Patronage, Lineage & The Good Earth

I spent a good part of last evening discussing business with Vesutto, Merchant of Venna. I've known Vesutto for several years, and find him to be intelligent, urbane company. He has amassed ridiculous wealth, but I do not hold that against him much. You find many men of the Lower Castes, successful Merchants & Slavers mostly, that will devolve into sloth and decadence in direct proportion to the size of their accounts at the local Street of Coins. I have seen such men wearing more rings than they have fingers (or even toes) to accomodate. Pearls set into the straps of their sandals and sereem diamond applied to the forehead to replace shaven brows are other oddities I have seen. Many of them, also, reek of perfumes. As if a proper bath would take an unacceptable amount of time away from counting one's coins. This, thankfully, is not the sort of Merchant that Vesutto chooses to be. You might think him simply well-groomed rather than well-heeled if you were not aware of the more subtle cues of wealth. His sandals are finely tooled and his tunic is impeccably tailored. He does not speak abruptly nor with much ingratiation. He is not, in short, trying to impress you. If you ask him what sort of merchandise he deals in, he is often known to give a vague, if polite, response such as, "A little of this. A little of that."
On a recent trip to Thentis, he acted as intermediary between Gerald of Thentis, a noted Thentian Vintner, and myself in the matter of Gerald's daughter, Constance. I was, at that time, nearing the end of a contract of companionship with another woman. In the end, I chose to renew that contract, and I do not regret it, but the match with Constance would have been a beneficial one. I am not of a mind to procreate, of course. I simply like wine. And Constance, I was assured by inquires made of her handmaidens, was a fetching diversion for a man. Her family was well-off and, I suppose, a vagabond Poet securing a contract of companionship with a Vinter's daughter was something of a coup. She was a bit young at the time, however, and a little too enamored with the man who wrote the anthemic poem, 'E-kipa the Serpent.'
More important than Vesutto's desire to elevate me up a social ladder I have little interest in, is his ability to blend an impressive business acumen with an admirable appreciation (and patronage) of the arts. He bankrolled nearly all of the costs of production of The Fall of Agamedes when it was staged on The Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux earlier this year. It turned out to be a wise decision, and beneficial to the both of us. Due to his patronage of The Fall, I was able to finance most of the production costs of The Good Citizen myself and keep a much larger portion of the profits.
Finally, when Vesutto found out that I had always been fond of the idea of owning property north of Venna, he cleared the administrative burdens that allowed me to purchase the field of dina and gently sloped hill I now own in that city's northeast hills. I refused to go into debt or accept his charity to construct the modest home that will soon stand atop that gently sloped hill, but I am assured that his Builders will have it completed in a few short months.
As he did with The Fall, Vesutto will soon stage a production of Citizen in the playhouses of Venna and the surrounding areas, perhaps some towns along the Vosk, if there proves to be a market for it. As he assumes nearly all of the cost of these smaller productions, he reaps a larger percentage of the profit, but I still earn a share as author of the original work. This is generally money that is never touched or even seen, but represented by ink on a scroll on the Street of Coins in Ar. I have learned over the past few years that true wealth is thusly represented. Not by the rings on one's fingers or the coins hoarded in dirty sacks beneath the floorboards against the cold dirt, but by ink on a page.
Vesutto wishes to offer a part in Vennan run of The Good Citizen to Phineahas, in hopes that the auctoritas earned in his performance at The Great Theater will transfer neatly onto the smaller stage. The weight of his name alone would guarantee a brisk attendance. I wonder if that fish-mongering Cosian knows just how far his star has risen, truly? Fame can be a fickle bitch, however. And fleeting. Perhaps he can slip back into a comfortable anonymity. I suspect that is what he ultimately wants. He has already told me he intends to decline Vesutto's inevitable offer. If the Merchant truly wishes Phineahas to reprise his role, he will make it difficult for Phineahas to walk away. In the end, I think the Story Teller will do just that. He longs to see Thassa. That is a stronger draw than money for men such as he.
And despite his assurance that he finds Vesutto to be a good sort, I think he'd rather be well away from the man. As a Merchant and Slaver, he took one look at Phineahas' Naka and pegged the slut not only as Turian, but named her family and spoke of its ancestry to a time before the 'Ar of the South' had the first of its famous Nine Gates. I assume from the girl's white knuckles and flushed face that Vesutto was fairly, if not entirely, accurate in his assessment of her lineage. He spoke of her as if she was always destined to be precisely what she was, a female slave, assuring the Story Teller that the women of her gens were prized by Tuchuck Warriors, and always fought for when put at the stake of The Love Wars. She is a pretty, little thing and, as Vesutto informed the Story Teller quite truthfully, he was fortunate to have her. It is rare for a Turian Slave Girl to be owned by anyone other than the Wagon People. They simply do not sell them once they are in the Steel of the Plains. I found it entertaining that the man could so effortlessly assess the girl, but all men, not just Merchants, are Slavers. Their level of expertise is, inevitably, commensurate with their experience. Phineahas was no less impressed, but found the whole affair 'creepy.' He is possessive of his little import and a bit irrational over her. He may even love her, but I would rather not have him punch me so I will not make mention of that idle speculation elsewhere but upon this page. And I do not gainsay him, nor would I ridicule him (much) if this were found to be true. I have been known to be fond, and sometimes even possessive, over the women on my chain, from the first girl to the bottom whore.
We ended last evening at the Tarsk Head, a quaint dive that seems to have only two items on the menu, kal-da & ass. I have yet to sample the ass, but the kal-da is quite good as kal-da goes, which is to say that it is scalding, astringent and an assault to all five senses.
Elise was given the task of transcribing The Good Citizen this morning. She has acceptable penmanship and, unlike her chain-sisters, has the time to spare. She has been given directions to his estate on the Tellurian Hills, to deliver it when finished. I will spend the day in the fields, harvesting the plump ta-grapes that are threatening to drop into the dark soil of their own volition. I have a suspicion that, despite the fantastic indulgence a few of them have been given in sampling them, the girls are not fond of olives which are, undoubtedly, an acquired taste. There are several batches ready to transfer from the brine to the marinade today as well. I think I will add more pepper to the marinade. Just a touch.

Origination & Destination

"You know, of course, where this man is from?" Habib asked of me.
"The man?" I asked. It is always enjoyable to answer the verbose with a polite, if short reply. I am beginning to understand Mathor's mien, the longer I know him.
"Yes, yes. He with the history about his countenance. He with hair the color the shifting sands at dawn near the Oasis of Nine Wells. He that weaves the words of worlds and speaks the stories of..." he rambled, until I interrupted.
"Phineahas?" I confirmed.
"Indeed, the Fish-Mongering Story-Teller. The flame-crested traveller. The jaunting journeyman of..." he started again.
"...I believe I know the fellow," I interrupted again.
"Surely, then, you know his accent, however adroitly he enunciates in the accent of everyman?" he questioned.
"Of course," I nodded. "I have known for some time. A mere nothing. What of it?"
"Habib of Tor simply wondered if Szol of the Poets, the esteemed playwright and peddler of prostitutes, the People's Magistrate of the glory of glories that is Mighty Ar, the conquesting giant of the East, knew he had in his midst the..." he started in the third person, then looked around conspiratorially before leaning closer to whisper the last, "offspring of the infamous Isle."
"You mean Cos, right?" I confirmed.
"Indeed," he nodded, his verbosity finally waning.
"Salen of Cos was once in the employ of Samsara," I reminded him. "And a good friend."
"If you have no cause for concern," he started. "perhaps we can discuss matters of a more, delectable nature."
"You wish to peddle your dates, Habib of Tor?" I asked, knowing this was not the case. Dates were, at best, sustinence. Topics of delectation were nearly always centered around softer, more vulnerable stock. Female slaves, to be exact.
"I do not wish to peddle, but to purchase. Whether the currency is dates, finely woven rugs of the inimitable craftsmen of Tor, cardammon, candy, cosmetics or coin, such trivialities can surely be settled after the initial question has been positively or negatively confirmed," he nodded.
"I assume it is the Sixth Girl on the chain that has piqued the interest of Habib," I questioned.
"In a manner of speaking, for all intents and purposes, yes, the interest of Habib has been piqued by the girl known as Six, the foot-licking, ankle-nipping, she-sleen situated at the terminal end of your coffle of delights," he elaborated.
Habib enjoyed elaborating. I think by now Mathor would have punched him, but I had infinitely more patience than Mathor and, too, I liked Habib. One learns to treasure the friends one acquires. Punching them in the face is generally a poor way to foster a healthy relationship.
"In a manner of speaking?" I inquired.
"I have been asked to acquire such a female," he confided. "but to determine first hand if she has certain, suitable attributes."
"The Six Girl, I have no doubt, has shown herself worthy of your buyer," I answered.
"The codes of my Caste forbid me to enlighten you to just how worthy," he replied, "but the bond of our friendship makes it impossible not to fully disclose her true worth."
"I know precisely what she is worth," I assured him.
"That makes the transaction somewhat simpler," he said.
"When does Habib of Tor depart for Lara?" I asked.
"It is with the heaviest of hearts that Habib of Tor will enjoy the company of the noble Poet Szol for only two days further," he answered.
"I will have your answer, then, in two days time," I smiled.

Building

The days are long this time of year, and that is a good thing. I've found myself falling into a comfortable routine, farming what is, to-date, a modest crop of olives and ta-grapes. The picking and washing, brining and marinating, is satisfying work under the mellow, Vennan sun. I realize, of course, it cannot last. I have a limited amount of time here with responsibilities in The City calling me home. Still, I would like to be here when construction is completed.

It has taken three productions at the Pentilicus Tallux Theater and one on the world stage at the most recent En'Kara Fair to gather the money needed to start. That does not include the work done by Vesutto to keep The Fall of Agamedes running for better than a year in Venna with a variety of actors, including luminaries such as Locutius and Nikos of Tyros. Nor the efforts of a sleek stable of women over the last two years plus in the Anbar District of Ar. I finally acquired enough to start construction. I am not, of course, in the Northwestern Hills of Venna, where the wealthy Tellurians reside. I am nearer the Voltai and my plot is modest. A small field of dina and a gentle slope of healthy soil for growing.

When it is completed, it will be a stucco-sided home roofed with red clay tiles. The veranda will wrap the structure on three sides. It is little more than a foundation at the moment. Vesutto's Builders have only just finished the plans, but in the coming months will complete the project under his supervision. I will be here long enough to harvest the ready crops before returning south. I will regret leaving, but the lure of home is too strong to deny.

Olives & The Stadium of Tharlarion

I spent the day brining the vine-ripened olives that grow on the gentle slope beside the field of dina I own north of Venna. I did this with an auburn-maned girl I've kept sequestered for the last few passage hands. After they are picked, they are cleaned and then bruised by slashing one side with a paring knife. They are then placed in an earthenware container, submerged in a saltwater solution for three to four hands. In the interim, at the end of each hand, one must freshen the brine. If the largest of the olives in the brine, at the end of three or four hands, is not too bitter to the taste, the lot of them are placed in a fresh pot to marinate. The marinade consists of a little wine, the juice of a tospit, spices and olive oil. The olives are completely submerged in the marinade for a few days and then they are ready to eat. At the moment, most of the containers are 'first hands' or 'second hands,' but there is one that will be ready for rinsing and marinading in the next day or so. I look forward to sampling the 'fruit of my labors,' so to speak. When I am compelled to return to Ar, there will be men from Vesutto to look after these menial tasks, but I find it very satisfying to do it myself. Joy, the girl I call Sandal, seems to enjoy the work as well. She browns nicely in the sun and does not complain about the long ahn spent picking and cleaning and mixing the brine. Of course, she is a slave. Such women find the whole business of registering complaints a losing proposition most times. That is not to say that I do not have an open-door policy, I do. It is only to say that, in conjunction with the open-door policy, I have a loose-belt policy.
"A bit more salt, Sandal," I instructed as the girl mixed the brine. She looked lovely with the kerchief tied about her forehead, her red-brown curls refusing to remain tied back neatly in place. "Then off into the field to pick the ta-grapes."
"Yes, my master," she said in what seemed to be a genuinely contented tone.
I may take her with me into the District of Telluria later in the afternoon to one of the tharlarion farms. There are races coming to Venna's Stadium of Tharlarion either tonight or the next night. I would not mind seeing some of the beasts that will be competing up close. Now and again one is fortunate enough to be about when the hatchlings are fresh from the eggs. That might be something to see as well. I walked by the Stadium last evening en route to meeting Phineahas in the city's great square. There were posters and placards announcing Horned Ubar, the fearsome monster that was in the city during my last sojourn abroad. As his name suggests, he is horned about the forehead. His leathery hide is swarthy, striped green about the rear flanks. A terrible lizard, indeed.

Arrival

We have reached the City of Venna, some two hundred pasangs north of Ar. The longer, summer days have meant longer days for the drivers and guardsmen in the employ of Habib. The stature of the gate of Venna, of course, is a mere nothing when compared to the high, white walls of my own city, but it is beautiful in its own way. This is a resort city, with manicured shrubbery and straight, orderly thoroughfares. The shoppes cater to a wealthy clientele, many of them citizens of Ar. I have said, often in jest, that it was my greatest ambition to own a villa in Venna as so many of my so-called betters, men and ladies of High Caste in Ar do. That is part of the reason I have traveled here. I have property in the hills north of the city. It is a simple field of dina purchased with the proceeds of the exertions of whores. Further construction, when it occurs, will be done with similar profits, but also with the more respectable earnings of a more respectable profession, that of playwright. On the lower slopes, I have planted both ta-grapes and olives in the healthy, black earth. It should be noted that my property is not in Venna's exclusive Telluria District, which is in the hills on the Northwest side. I can see those properties from my field on the Northeast side. Many of them breed the tharlarion Venna is known for on sprawling ranches. My aspirations, once made in jest and now becoming a lucid reality, are for a simple villa. A small home with a porch from which I can survey my field of dina and the gentle sloping earth planted with olives and ta-grapes.

I have other business in Venna, of course.

I will speak with Vesutto about our future business ventures. With The Good Citizen having had its day on the Great Stage, he may want to produce it on a smaller scale in the playhouses and small theaters of Venna in the near future. Having anticipated this, I have brought a copy of the script and stage directions. There are other ventures, investments and the like that I have entrusted Vesutto with that I will check upon. It is shamelessly responsible of me considering my caste, but several years ago I chose not to entrust my future to the ethics of the men of higher castes in my city. Far too many of them are corruptible in the worst manner and have proven to be shameless sycophants... I will refrain from writing about that again. It darkens my mood and there is much reason for being in good spirits.

I have other property in Venna at the moment, for the record, besides a field of dina and a gently sloping hill planted with stakes of olives and ta-grapes. I have something tall & auburn-maned, tanned and tone of limb, smelling of sandalwood. I call her Joy. These past months she has been living in the House of Vesutto, escorted each morning to toil the fields. In the afternoon, she paints. It was something she showed an interest in and an aptitude for during our stay in Thentis. I have asked Vesutto to look in on her progress and, from time to time, bring in an Artist to critique her process and instruct her in methodology and other such things as color theory and technique. A few of her paintings already hang on the walls of Samsara. A landscape in the greatroom. An abstract in my den. It pleases me to encourage her in this endeavor.

The wagons of the caravan will remain parked along the Vosk Road outside the gates of the city when we enter, waiting the whim of Habib should he wish to linger. I know that Phineahas has tentative plans to continue on with the fellow when he heads north to the Vosk Port of Lara and points beyond the Salerian Fields. It is my hope the estimable Habib finds reason to indulge in the offerings of this beautiful city. Who knows when my path will cross with that of a grumbling fish-monger turned story teller and occasional actor again?

The Caravan

Not much sleep last evening.
Just outside the Great Gate, along some two pasangs of the Viktel Aria, the caravan of Habib of Tor was already moving as tor-tu-gor made it's first golden rent in the horizon. It had set itself up late last afternoon and spent the evening afield, anticipating travel this morning. The forward wagons, which arrive at each day's destination far in advance of the rest to raise the tents and light the cooking fires, were well on their way as many of us scheduled to travel in the middle and end portions of the line were just getting roused for the day. The caravan of Habib, it is said, is a city unto itself. It is a city that has no walls and is often not in the same location on two subsequent evenings, but a city nonetheless. I suppose it has a Home Stone, even, as men of the south are as Gorean as the lot of us North of the Cartius. They speak the Language.
At the moment, Tasta is up on the second floor, encouraging the women to expedience. A bit early for her to be carrying on like that and I assume I will hear of it from a resident of the alley or two as we make our way out of the Anbar, but you cannot deny the utility of a trained sleen.
It feels good to know I will be sleeping beneath the stars this evening.

Last evening was spent in the Great Square near the city's Central Cylinder. I am fond of that area of the city, where a good mix of the populace congregate with little regard to caste or class. Oh, many are still much concerned over their personal dignitas, but on the whole people tend to mingle freely with one another. It is a place for the founding and unfounding of gossip, the commencement of business both official and otherwise, and a place to see others and be seen. I managed to accomplish all three before turning in for the night.
I've left Mathor in charge of things as of today. With properties in the Anbar and the Theater District, he mentioned taking on a few more men to round out his staff. The Office of the Magistracy, of course, comes with a complement of regulars and I could request a sentry or two, but Mathor declined the notion.
"The climate of a City can change," he told me in a bout of uncharacteristic verbosity.

Habib of Tor

I remember Habib of Tor.

It has been, perhaps, five years since I last enjoyed the hospitality of his caravan. He was passing through my glorious city en route to points north; Venna, Lara and Thentis amongst them. He is a Merchant. He is also a charlatan and a rogue. When he makes his infrequent journeys northward, he carries four things from his native, desert lands. He brings first and foremost the Red Salts of Kasra. Though most salts from the Mines of Klima are white, certain of those mines yield a red salt, due to the inclusion of ferrous oxide in its composition. Needless to say, this novelty is popular in points north of the Cartius River. I cannot recall that it adds or subtracts anything from the actual taste of the salt, but it is a pleasing aesthetic for some supper tables. He also brings a good deal of dates, pressed into bricks. I remember from his previous journey the willingness of peasants to trade their grain alcohols for these convenient food stores. A third thing are the famed rugs of Tor, assured, he promises, to have been woven by neither slaves nor children. These rugs are the product of proud craftsmen of that region, their work dating back hundreds of years. For one who knows the intricacies of such things, it is possible to tell the House in which a given rug was woven simply by patterns and prevalence of certain colors. Some colors are used by one House and one House only. To attempt to use these colors outside the Houses that traditionally use them is considered fraudulent, a capital offense. The fourth thing Habib brings from the Tahari to points north, of course, is women. Deeply tanned, dark-eyed beauties. He brings these things north for goods that are difficult to obtain in his desert home.
"You will travel with the caravan of Habib?" he asked with a smile that was far too white to be trusted. "Delightful. Most excellent."
"It brings my heart no shortage of joy to see you delighted thusly," I responded. It is difficult not to become competitively verbose in the presence of such a man.
"I assure you, Szol of the Poets," he nodded, lifting a bejeweled finger for emphasis, "I feel as if I might burst with the overabundance of the very joy with which you find yourself blessed."
"You are laying it on a bit thick, Habib," I informed him.
"The bit about bursting, eh?" he asked.
"Rather over the top," I confirmed.
"It worked rather well with the Administrator of Turia three summers past," he assured me.
"Turians are an indulgent, self-congratulating lot," I retorted.
"Excellent observation," he nodded. I think he was taking mental notes. Habib the Merchant is a businessman of the first order. His entire life seems to consist of one transaction after the other. Despite that, he has been a good friend to me, if somewhat absent.
We spoke for another ahn or so. I endeavored not to hear of his latest exploits. Such knowledge can be incriminating. He is a good friend and a businessman of the first order, but the business of mercantile exchange is not always friendly. On the surface, it is about equitable transactions between two parties. That is the economic theory portion of it. In practice, however, there are few transactions that are entirely equitable. It is not so difficult to understand, really. If all transactions were entirely equitable, no man would be wealthy relative to his neighbor. That is not to say we endeavor to cheat one another. That is just to say that one must understand the concept of supply & demand if one ever wishes to accumulate wealth. The man who has an ample supply of what others demand has an opportunity to thrive in business. If I am digressing, it is due to conversing with Habib, which always seems to be economically-centered. I mentioned to him the desire of Phineahas to travel with his caravan to Venna and perhaps further and it started another round of verbosity which I would rather not repeat, for sake of brevity and for fear that I am not certain I could transcribe it all accurately. Suffice it to say, he is rather elated to have the company of Phineahas, a Story Teller, Fishmonger and Actor of the Great Stage as part of his caravan.
"Does he have stories about outlaw women?" he inquired.
"Panther Girls?" I asked.
"Yes, yes, Panther Girls!" he smiled.
"I would think so," I nodded.
"What of Pirates?" he asked.
"Certainly. I heard a tale just the other night of a Tuchuk in Port Kar," I confirmed.
"In Port Kar?" he asked, uncertain he heard me right.
"With a Kaiila," I nodded.
"I will have to hear that one," he said, already turning the possibilities of what such a tale might contain.

Sending a Message

"Tupita," I called, summoning the messenger girl at the Cylinder of Justice into my presence. She was shorn from head to toe. A bit extreme, I would say, but it had the effect of making her less a distraction. She was garmented in something plain of brown rep-cloth. The bells on her ankle were less ornamental and more to announce her presence. One finds it a nuisance to have slaves sneaking up on them. She knelt chastely, eyes downturned, silent. She would wait in that manner until spoken to. I was in the midst of writing, so she suffered waiting for half an ahn or so. The office, truth be told, was sadly lacking in decoration aside from the shelf of dusty scrolls and the singular window that had a view of only the stone and mortar of the building next door. Even with the grooming and garmenture of a municipal girl, Tupita was not an unwelcome sight. I handed her what I'd written. It was a Writ of Arrest that had been posted about the city a few days prior. The text was essentially the same. Guards at every gate were already apprised. It was doubtful the defendant would make it out of the City without being hauled directly back into it, straight to the holding cells beneath this very Cylinder to await trial.

"Fifty copies, Tupita," I told her. "Have them reposted where the others have been taken down or papered over."

I admit turning my head to admire the slave as she scurried off to do as she was bid. She was a bit thin for my liking and, of course, her hair was dreadfully short, but that was a product of her station. It makes little sense to fatten up such a slave girl or allow her to dress her hair in a manner that would have her accosted at every corner. This one was enough of a distraction as it was. When she was gone, I returned to the work of a People's advocate.

Arrested Developments

The Story Teller, once Fishmonger and, of late, Actor Phineahas of Brundisium has not yet left the City of Ar. Of course, now that he has been paid his wage of thirteen silver twenty-five for his most recent work on the stage of the Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux, the odds are probably weighted slightly in favor of his packing his belongings soon. Having settled up his account with me, he has also looked into subletting his apartment in the Plaza of the Central Cylinder. How a roving Story Teller, once Fishmonger and, of late, Actor of foreign descent acquires such property is an interesting tale and one I won't be retelling, but suffice it to say it is as charming a tale as how a Patriot Poet of the People comes to engage in the maintenance and upkeep of a stable of coin girls. That story, too, has been told recently enough that the retelling of it will have to wait for another day lest I become thought of as a repetitive hack of a writer with a single-minded and dogged approach to his chosen genre. I wouldn't wish to bore anyone.

There is always the possibility that the son of Brundisium will decide to remain in the world's finest and greatest city with his brightly garmented girl adding her unique beauty to the bounty that is Ar. We are the best and brightest. It is not something that can be credibly argued against.

I suppose I could have withheld part of his wages, claiming to have needed more time to settle my own account with the Theater Management. While that was partially true, I had his pay and that of his fellows set aside within a day of the final curtain. If Phineahas chooses to wander, I will not stand in his way. I certainly understand the compulsion to wander. I have to pencil in time for myself to make the short journey to Venna in the next few months. I would not mind making that trip just before the Love Feast which, of pure coincidence, would put me well outside the gates of Ar during the Festival of the Slaves, Kajuralia. Not that I do not enjoy the festivities, mind you. I simply have unavoidably urgent business in a resort city safely north of Ar.

I should mention that the Writ of Arrest has been posted around the City for the woman Noemi Black and has been filed with the Cylinder of Justice. The next move will be to seize her assets, should she have anything to seize, on the Street of Coins and foreclose upon her business in the Anbar, the Muse Inn. It is my intention to make a stop there and board the windows and doors. I will also post a copy of the Writ of Arrest. Should the woman be conveniently on the premises at the time, so much the better.

I need to speak with the Lady Eliza, owner of the girl Frigid, regarding a related matter as well. I have dispatched Six with a message that I will be calling upon her. I would not wish to take advantage of the woman's good disposition towards me. It was something that Phineahas said to me, after receiving his pay, that put me in a mind to speak with the woman. I look forward to her charming company. Quite the witty conversationalist, that woman. It is a wonder some suitor has not professed an undying love for her, contracting himself to a lifetime of companionship with her. I cannot imagine what keeps them away.

Generally Speaking

As I assumed, the woman did not deign to grant me an interview either last night or the night before. My office, a sparsely decorated room in the Cylinder of Justice, was kept open for a few extra ahn each evening to accomodate her. I will be drafting the writ for her arrest this afternoon, to be posted around the city by nightfall. Regrettable, but necessary. It should be noted that she has not simply tried to avoid this investigation, but made an active attempt to obstruct it. She would have been better served to have sent the foreigner that was given temporary jurisdiction over the Anbar District than the man she ultimately chose. While some consider the General a psychopath, I have at various times known him as a patron, a customer and a friend. Often, those titles have not been exclusive of one another. I've yet to know him as an adversary. We share the bond of a Home Stone. Few men are spurious enough to betray that bond; even alleged psychopaths.
What this portends, ultimately, remains to be seen. Due process of law can be a slow animal, lacking the swiftness of the tracking sleen if not the tenacity. I will proceed henceforth with patience.
The evening before last brought a second visitor as well. A fellow conducting an investigation of his own. It seems like I should remember his name, but I confess I do not. At any rate, it has been well over a year, perhaps two since I last saw him. He was once in the employ of Dukkarr of the Curulean. It was enough that the man called me Poet and I called him Warrior, as he did not deign to offer me his name, nor did I press him for it. That is not to say that the encounter was unfriendly, or even tense. As the General amused himself with Portia, I sent the girl Six to the Warrior's feet as we spoke. He wanted to know if I knew the whereabouts of the man, Dukkarr. I did not. Like the General, Dukkarr and I do not travel in the same circles. Our paths cross from time to time and I consider him a friend, but the realities of the world in which we live escape neither of us.
"Perhaps he is on business related to acquisition," I offered. "The Love Feast approaches."
He had not considered that and nodded to himself at the notion. As the Summer comes to an end, people are eager to purchase women. It is the height of the season, as they say. There are a few reasons for it, of course. Economically speaking, the Love Feast is a heavy buying season which translates into a lot of speculative stocking by the major houses. A lovely girl that might cost a man a few silver coins in the spring could cost him considerably less as fall approaches. There are certain types that will almost always defy the laws of economics, supply and demand and such, but generally speaking, this is the case. The very fact that fall approaches is another factor in the compulsion to purchase women. The cooler side of our temperate climate will start to show itself. While it is practical to simply bring down supplemental bedding from one's storage closet, the idea of something nubile and slutty to heat one's sheets is a much more comforting notion. Finally, more women are purchased during the Love Feast than any other time of the year, I think, simply because it is tradition. Yes, there is a larger selection. Yes, colder temperatures are on the way. Truly, though, it is just the time of year to purchase women. Whether it is a new pleasure slut or something to stir one's kettle, it is a reason to visit the auction houses with one's peers to see what new and delightful things have been brought into the City from abroad. I thought it quite likely that Dukkarr was off on such a trip. Perhaps he was in the dusty markets of Tor, inspecting the belled ankles of some swarthy tarts in a dusty, desert tent or north in the vicinity of Laura & Kassau, testing the heft of a brace of bond maidens' milky white bosoms. The fellow seeking him out, however, seemed uncertain so I made another suggestion.
"I have made the acquaintance of the Scribe, Kateb, who was in the employ of the Curulean about one year ago," I mentioned. "In just the last few hands, I have seen him in the Arena, the Stadium of Tarns and one of the local parks."
This seemed to brighten the fellow's demeanor, to have a tangible lead, someone he might seek out as he sought me to further his quest. I was happy to help him.

The Stadium of Tarns

Last evening there was a filled house at the Stadium of Tarns. New frescoes were emblazoned on the outer walls, depicting popular jockeys astride their mounts. A realistically painted Porcinus glowers down fiercely from the saddle of Green Legend just above the maw of the entrance tunnel. The Silver Faction, my own, shows the bird Raptor streaking through a flaming ring. Feathers tamped down, beady black eyes blazing, his rider Lucius is depicted close against the saddle with the silver silken back patch that identifies his faction snapping in the wind behind him. I did not walk around the entire Stadium, but it seemed as if every faction was represented on that wall. Not one square hort seemed to be free of color, brushed by one of several highly-skilled artisans of Ar.

With a wallet-full of the earnings of Portia and the girl, Six, I made a bet of one Silver Tarsk that the bird Raptor would place. It was not the most ambitious wager. Of six birds, Raptor needed only to finish first, second or third. As the risk was minimized, the reward was similarly minimal. Still, it is always difficult for a man of low caste to let an entire Silver Tarsk slip through his fingers with only an indelibly marked ostrakon to replace it. It was crowded in the tiers, but I managed to find a seat a few dozen rows up from the rail. I squeezed three girls onto the floor before me. Men enjoy indulging their girls with such things as a trip to the Stadium of Blades or the Stadium of Tarns. It is good for them to be amidst such excitement. Some fellows even dress their slave girls in silk dyed to match their Faction colors. Neither Elise, Portia nor Six were so indulged. It did not seem to lessen their enjoyment of the spectacle, however.

And a spectacle it was. As the sponsor of the races dropped his arm, signaling the start of the race, the Green Faction rider employed the tarn goad on the arm of the Blue Faction rider. The fellow went limp in his saddle, well-stunned, as the bird screamed and flew off erratically, taking that team out of contention. The Yellow and Red Factions were able to take full advantage of the Green rider's preoccupation. Yellow team's Talon and Red team's Stealth streaked forward, jockeying for position at every turn. Porcinus of the Green did not have his fill of sabotage at the beginning of the race, however. Several laps in, employing a tarn knife, he slashed at the broad belt of the rider Relius who was riding Sabre for the Purple Faction. Relius tumbled from the saddle into the safety nets below as Porcinus kicked viciously at the saddle of Sabre. These are not war tarns, eager for battle, but it was still a bold move. Rather than turn on Porcinus, Sabre screeched and veered off the track.

By now, the blades were out on the rings in both straightaways, which demanded precision flying and nerves of steel. Feathers flew and punches were traded between riders. Lap after lap, Yellow and Red fought for the lead position as Silver pursued. Green trailed, depending upon malicious tactics over skilled racing. It was an odd tactic. Green Legend is, as the name implies, a fantastic mount. The speed of the beast is as assumed, legendary. Porcinus, however, employed a gameplan of treachery. In the end, it would be to no avail. As the rings were lit with blazing flames for the last two laps, he chose the desperate measure of turning on the field in order to take them out of the race as he had managed to do to the Purple and Blue factions earlier on. Yellow, Red and Silver were able to evade him successfully on the first pass. On the last lap, Darius took the Yellow Faction mount Talon straight at him, ducking under him in a breathtaking maneuver at the very last ihn. The bird surged straight up to the first perch. When Porcinus looked up, Herod of the Red and Lucius of the Silver were charging to the left and right of him. The Red Faction bird buffeted Porcinus and the Green rider swung the goad in a wide arc, catching the shoulder of the rider Lucius on the Silver bird. Red took the second perch. A moment later, convulsing and shaking in the saddle, the Silver rider and his bird were on the third perch.

It was a thrilling race and I was lucky not to lose my entire wager with the way it turned out. It turned out, however, the evening would be fortuitous in more ways than one. As patrons of the race were filing out, I spotted a fellow I knew by the name of Marcus. I offered him an inward palm and an affable greeting. Marcus is a good fellow with a regrettable job. He is the guardsman of the woman, Noemi Black. It so happens Noemi is under investigation that relates to the death of the former Kal-da Cafe proprietor, a man named Micah. That is no reason to be ill-disposed toward Marcus, however. As I said, he is a good fellow. I thought the woman with him was likely Noemi herself, but her garment was less...inappropriate...than it normally was, so I was unsure. At any rate, I addressed Marcus directly.

"I ask your favor," I said to him.

"I will be as accomodating as I can," he answered.

"I would like to speak to your employer, the Lady Noemi," I said to him. "I will expect her in the next few days at the Cylinder of Justice. Any help you can render expediting that request will be most appreciated. "

That was when I knew for certain it was Noemi concealed in the robes beside Marcus. The fellow glanced at her and chuckled as she squirmed in a frustrated manner, before he answered me.

"I will pass the word along," he answered politely.

I was well aware that the woman might resist granting my request of an audience with her, particularly one that took place in the Cylinder of Justice. I let Marcus know I was aware of his predicament.

"If you are unable to grant my request, I completely understand," I assured him. "Conflict of interest and what not. I ask only that you step aside when she is shackled and arrested."

It was more than the woman could stand and remain silent for, apparently, as she spoke up at the reassurance I offered Marcus. Apparently, she was not reassured in the least by my sentiment.

"And what pray tell my dear Poet would anyone be arresting me for?" she queried, trying her best to appear aloof and unconcerned.

I answered her honestly, saying, "Lady Noemi? Is that you. I beg your pardon. Dear woman, I hope that I do not have cause to arrest you. However, if you are unable to grant me a simple interview, I will have to bring you in for questioning in a regrettably less polite manner."

She went on as free women who have never been shown their place in the world often do. She questioned my authority to effect her arrest. She directed me to speak with others that, apparently, she assumed would vouch for her immunity. I will not go as far as to say that I felt sorry for her because I certainly did not. There was something pitiful in her ignorance, however. I have not yet ascertained her level of culpability in the matter I am investigating. I do know that she is complicit. While others may be inclined to allow matters of accountability in the areas under their purview to slip by unchecked, I am not so inclined.

Digging

With the demands the production of The Good Citizen put on my time, I have been finding it difficult to conduct a proper investigation into the events that happened outside the Kal-da Cafe several hands ago. Now, of course, with the event having passed and been judged a success, the accounting completed and the work to remove what little prop work and costuming existed nearly done, my mind is slowly turning toward the resolution of this case. I cannot let something so foul as an innocent fellow with a caste scarcely higher than my own be beaten and subsequently killed in the very district in which I conduct business. I know. 'It is the Anbar. People die everyday. It is the way things are.' Yes, that is all well and true, but it does not remove the fact that I am no longer a mere business owner in the Anbar, but a Magistrate charged with the advocacy of citizens of low caste. Citizens such as Micah. Good fellow, that Micah. The fumes of his kal-da were certain to render a man with temporary blindness and the sting was guaranteed to burn several layers of skin from the interior of one's throat, but why would anyone be silly enough to hold that against him? That is precisely what good kal-da is intended to do. People became sick, however. Temporarily paralyzed. 'Induced with a paralytic muscle relaxant,' the Physician of the Sertorii told me. They'd assumed it was a foul poison of some sort, those struck and those who had noticed the people stumbling out of the doors of the tavern into the alley, tripping over their own sandals. They'd assumed Micah bore the responsibility. I do not believe that for several reasons. One merely follows the money. Who benefited in the end? That is the question one asks. And from there, one can often deduce motive. At this point, I have motive. I have, too, evidence of opportunity. I need only a witness. In the meantime, I will simply have to dig deeper to establish character. That, fortunately, is proving a rather shallow hole.

The Good Citizen

Last evening, the production of The Good Citizen went off at the Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux successfully.
It is not common knowledge, but the story is a true one. In the days of the Cosian occupation, the Delta Brigade was not an organized group of dissenters and patriots. There were several independent factions with a common goal, but each was unknown to another. That was, in the end, the greatest strength of the Brigade. The numbers were unknown even to the most dedicated of its followers. Some were mere sympathizers, turning a blind eye to the painting of a delka or perhaps hastily scrawling one themselves, a nervous pulse hammering in their throats. With such a group, however, was the danger of false adherents, agents of the occupation sent to infiltrate the group and assist in the arrest of those that refused to bow to foreign tyranny within the walls of Ar. More than one faction was undermined by the work of such saboteurs. Ferreting out these individual was difficult, but satisfying work. To see it brought to life on the world's greatest stage by actors so competent in their craft was also quite satisfying; a closed chapter.
I've taken the time to work out the accounting. I find myself unable to truly rest until I've buttoned up this last detail. Also, I like numbers. Terribly shameful thing to admit, given my caste, but it is true.

Fifty Seats @ 75 Copper Tarsks = 3,750 C.T
Eighty Five Seats @ 50 C.T. = 4,250 C.T.
Seventy Five Seats @ 40 C.T. = 3,000 C.T.
Two Hundred Seats @ 35 C.T. = 7,000 C.T.
Two Hundred Fifty Seats @ 20 C.T. = 5,000 C.T.
Twenty Seats @ (20 C.T.) = - 400 C.T.
Total 22,600 C.T.

22,600 C.T. = 226 Silver Tarsks
less 40% Gross to House = 90.4 S.T.
less 5% Gross to Vesutto of Venna = 11.3 S.T.
=124.3 S.T. Net

less 10% net to Locutius (12.43 rounded to 13) = 13 S.T.
less 10% net to Quintus = 13 S.T.
less 10% net to Phineahas = 13 S.T.
less 10% net to Alcobiades = 13 S.T.
= 72.3 S.T.
less miscellaneous expense 15 S.T.
Total Profit 57.3 S.T.