Negotiation & Respect

originally posted June 7, 2005

Seventy Percent.
Yes, the aforementioned gentleman; he of the burnoose, he of the kaffiyeh and agal had vacated. The assassination, for one reason or another, did not go as planned. The General, resourceful and having a plotter’s nature himself, avoided the Killer’s Steel. The gentleman gone, the General preyed on my investment, now my legal investment, like a hungry forest sleen on the woodland fauna of the Northern Forests. I stared in disbelief at the books, the beginnings of a migraine settling in. Seventy percent was paid off the top, directly into the General’s coffers.
“Let us negotiate,” I said to him calmly. He was not aware that the Boarding House was under new management. He took a moment to assess the situation as I continued, “As men of Ar.”
The negotiations went, for the most part, swiftly. I was not under any delusion that I was completely safe during such time, but felt it was critical to point out to him that he did not deal with a foreigner or a woman. We share a Home Stone, but when one negotiates with a Warrior, one often negotiates with the edge of a blade. I sensed, however, that despite the rumors, the General was an honorable fellow. In the end, I agreed to furnish him with thirty-nine percent of the profits and turned over the useless, red-headed porch-slut, Talorai. Most know her as ‘A Pity’. She was taking up space in my House and being fed like a stray cur. Had the General not requested her, I would have sold her to the Municipal Pens or, perhaps, to a tavern on the Avenueof the Brothels of Ludmilla. In return, the General assigned ten of his best men to watch duty not only over the Boarding House here in the Anbar, but also over House Samsara, which is on Aulus Street near the great theaters of Ar.
As an aside, as these entries are told in retrospect, I think it is worth noting that my women, whores and slaves though they are, are treated with a modicum of respect of late. That is not to say they are not handled roughly, they are. That is not to say they are not pinched, slapped, derided and even occasionally spit upon by the odd free woman, they are. They are, however, no longer owned by a woman once one of their own. When handled with rough hands by a fellow, it is from desire that they are bruised, not anger. When raising the ire of the occasional free woman, it is jealousy that propels the spittle or adds velocity to the slap, not anger.
I discipline my bitches. They know their place. Some, already, are reveling in it. The others, all of them, will soon fall into line.