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.