he is a romantic sort of man.

Spilled Ink

Deep in the maw
Spittle and anger
Irrational; Animal
Functioning rage
A torn page
A disconnect
Dissonant
Disrespect
Hunger and
Frustrate
Demand
Denial is
The depth
That drowns
The beast
Swallowed whole
Encircled and
Trapped again
Herded into
The waiting cage

The Company People Keep

Peaches and plums, that was my goal last evening in the marketplace crowded with vendor carts and shopping citizens. Portia and Elise were in tow, both to carry the edibles intended for purchase and to provide a somewhat taxed Poet turned Magistrate with a lovely bit of contrast. I often call upon the women I own to multi-task. Do not fault me for being such a demanding owner. A man must endeavor to get his money's worth. That is just good business sense. Whether they serve as beasts of burden, laundresses, housekeepers, cooks, aesthetic objects, rape-flesh, shoulder-rubbers or simple sounding boards does not matter. What matters is they serve as their owner sees fit. Though they were to carry my produce home from market last evening, they both failed to do so. I cannot fault the wenches for the lack of fresh fruit to complement my bread this morning, however. I was detained, distracted from the mission, as is often the case. Last night, it was Claudius of the Physicians, who prefers to be called 'he whom the Lady Noemi seeks to manipulate.' As luck would have it, the woman herself, Noemi, was on his arm. She is always a delight to be around. I still maintain that she needs to be stripped and beaten, reintroduced to the leather. Not a lengthy discipline. I suppose twelve or fifteen vigorous lashes across her genetically-fashioned ass would straighten her out. It may take as few as eight or ten. These things are variable. Not all men discipline an unruly woman with equal skill, you see. For her own sake, it is my sincere wish some fellow decides to take up the chore of correcting her.

As I mentioned, crossing paths with Claudius and his paramour proved a distraction to the gathering of peaches and plums. As I spoke to the man, the vendors packed up for the evening making my search a truly fruitless endeavor. He wished to know what was being done with The Muse, a property that was ordered closed by the Magistracy of the People, pending an investigation. And that investigation, as I informed him, remains pending until such time as the claimant of the property submits a petition, in person, for its return. Anything past that, of course, was not up for discussion. He did mention an interest in purchasing the property for himself, citing the suitability of the neighborhood for his purposes. Have I mentioned that Claudius is a bit slippery? Well, I will say this much...he certainly seems to have the woman Noemi's attention. I've scarcely seen her so passionate about a man.

Wine of Companionship; Wine of Intrigue

I took a free companion once. It was a fairly straightforward affair. The woman was given two choices; accept my offer of companionship or decline it. She was, for the most part, acceptable as a free companion. I taught her the basics of accrual accounting, instructing her in the intricacies of updating ledgers and provided her with a working knowledge of the arithmetic involved, calculations and the like. I charged her with such menial tasks as managing one of my business acquisitions, a brothel in the Anbar District. She was responsible for its upkeep and, too, renovations on the property when it pleased me to make them. On occasion, her discipline left something to be desired so I beat her. While she was legally a free woman, much of the time she was contractually bound to me, she was also bound as a slave. I was not a very accomodating free companion to her. In my opinion, however, while she was bound to me, I was a responsible owner and a demanding master.

I think of her from time to time.

Last evening, I escorted the Lady Tia of the Bakers to a ceremony. A Scribe and a Physician drank the wine of free companionship. I wondered, briefly, if the Lady Emilee suffered the ignominy of slave wine when she sealed her agreement with Dylan of the Physicians. I found this a pragmatic solution when I took a free companion. One should be able to take liberties with one's property, free or slave, without unforeseen consequences after all. As the Lady Emilee did not choke nor sputter when she sipped, my guess is it was heavily watered ka-la-na that sealed her contract. Despite the emphasis on romantic love, the ceremony was nicely carried out. A bit ostentatious, somewhat florid, but nicely done.

I have not failed to note the Lady Tia's ambition, for the record. I simply choose to appear ignorant of it. She is something of a social climber, wishing to be accepted in circles above her station. I do not fault her for this, but I am not unaware of her designs. She seems to work hard at growing her business. Women are, by nature, manipulative creatures. Some of them are quite successful at their machinations. Eventually, she will discover that despite the title of Magistrate and the powers associated with it, there is little to gain from me. I am not the sort of man easily manipulated by the charms of a woman, though it does not stop them from trying. I will admit the Lady has trim ankles. And I like her scent. She smells of pastry.

She confided in me, worries she disdained to speak before slave girls who might be commanded to reveal her words. Some of her speculations are sound, but others rather far-fetched in my opinion. I did not choose to entertain her theories, nor will I elaborate upon them here. Rather than try to understand the motives of the current administration and those that are in a position to take their place, I choose to control what I am able to control. Public service is not a game to me. Therefore, I do not choose to forecast the 'end game,' nor am I trying to win anything. Where I once painted my dissent upon walls for the public to see, I am now able to file Orders with the weight of my Magistracy behind them when I find myself critical of the government. I petition for the People, advocating their cause. I legislate when I am able.

A few days ago, a man calling himself Claudius, apparently of the same caste as newly-companioned Dylan, mentioned the irony of that to me over a cup of wine at a tavern in the Teiban. He is a polite man, more than once spotted escorting or otherwise engaged with the woman, Noemi. He is a bit slippery, slightly condescending, though he believes his tone and verbiage mask his true sentiment. While he is more subtle than others that seem to want to influence me, I have no doubt his happening upon me in a dark tavern near the twentieth ahn was anything but a coincidence.

Voice of the People

"You have the pulse of the people," the General said to me from the vantage of his private box in a near empty Stadium of Blades. "Where do they stand?"

Where do they stand, indeed? I looked out over the vacant sands of combat, the neatly raked rows concealing so much blood and sinew, soaking up the sweat and exertion of those that do battle within them. I reminded myself that 'the people' and 'the mob' are two very different things. Two very different mentalities make up each group. How tenuous the distinction between the two groups can be, however. I spoke to him of the opportunism and propaganda that fueled the mob. I believe in dissention. I believe in questioning authority. I am not friend of anarchy, however, save as a last resort.

No reason was given for the recent tax increases. A mandate was issued and the people were expected to bow to it. Little wonder that it caused unrest and discontent. Still less wonder that the opportunists and authors of propaganda sprung up from their quiet corners to stir the pot of rebellion. I have divided my time between meeting with angered citizens, trying to reassure them that everything possible is being done on their behalf, and scouring the libraries at the Cylinder of Knowledge for precedent and established policy regarding taxation. I found nothing that provides for the High Council's right to apply such a levy. It is my right and duty as Magistrate of the People to veto such specious legislation and I have done so by official order, suspending the tax under the authority of my elected office.

Standing before the Founder, upon the ledge of the fountain erected in his likeness, I spoke to a mixed crowd in the Great Square last evening. Copies of the order had just been posted, informing the citizens of the suspension of the tax. Their reaction was, as expected, overwhelmingly positive, but not entirely so. I am not naive. I did not think that this order would be pushed through without some resistance from the elite of Ar. The Administration is inherently bureaucratic, but it is also inherently adversarial, a system of checks and balances. The People have a voice in the chambers of the High Council. I am that voice.

Graffiti in the Trevelyan

The General's Kaissa

I saw the General's notice this morning on the way to the Cylinder of Justice. He spoke of it to me last evening at the public tables set up by the woman of the Bakers, Tia. It is a magnanimous gesture, one he offered to me personally before posting it for public consideration. I cannot image even his considerable wealth can withstand the demand it will create for very long. The resident population is close to three million, at my best estimate. Of course, much of the private property in the city is owned by men of wealth who would have no justification to petition for a place on the General's dole, and moreover, would probably have cause to fear placing themselves in his debt. No doubt he has his accountants and personal bankers advising him on this matter. These are just the far-too presumptuous - and private - estimations of a Poet, one who learned accountancy for the purpose of keeping track of a stable of whores. If his finances can weather the inevitable storm, I wish him well. His auctoritas in the city of Ar should increase at least commensurately with the success of this endeavor. He is already feared, justifiably so, by those with a tenuous grasp of power in the City. Should he sway the favor of the People, he will be truly formidable.

I will continue to work at the adminisrative end of things, leaving the proclamations and speeches to those better suited to it. I hope to get the tax lowered or, better yet, repealed completely. It is my thought that the better than quarter million non-residents enjoying the hospitality of the city should be considered a source of potential revenue, rather than demand the citizens of our poorest districts give more than they can feasibly manage. If the propaganda is true, however, these initiatives of mine are certain to fall upon deaf ears. In the meantime, I will continue to encourage the generosity of the Lady Tia. A public table at the end of each Passage Hand cannot begin to ease the debts of our poorer citizens and that is not the intent. Nor should it be seen as charity, certainly not pity. I hope it is seen as an extension of goodwill, of brotherhood.

"There is no tax on ass."

"There is no tax on ass," I told the girl, Portia, when she asked if she should be requesting three percent atop the three copper tarsks it costs for an ahn of her use.

That is not entirely true. The three percent tax is on property and on services. Prostituting slave girls falls squarely within the service industry. I suppose I could quibble and point out the fact that the girls are not providing a service, but in fact are saleable goods. They are, after all, 'owned' by the ahn. I see no point in arguing the finer points of the new levy, however. The cost of the girls will remain an even three copper per ahn (four for the blonde) and I will pay the tax from there. It is a simple calculation to derive the actual, pre-tax cost:

Actual Pre-Tax Cost = (3 copper tarsks)/(1.03) = 2.9126 C.T.

It is not a very tidy numer, but one verifies by multiplying 2.9126 by 1.03, producing an even 3 C.T. I can't very well have my whores asking for 2.9126 C.T. each time they are raped, but it is not too difficult to calculate the tax owed over the total of, say, a month's worth of earnings.

The real issue is the fairness of the levy. I've spoken to a number of people this past hand since the tax became effective. What is inescapable is this - if the tax is applied universally, across all castes and classes, it is not inherently illegal. The truth is, if the city wished to tax only one group of citizens or one particular district more heavily than others, I am not sure that is even illegal. Unfair, certainly, but not illegal. As a Magistrate of the People, however, I am duty-bound to speak on the behalf of those citizens.

Even so, it may be too late. I have yet to discover the identity of this 'Casca' that the People are rallying behind, but his men are in the street spreading the propaganda that the tax is simply to fund the vacations and villas of the current administration, many of which seem to be conveniently absent. I can sue for patience from one, two, even twenty, but I cannot stop the sentiment from growing. If there is corruption, I would not want to curb the civil unrest. I always come back to the mantra of 'fact and appearance.' What is true? What seems to be true? For example, it seems to be true that the properties of lower castes are being unfairly levied against. Whether that is, in fact, the case remains to be seen. And what of myself? It is an incontrovertible fact that I am a man of the People. I have not been corrupted. What I have gained, I have done so through hard and honest work. Of course, it may appear otherwise. I am a mere Poet, but I own two domiciles in the city of Ar. With respect to Samsara, tax is not an issue. As an Artisan house, it enjoys a substantial patronage. The Boarding House in the Anbar is subject to the property tax increase, of course. And if I am to absorb the tax of the service it provides, rather than pushing it onto my customers, I pay again. All that aside, I am an elected official of Ar. I am of a low and traditionally poor caste, but I own two domiciles within the city. I have other investments as well, having learned that the diversification is the key to the continued growth of wealth. I realize, all too well, what I am in fact and what I am in appearance.

I will work to find out, firstly, if the tax is applied universally across all castes and classes. Whether or not that is the case, I will then work to have the increase removed from those of the castes beneath the High Five. I have a plan.

Deus Ex Machina

It starts in the meaner warrens of the lower districts. It might be a single piece of graffito in the Trevelyan that opens the eyes of one person on one particular day. Fires and collapses amongst the insulae of the Street of Brands are common, but any one of those events might be the incendiary event to arouse strife & sedition. Most often the malaise starts in the Anbar and spreads outward, gaining momentum from alley to alley, on unnamed corners, and in the low light and unique stench of paga dens until the whispers can no longer be stilled. I was witness to the first raised voices on Demetrios Street last night. More than a dozen but less than a hundred, they had the look of men that had tired themselves of argument and infighting. They had the sound of men with the heart and energy to vent, but they lacked direction, focus. They shared my sentiment, though I never voiced it aloud. It was, too, their autumn of discontent manifesting itself.

Though they have no direction, only the aforementioned discontent, that will change as the mob grows. Blood will spill. Factions will likely develop. Eventually, one carnivore will rise. The unruly and restless will become the firm, staunch and devoted. Given one inspiring act, they will unite. They will follow. It is a necessary, if unfortunate, part of our government. When the checks and balances go unchecked and unbalanced, we must throw the ledger into the fire.