A Girl At My Door

A little something, a mere nothing really, was knelt on the stones of Aulus Street outside the gate of Samsara yesterday afternoon. As I approached the House, I paused to speak with the Watch Captain of the District. There was really no need to hurry. She could wait. She was only a girl.
"Pretty little thing," I said to him.
He scoffed, "Gah. Woman's slave."
"Oh, I don't know," I countered. "She is female. Perhaps a bit under-utilized, but that is nothing I would hold against her."
"Yes," he said, starting to break a smile. "I know precisely what I would hold against her."
"Really," I responded, as if scandalized. "That, good sir, is a Lady's hand maiden."
"You have convinced me otherwise," he answered.
"Oh. Right then," I nodded. "Pretty little thing."
"Indeed," he said. "And she has a message for you."
"So I see," I answered, taking note of the scroll she clutched lightly in her hand.
I left the Watch Captain to his rounds. The girl did her level best not to glance up past my chin as I approached her. Lady's slaves, hand maidens, kettle girls and the like are often shy things. 'Unter-utilized,' I had said to the other fellow. That about summed it up. I would say stagnant, but it seems like a harsh word. One wants to convey that such a girl has had her development halted, that she is making little progress on her career as a luscious, imbonded female. That is not to say that this one did not have the potenial to be perfectly lovely. When I hauled her to her feet, she gasped appropriately. Her utterance of surprise did not lack a pleasant tone. When I slapped her flank or pinched her ass, she squirmed as well as I might have hoped for a girl assigned the lot she's been assigned, perhaps a bit better. The quiet moan, of course, would have been decidedly unacceptable to most mistresses. I had the impression that should I have dropped her to her hands and knees, she would have endeavored to make me forget her station. She would likely have failed in that endeavor, of course, but the tell-tale way her thighs rubbed against one another as I held her upper arm firmly in my grip told me it would not have been from a lack of trying. My guess is she would have begged the opportunity to try as many times as it took to get it right. It was not to be her day, however. After relaying my reply to the scroll to her, I lifted the hem of her garment and slapped her again to send her on her way. She did not attempt to lower the hem of her garment over the curve of her reddening backside as she hurried off. I cannot be certain, but I think she may even have been holding it up purposely.
Cheeky hand maiden.

I Speak With Sertorius of the Physicians

Sertorius agreed to meet me in the Teiban District last evening at a tavern. He was clear that the meeting would be brief and that I was not to monopolize his time. He is a Physician and what I would call 'traditional' High Caste. That is to say, Sertorius is a bit of an elitist. He affected a put upon mien at the notion I would suggest a meeting at all. Of course, Low Caste or not, I am a Magistrate of the People. I have used quite a bit of discretion in exercising the power of that office and I would not have forced the Physician to meet me if he absolutely refused regardless. He did me a courtesy and I was grateful for it. Aside from being an elitist, he is a brilliant researcher, as much Scribe in that sense as Physician. That, of course, is not an analogy one would make aloud in the presence of either a Scribe or a Physician, any more than one would compare Builders to Warriors. Still, I think it is apt. He is a studious fellow. He spends far more time in the laboratory and libraries than he does mending broken arms or vaccinating people's chattel or children. When he was brusque with me, I did not hold it against him. I asked him about the people in vicinity of Sixth Street in the Anbar, around what was then called The Kal-da Cafe; people quite paralyzed, thought to be dead, but later reporting they were immobilized but completely aware of their surroundings.

"That is what you have called me out for? Yes. We are aware of it. Analysis revealed traces of a naturally occuring Frobocain analog, a general anesthetic, and a localized stimulant of sorts," he explained as if this were something I would comprehend the first time I heard it. He leaned a bit closer.

"Frobocain is a paralytic muscle relaxant. In addition it is responsible for initiating a reversible loss of consciousness in patients or, in these cases, victims," he told me further. He seemed rather intent on letting the information go no farther than between the two of us. "One such victim, not in the area of Sixth Street, but in the vicinity of the Great Square, was in possession of...candies," he said, seemingly disgusted at the notion.

It turned out after analysis that those candies revealed the same traces of Frobocain and the stimulant, possibly the sugared candies themselves, as the blood of several victims. The stimulant, he explained, was in a small enough dose to keep the victim roused, but not to overide the paralytic effects of the relaxant. He went on further to explain that the stimulant might not have been necessary at all, as anesthetizing patients is a science, the work of those of his Caste, and amateurs could very well paralyze individuals as expected, but not render them unconscious which, he assured me, during certain procedures, could be somewhat unpleasant.

He spoke as if all of this was obvious and it was quite unnecessary to have summoned him, but I assured him the information was valuable to me. And it was.

A Quiet Conversation in the Anbar

"You are forever with one of them at your hip, Poet," the fellow uttered, the sound of his voice a guide. He produced a fire-maker, striking the flint. It brought up a brief, slightly acrid scent as he illuminated a small votive. Tharlarion oil. Foul stuff, but it burns well enough and provided a dull glow with which we might speak around.

"A weakness, perhaps," I admitted. The girl Elise was with me. She was clad in a girl cloak, the hood brought up about her head. I did not want the distractions of a slave to interfere with the discussion, dark as this den was.

He grunted at my response and said curtly, "Why did you ask to see me?"

The fellow I spoke to was a survivor of the Delta. Many such fellows can be found at the fringe of polite society in Ar; in the Anbar or the Trevelyan or the Metellan. Many of them are still quite bitter at the losses, both financial and personal, that the slandering of their reputations caused. They are the eyes and ears of Ar, for those that have access to them, for those that know them.

"The Kal-da Cafe on Sixth Streeth," I started. "The local Magistrate. There are rumors as to where," I continued and then pulled back from that particular tangent. "I don't know that the investigation has gotten anywhere, not that I expect people to talk to the foreigner."

"Venor?" he asked. "No. I don't imagine most would volunteer much information to him."

"Micah deserved better than to be dragged into the street and bloodied, killed," I said.

"Micah," the fellow echoed. "Wicked business, those people turning up sick like that."

"A little too convenient," I added.

"That Noemi woman, yes," he uttered disdainfully. I saw his fist clench instinctively. "Moved right in the next day, didn't she?"
I nodded. "That is where I intend to start. Indirectly anyway. I need to ask around."

"I will do the same," he offered.

"I appreciate that," I answered, refraining from addressing him respectfully as 'Veteran.' I was hardly anonymous in this setting, but he was. "I need to find out why people were catatonic and then fine several ahn later. Maybe a Physician."

"You are a Magistrate," he answered, offering a bit of advice. "Just shackle the little bitch up."

"It is not that simple," I replied. "But I will not let this pass."

Economies of the Flesh

There are sure signs that a woman knows herself fully and truly slave. One certain way is if she asks, aloud or to herself, 'What am I worth?' Not simply 'What am I worth?' in some intangible, existential, emotional type of way. 'What am I worth?' in simple matters of coin. Is she a free woman disrobing before a mirror, wondering if she is shapely enough, exciting enough to illicit bids based on her appearance and mien, not simply due her status? Is she a slave that watches the negotiation of price on another girl and finds she cannot help but wonder 'What am I worth?' Women cannot help but to compare themselves to one another, though they cannot possibly gauge an accurate value of themselves based solely upon their level of loveliness relative to their peers.

It is true that certain markets value certain types more than others and, similarly, look for different aptitudes and talents. A girl fitting a certain type, obviously, will be worth a bit more if she meets a fellow's criterion. Some fellows are not looking for anything more than a type and care little, if anything, about who the girl 'is.' Who she 'is' will become a product of his will in time regardless.

I think that the city of Ar is ideally suited to gauge an approximate average worth for a variety of girl types. Not only does it contain several of the largest slaving houses on the planet and the most respected institution of the craft and Caste, The Curulean, it is situated in the very cradle of the continent. No 'type' is truly unknown here. You can fetch a Thentian blonde with blue eyes and shapely legs or a tanned and darkly maned girl of Turia with fair ease. A black girl from the rainforests or the south Thassan archipelago is a bit more difficult to find, but not unknown. Cuddly sluts courtesy of the Sons of Torvald can be purchased here and so will girls of a dozen Tahari kasbahs. All of this is simply to say, while that black girl might fetch a high price in Hunjer simply for the rarity of her type just as the cuddly, blonde bond maiden on a Jarl's chain will fascinate most dwellers of Tor, what they are really worth, on a world scale, is most accurately discerned on the blocks of Ar.

Personally, I have owned several types of girls. Most of them were purchased or acquired in the City of Ar. I have had opportunities, of course, in my travels to collect a pretty thing or two that piqued my interest on the road, but I have rarely done so. The bouquet at home, so to speak, is full enough, and varied enough, that one may pluck what one wants within a short walk of his own front door. That is not to say that a souvenir from a journey, now and again, is not a pleasant thing. That is just to say that it is an indulgence, not a necessity. And the prices at home, due the quantity and quality of the stock, are far more regulated. Also, it is simpler to negotiate a return or an exchange of merchandise with a Slaver that lives 'next door' rather than 500 pasangs or more down the road.

It is simply a matter of knowing the value of women.

In the Great Theater

Tonight's rehearsal was a bust. I had hoped to rehearse the final scene this evening. The timing is a bit off and the blocking could use some work. There are some physical bits in the scene that could use a little work. Actors. Priest-Kings, love them. I had thought those of my Caste, Poets and Singers and the like, were a troupe of drunken lechers, but I am finding they do not compare to the debauchery of Actors. The fellows are usually tardy, sometimes inexplicably so, but neither Quintus nor Alcobiades bothered to even show up tonight. There are still a few hands left until curtain, and the miscommunication is not unexpected, but it is a bit stressful. Still, it is always a pleasure to be in the company of the fishmonger Phineahas and the famed Locutius.

The evening was not a total waste. The girl, Bridget, rushed into the Theater with a message from her Mistress, the Lady Eliza, which offered enough lewd invective to make a Wharf Praetor in the Vosk Harbor of Lara blush. Apparently, my failure to keep a dinner appointment with the woman was entirely unacceptable. I have rescheduled, and upped my offer of Two Silver Tarsks to Two & Thirty-Five. It is my sincere hope that I am not otherwise engaged tomorrow evening and find the time to meet the fair woman tomorrow. She seemed a little agitated by the content of her missive. I suppose I can understand that. I am excellent dinner company. At least that is what I have been told.

The Lady Black, otherwise known as Noemi, also chose to bless us all with her presence. The woman disdains veils under the delusion that she is entertaining people. It is an outright scandal and her claims to be of my Caste are not the least of her delusions, if the most offensive. I suspect she was involved in the murder of the proprietor of the Kal-da Cafe on Sixth Street in the Anbar District. People were poisoned. Found in a paralyzed state. They eventually came to, but not before the proprietor was dragged into the street under the suspicion that he had done something nefarious and beaten until bloody. He eventually died from the wounds inflicted. One merely follows the money in any criminal investigation. Who profited in the end? Who benefited? Noemi has opened a business, renovating the Kal-da Cafe into something so lurid as not to be discussed further and the Magistrate who presumably would have been investigating the murder of the former proprietor has gone missing. If she is unaware that fingers are pointing in her direction, she is far more than delusional. She is just plain stupid. The men in that district will not suffer that sort of nonsense for long, as evidenced by the thuggery done upon the former proprietor. Her comeuppance may not be by my hand, but it will come. I commented to the woman's guardsman that he was delinquent in his duties. The woman he was paid to protect had become a bit loud in her tone and bold with her address. He had not bothered to usher her out of the room or, at the very least, cuff her to the floor. Curiously, he did not seem willing to act on her behalf. It is a shame, really. The fellow seemed nice enough, but he had very little pride in his work. He did little more than hold the woman by the arm. I considered cuffing her myself, actually, but found the exertion to do so outweighing the potential satisfaction.

Midday Near the Stadium of Tarns

As I stood in the doorway of The Four Strap, I found them there, the black girl & Six, in the area around the Stadium of Tarns at midday. I whistled sharply. I have directed them to work this area as the racing this year is a hotly contended affair. No less than four factions, my Silvers amongst them, will compete for top honors. My two top earners, Six and Portia, are there to offer a consoling diversion to losing bettors or a delightful indulgence to those winning heavy purses. In both cases, the cost is minimal for what I offer; three copper tarsks, per girl, per ahn. Six made it to my feet first, flushed about the throat with the profitable smell of rape upon her, smiling radiantly. Soon after, with her dark-limbed saunter, Portia was corraled. The dust from the road was on her back and in the heavy, braided lengths of her hair. Both girls carried with them a satisfying amount of coin, proof of productivity. It was only an ahn after midday.

"Work is over," I told them. It is always humorous to see the brief elation at having their workday cut short, followed by a momentary rueful pout about the bottom lip of each. Yes, work is over, but that means the succession of hungry men, eager to own them for an ahn at a time is also at an end. At least for the day. Each of them likes their work, but everyone likes a little time for themselves, even slave girls. Of course, they were to be given no such thing. I had them knelt in The Four Strap as I supped and drank a little kal-da (The Four Strap does not serve wine). It is pleasant to eat in the company of women. Particularly those one owns. Those of mine that are put to work on the street wear red garments with the familiar refrain "Have me. Boarding House. Anbar" embroidered near the hem in the back in white thread. Advertising pays. As does delivering a quality product. That was evident by their midday tallies.

"Both of you will return to the Anbar and bathe," I told them between mouthfuls of food and quaffs from my cup. "Change out of your work garments."

If they had looked at one another curiously at that point, I would not have been surprised. Half a day of work. A midday bath. Perhaps I would send them off to pick Talendars next? No. Of course not.

"Eat your mouthful of gruel after your baths," I continued. They are fed twice daily. The rations are not large, of course. They are only women. And gruel is quite nourishing, I am assured. Chock full of all the nutrients a busy slut needs. A splash of slave wine or a zesting of sip root is more than enough spice to taste. Think of it. If you feed a girl too much gruel, she will cease to appreciate it. Better to give her what she needs and have her looking forward to the sustinence. I had finished with my meal at that point. A hot-eyed little brunette named Keela took the bowl and dabbed my mouth with a warm towel. A second girl, blonde haired, I think her name is Kita, or maybe Seeka, refilled my cup. I dismissed them both.

"Six, seek out Lady Tia the Baker," I told her. "Tell her I would have a word at her convenience."

I then glanced to Portia, who was momentarily distracted by the departure of Keela and Kita, or maybe Seeka, one of those, and spoke to her. "Portia, tell the Lady Eliza I have two silver tarsks for her," I said, "and I would like to give them to her at her convenience."

I decided to stay a while at The Four Strap and enjoy another round or two of kal-da. It had only a mild sting today and was quite tasty. It burned a little, of course, but it was tasty. I thought, too, I might take in the early evening races. It had been a while since the last time. I think that might have been Venna, at the Stadium of Tharlarions where Horned Ubar was running. Tarns, however, were a whole different game. Yes, I thought, I will stick around here for the day. I bid the two of them to show their obeisance and run along to do as they were told.