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.