Carnival

There was a carnival on the beach this evening. The usual things one expects at a carnival were there. Men walked on stilts, juggling fruit and other items. A barker beckoned people into a red and white striped tent to witness 'Lulu the Dancing Sleen'. Every sort of sweet treat you might imagine was being vended. I heard people speaking about a man that swallowed fire and how, ironically, in the tent next to his there was a girl named Fire that would swallow men. What I was most interested in, however, was the troupe of actors rumored to be visiting this beach, and what play they might be staging.

I allowed Noemi to dress herself for the evening. She wore the white material I purchased a few months ago. It was wrapped tight about her like a shift, positioned low to present her bosom like so much produce. Though I do not require her to wear a collar, she tied a pink ribbon around her throat. While I am certain she would have protested the notion that the ribbon served as proxy for that heavy, obdurate ring, there is little doubt that was precisely what it did.

We found the play being performed on a small, makeshift stage with torches at the four corners. It was a time-honored rendition of 'The Magic Veil of Anango.' I did not recognize the actors in the troupe, but I thought they were all talented. The Brigella, in particular, was very good. One improvisation, when she lamented about the 'brigands on her tail' rather than 'on her trail' was particularly inspired. The play progressed per usual, with the saucy maiden conned into believing the magic veil will hide her from the brigands. She paid for the privilege to wear the veil with a 'peek' of her hidden delights, ironic as she ends up completely nude on the stage for a good portion of the play, but never failing to entertain. I have seen versions of the Magic Veil that were successful with sub-par actors, simply for the beauty of the company's Brigella. A good looking nude slut goes a long way in this form of theater. It does limit a company's repetoire, however, to productions that include the Saucy Maidens. It is my guess this particular troupe might perform the standards including The Timid Captain or The Pedant with equal skill. I'd guess their Brigella doubles as a competent Desirable Heiress, too.
It was tempting to peruse the beach, enjoy the various diversions a carnival has to offer. At the end, we stayed just long enough to see the Brigella's use rights for the evening raffled off to a lucky deckhand from a local Merchant ship. Even as he pumped his fist, congratulating himself on his good fortune, I was lifting my own prize into my arms. Somehow, I think the manner of Noemi's dress and the ribbon tied about her throat, a subtle reminder of what she still was, what she was always going to be, was a plea for rape. If it was not a plea for rape, it really doesn't matter, does it? Miscommunication or mixed signals, in these sorts of situations, are unimportant. A man will do what a man wishes with what he owns.

Dominion

I do not find it difficult to be in new surroundings, much as I love the city of my birth. Of course, it is easy to rationalize my comfort-level with the particular place I've chosen to settle for the moment. On the western coast of the continent, Thassa seems to stretch endlessly to the World's End. I know that is not the case. Teletus is less than 1,000 pasangs due west. Less than 500 pasangs north are the marshes of the Vosk Delta. Still, these are distances beyond the limits of my eyes, which lengthens the limits of my imagination.
I am not a complete stranger to the rough chop and rude tumble of life asea. Many lunches have been evicted from my throat into the splashing maw. I once was tempted by the lure (or was it the allure?) of Thassa's endless, cerulean promise. The seeker in me, the romantic, the lover, the wanderer, the fool, all embraced her once. Elusive, unbending. My guess, and it is only a guess, based on nothing but supposition, is that more men willingly sail to their demise on the song of sirens than seek the barren, bitter path into the Sardar. When men have had enough of life, there are many choices for enlightenment, should we wish such a thing.
I removed the collar from Noemi's throat several days ago. I do not need it to know she is mine. The way I raped her when her throat was bare and vulnerable as the rest of her left no doubt that her body -and the rest of her- was still mine. The breeders may not have been thinking of Szol of Ar when they made her, but it does not matter. Does she understand this? She does. The collar is a symbol. My world, at the moment, is considerably smaller in scope. A cottage. A stretch of sand. A village with a small population of itinerants and peddlers. A vicious sleen. And her. Perhaps I will replace it on her neck when I decide to move onto more populous, metropolitan surroundings. Or not. Societal conventions aside, I draw the boundaries within which she will live and serve. She is not subject to eminent domain.

What Price, Freedom?

The pale pink stockings matched the garters of ribbons and ruffled lace. The slip was opaque, silky and blush-colored. It was less modest than normal, leaving a hint of thigh between the hem and the top of the garter. The gloves, too, were blush-colored and silky, with a tasteful, contrasting stitch. I covered the heavy collar in a length of pin-hole lace, tied off at the back of the neck with ribbons. Matching pink slippers, three shades darker than the gloves with a finely-tooled, leather sole cradled her feet. The bodice of the robe was tighter than it should have been, hugging her bosom, but the skirt flared by the multitude of pleats. It was a pale pink, brocaded tone-on-tone with dina blooms. There were five veils, but only the light veil, the one scandalously sheer and close to the face, was attached.
She could not breathe. As I moved to attach the Veil of Citizeness, she swooned and asked that I stop. Not long ago, she begged for her freedom. 'For one night,' she asked of me. She wished for the chance to prove that I would find more favor with her as a free woman than I do as a slave. It is, I think, impossible.
As a slave, she is a compulsion and a constant struggle of will. Not of her will against mine, of my own will against me. There are times that I am dizzy in her presence, so much so that I wonder if it is a trick of breeding. When I was the People's Magistrate, I conducted an audit of her papers. I know there is no trick, but there are times I can't help but wonder. When I look at her, I am already three steps into her future. She stares back at me boldly, blue eyes at times inquisitive, at times a challenge, but what she doesn't know, couldn't know, is that I can already see her on her belly, with my hands on her hips. By the time the distraction clears, I am already pushing her face to the pillow, my disposition decidedly rapacious.
I do not know how far I was willing to allow this illusion of freedom to go. I may have pinned all five veils, for example, but I would not have removed the collar from her throat. If her tone had taken on an air of superiority or even equality with me, I would have torn the whole ensemble from her, not paying mind to the workmanship of hook & eye closures, nor the fragility of pins. Clothing her essentially as a free woman was an experiment of sorts, but not to prove a point to her. I have no insecurity about my dominance over this woman. I have no need to force her into rote behavior, nor to beat any amount of submission into her that she does not sincerely offer on her own. I did wonder how far I could go. How far I could take it. I can't imagine I would have let it go on for long. She is a slave. While others chose to ignore that fact (and presumably some still do), I did not. The collar around her throat is mine. I put it there. Robes of concealment are at best a curiosity. I much prefer keeping her nude, or at least nearly so. After all, the only thing a woman's robes conceal, collar or no, is a slave girl.

prevarication

Carnviorous, in flux
Salivate

Ever-changing, never-rust
Wide-eyed and grieving
Slack-jawed, lust
You there
Lipchewer, venomspewer

Don't forget to breathe

Compulsory, implausibly drawn

Fact from friction
A predator predilection
Pretense & deprecation
Blended smooth
Shut-mouth satiation
Hunger-driven salivation

Something to prove

Open

I do not have a Sailor's love for Thassa, nor a Pirate's lust for her wide-open potentialities, but I do have an abiding admiration and respect. It is difficult to quantify how vast, how foreboding and yet, at the same time, how beautiful she is. No one knows just how far, nor just how deep. Mad shipbuilders conjure visions of a craft that sails to the World's End, but is it really the 'End?' Is there not another side to her? How many in Kassau or Laura or some other northern port have set sail, determined and hearty, only to end up on the well-mapped shores fronting the Ta-Thassa Mountains or, perhaps, landed on the beaches of Ianda or Anango? If anyone has made it to the other side, assuming there is another side, he has kept this knowledge to himself. We often tease our children with tales of what lies beyond the World's End; notions such as primitive cultures and wild, dangerous beasts. Some speak alternately of the beauty or hideousness of the people one might find there, if there are people at all. Some believe, even, that beyond the World's End is the place called 'Earth.' I have owned enough barbarians and read enough to be convinced this is not the case, but it is easy to see where the origins of such a thought might derive. Whether it is the World's End or another world altogether, both are strange, foreign concepts to most. I imagine there are people beyond the World's End. I think they must be quite similar to us. 'Us,' of course, being a relative term. Are the men of Ar not very different than the men of Torvaldsland? And are they, in turn, quite different from those of Schendi? Those of Schendi would not be mistaken for those of the Barrens or the Tahari regions. I think, perhaps, the people beyond the World's End are just another variation of 'us.'
It is easy to lose one's thoughts to such ideas where the land meets the sea. "Where the boneyard meets the mountain," I once penned. "An eroding faith survives. It thrives on hunger, feeds on swell, sustaining peace and a beat-down pride." It is here, in these unconquered places, these untamed wildernesses, that we truly live. Outside our zone of comfort, our scope of existence, where majesty and bewilderment taunt us, this is where we thrive.

South of Brundisium

One Night On Treasure Road

I took them for scouts from the walls of Samnium. At the time, we were about three or four days outside the city. With the moons full, it was easy to spot two riders silouhetted in the night sky. Our camp was at the confluence of the Cartius River and Treasure Road. Being of Ar, one assumes the alternate name for the Eastern Way has its origins in the riches regularly transported from the west to the east. As on any Gorean road, however, for the bold tarnsman or desperate bandit, a caravan of wagons spells treasure - fiscal temptation too great to pass up.
The two tarnsmen I took to be scouts were, perhaps, just that. Advance riders, but not for the City of Samnium. Their loyalties, as we would soon find out, were more mercenary. I had wandered off with Noemi across the stretch of road that spanned the Cartius, both to spend some time away from the other travelers and to allow Tasta some freedom from her chain. The sleen bounded off on the trail of her supper, and I found a spot at the edge of the river to cool my feet. The attack was sudden. I was alerted perhaps a few ihn before the camp proper threw up the alarm. Buffeted by a strong wind kicked up by half a dozen riders, we were nearly sent tumbling into the river. I grabbed the girl and started up the hill. I could hear the shouting on the other side of the river as the men of the camp fought to repulse the attack. It was my thought to stash the blonde slave out of sight near the bridge and then cross to help if I could.
Apparently, the girl with me was spotted however. As I started up the hill with her, we were again assaulted with the gust of the tarn's descent and its challenging avian cry. I shoved Noemi to the grass and suffered a glancing blow from a weight attached to the rider's capture net.
He made his first pass. I knew he would come again. I was only one man in the open, defending a lovely prize. The odds were definitely in his favor, particularly with the stars popping before my eyes and the cold sweat complementing the struggle to remain conscious. As I started for the bridge again, the blonde slave screamed for the sleen as she struggled to pull me in the opposite direction, to the water. The rider was already making his second pass. There was no time. The rest all happened too fast. I remember hearing that throaty growl of Tasta as the talons of the rider's large, sable tarn stretched forth, eager to engage. I could not find the monster in the darkness until the moment she leapt between me and the bird, and then I was buffeted by her, thrown to my back as she bit into its leg, where feathers meet claw. I could hear cheering from the other side of the river as the tarnsman above me struggled to take off with the weight of a fully grown sleen depended from his mount's leg. My forehead felt cold and damp. I could not keep my eyes open.
I don't know for what duration of time I was out, but it couldn't have been too long. I remember thinking Noemi was cold and wet against my side, apparently having made it to the water. Then we were back in the camp, but I can't recall crossing the bridge. People seemed in good spirits, though a few complained about their losses. The rest of that evening, as they say, is a blur. Drinking in moderation these days, it was a disconcerting reminder of a not-so-distant past.
We altered our itinerary, which would have taken us through Samnium and then through Brundisium. Having arrived in Market of Semris this morning, most of the Merchants in this caravan seem content to sell their goods right here. Some will press forth to the coast as planned to port cities south of Brundisium, perhaps as far south as Bazi.
The adventure has only just begun.

Fortuna Favet Fatuis

It rained last evening – a hard, sheeting rain. It was not a cold rain. The downpours of En’Var are warm, often fragrant. I sat just inside the tent, watching the monster, Tasta, enjoy the impromptu shower as she tested the length of her chain. I keep my bitches in the collar, even her. Her black, forked tongue darted out at regular intervals to both catch the droplets and wipe them from her damp snout. From time to time, she reared up to swat at the rain. Deadly and tenacious as she is, the sleen can be playful. She likes to play.
Behind me, exhausted by the demands of my rape, Noemi slept. She is a lovely thing. Curved as a woman should be, and soft. I should beat her more, but I find myself without the compulsion to discipline her as often as her behavior warrants. It is a mistake, and I know that, but it is what it is. “I will NOT go to Port Kar,” she informed me. I was not taken aback by her defiance. The Jewel of Thassa is the source of several traumatic experiences for her. I suspect many of her less desirable traits stem from the time she spent there. I have heard the tales of sadism and cruelty, of extraordinary deviance. She is not permitted to keep events in her past locked away, secrets of another time. I own her, from her fatal flaws to her delightful perfections, and everything between. She is starting to understand the near-implacable nature of her master. Consequently, each outburst, every defiant tantrum, reveals more to me about the woman I own. She is more than a novelty, more than an ego feeding conquest. She is mine. Fully.
Once, I was foolish enough to think I might seek the World's End. I think on this trip, I will be content to find a spot on the coast to take a piss in the general direction of Cos. I suppose it would be prudent to consult someone with a bit of longitudinal/latitudinal knowledge beforehand. It would be rude, for example, to take my symbolic piss on Teletus or Asperiche, however unintentional that would be. It is a poetic notion, but there is more that takes me west than a desire to delete my bladder to the ignominy of that fat waste of flesh, Lurius of Jad - not that it wouldn't be a perfectly sound reason for undertaking a journey of hundreds or even thousands of pasangs. I will find myself on the wharves and plazas of Port Kar again soon. Some men seek adventure in such a place, but I seek something more. Perhaps, I will be lucky enough to find it.

The River

Interminably intertwined
Contemptuous passion
Tempestuous fate

Constant
Hungry
The physicality a bright, hot light

Blindingly besotted in the bind
Bruised and aching
Suck-winded, slaking

Trust no one
Most of all
Yourself

On this river of no return
Commit to the current
Lest you drown in the past

Discrete Revelations

My fingertips hovered over the fresco as I walked by, elaborating the details to the girl, Noemi. Often, she seems utterly uninterested in the particulars of past events, but now and again a light sparks behind her blue eyes. It is difficult not to admire Dietrich of Tarnburg, and history has been kind to him. He is a mercenary, but the record of his deeds show he has a conscience. A ruthless conscience, but a conscience just the same. The more I stared at the frescoes, studying their relationship to one another, I started to realize the inaccuracies of what was depicted. This was not a case of blatant revisionism at the expense of the truth, but a subtle bending of the truth. Certain events were depicted that never occurred, or occurred differently than represented. I studied the wall more closely, keeping mind of the guardsman that was posted at the end of the block. It was all starting to make sense. It was a beacon, to those that could read

(missing page)

Beneath the city, I realized the walkways over the massive well were laid out much like the streets above ground. Once I had my bearings, I could see where the water from the Issus aqueduct entered the well and, too, the run off from the springs at the Hills of Eteocles. Some of the entrances to the surface were marked on the wall, either by name or pictogram. When I found an exit that corresponded to the Market Square, I repeated the process to exit, I

(bottom half of page torn, missing)

Wander; Lust

I have narrowed the choice of destination to two general directions; West or South. While I am no Sailor, far from it, I would see Thassa again - even if it is from the beach. While Brundisium has little or no influence on my decision, Port Kar makes a westward trek worth consideration. My time in that city was brief, but memorable. There is an excitement in the salted air, a sense of danger and adventure around every corner. Traveling South, however, is tempting as well. I have long wanted to visit the desert city of Tor, and something about the anonymity one assumes in such an environment is undeniably appealing, particularly after a year of public scrutiny. It can be, I am told, unspeakably hot, but my curiosity remains piqued.
Or I could simply stay put, remain in this rented room overlooking the markets of Torcadino. Until I left the city of my birth behind, along with the responsibilities of public office, I had not realized how tired I was. As a Poet, I have been constantly at odds with the ambitious, self-sufficient path I am on. The men of my caste rarely amass wealth, let alone power. There are, of course, men such as Pentilicus Tallux, but he is an exception - perhaps an ideal? - not the rule. I do not aspire to have a theater bearing my name, nor do I mind if my plays or poetry are not remembered a hundred years from now. That is the rub. We are not goal-oriented fellows, generally. We are journeymen, seekers. What is the perfect poem? Is there a perfect turn of phrase? A sublime sound? What is the song of the heart? When you read my words, are you moved? Do you recognize yourself?
I can walk from the foot of the Voltai to the top of the Ta-Thassan Mountains or deep into the Tahari. I could scale the summits of Torvaldsland or plumb the depths of the sea. I could lose myself in the Barrens where white men fear to tread or venture into the Northern Forests, into the lair of Panthers. Or I could stay here. That thing men of my ilk are compelled to search after could be a lifetime quest or be granted by abrupt epiphany. There is no telling. One must wander for the sake of wandering from time to time.

The girl, Noemi, too, is on a journey - whether she is cognizant or not. She has accepted her place, collared and at my feet, but is convinced that she is resigned to that fate. She submits enthusiastically to the rape, holding nothing back from my predation - but when the haze of lust clears, she smiles placidly with a decided lack of spirit. A less demanding man would neither notice nor care. She is, on the surface, obedient to a fault. "Is that not enough?" she asks with her cobalt gaze. I can have obedience out of any woman, however. With some, a mere smile puts them on their knees. Others need the slightest coercion, a slap across the ass with a broad belt is usually evidence enough. Through her early tenure in my collar, I have given her the unusual indulgence of time. Time to adjust. Time to understand. Time to learn. She has adjusted. She understands well enough. She has learned that I have every intention of keeping her throat in steel and her ass in girl silk. Is it enough? No, slave girl. It is not nearly enough. 

Convergence

I know two fellows from Torcadino, Timeus the Banker and Turianus the Actor. They are different sorts of men. One seems reserved, the other quite lively. It is easy to attribute these differences to caste and social standing, but I believe it has more to do with the city in which they share a common origin. Torcadino is at the convergence of five major highways, a center for trade much like Lara on the Vosk, Port Kar in the Tamber Gulf and Brundisium on the Genesian Coast. Torcadino, however, unlike its trade center brethren, resides inland. The Silk Road brings goods from southern places such as Kasra, Tor and even Turia to the Northern Cities. Connecting East to West is the Eastern Way, sometimes called Treasure Road or the Genesian Road. The Northern Salt Line passes Corcyrus, Argentum and, crossing the Vosk, reaches as far as Rovere in the vicinity of the Koroban Mountains. Pilgrim's Road is a popular path to the Sardar Mountains. Finally, there is the road to Ar. All of these roads, as previously mentioned, meet at Torcadino. As a result, the citizens of this city are as varied and colorful - worldly - as those of my own city, the finest city, Glorious Ar. In the City of Ar, one wants for almost nothing. There is little we cannot procure and much of it passes through Torcadino before reaching the markets of Ar. I make it a point to stop there as an initial destination on many of my wanderings, both for logistical considerations and for the fondness I have for the place. It is a place rich with history and culture.
One reason many of my journeys start on the path to Torcadino is my ambivalence toward drafting a detailed itinerary before leaving home. From Torcadino, any place on Gor can be reached. That is to say, there is a road traveling in nearly every direction - it is a true hub. I have considered a pilgrimage to the Southern Plains, a place I have not visited in several years, a place that probably has not changed as much in the interim as I have. Tor, the gateway to the Tahari, is another option, a place I have never seen. I could also go North, return to Thentis and the hospitality of the House of Clark. Port Kar, the gleaming Jewel of Thassa, would also prove to be an adventure worth pursuing. I have even considered a stop at Ko-ro-ba, en route to northern destinations such as Lydius, Kassau, or even Torvaldsland. It is too early to decide such things. Wanderlust can be a difficult bitch to tame, and even more difficult to sate, but it is a thirst that demands slaking.
I purchased sandals for the slave, Noemi. She would prefer silken slippers, beaded and embroidered, I am certain. Or, if resigned to sandals, something stylish - perhaps gold or silver burnished leather. They are, however, functional footwear. If she pouts for something prettier initially, no matter. I am pleased by the aesthetic, the laces that cross about her calves to tie near the back of each knee. Moreover, I am pleased by the sturdiness of the sole, which is far better equipped to handle a variety of terrain than the slippers she once wore as a Free Woman, lovely as they are. There are analogies to be made between the fittingness of her footwear and the rightness of her recently acquired status, both changes in which I have played an active role. In a way, I am her Torcadino. I did not engineer the roads of her realities. I am merely at the convergence of them all, both a terminus and an origin - the place where facades end and truths begin.
She keeps a close watch on her heart, and her eyes are open wide all of the time. She keeps the ends out for the ties that bind. And now she is mine. She'll walk the line. *


*paraphrased - Johnny Cash 'Walk the Line'

Reflection; Turning the Page

It started with the death of the girl, Jen.

It had taken months for the sleen, Mathor holding the leash, to find her. She was in Port Kar at one point, Besnit (or was it Harfax?) at another. The intrigue involved in having to put the sleen on that girl's heels is a little fantastic, and better served as a story for another time. The important component of that thread is the sleen, tenacious bitch that she was (and still is), found her and conducted her home. Then, something like a Passage Hand later, she was dead. The circumstances are not important. She was only a slave, so no investigation was conducted. I cremated her in the cul-de-sac in which my Anbar District domicile is now the sole residence. A few wondered at what I was thinking for taking the time to give the girl any sort of send off at all, but it was what it was - a turning point. I am not ashamed to admit I mourned the loss. Both the girl and my ability to see to her safety. I dedicated myself to work after that, allowing the hired men, Mathor and Darwin, to tend the business of taverns and whores.

Asked to be a voice of the people, I accepted. I have always been that, just never in an 'official capacity.' Magistrates are generally Scribes, but how could a Scribe, one of the five high, represent the people of the lower castes? I have every confidence that there are impartial and right-minded fellows in the Blue ranks, but this is an age of elitism and class separation. Such decency these days is difficult to find. I swallowed my pride and stepped into public life and politics. I think I did some good, and very nearly became a martyr for the cause - but I knew the risks going into it. I love my City. My City. Spilling my blood at the Founder's Feet, however, was another turning point - another unexpected twist.

I did not anticipate selling so many of them off or, indeed, any of them. Women are truly inspiring things. I won't go deeply into snowflake metaphors, but there is truth to it. We expect much the same thing out of the slaves we own and out of slaves in general, absolute obedience & exquisite beauty, but each strives for those twin maxims in her own fashion. Some are soft, sensitive, and eager-to-please, like Sana. Others are vibrant, audacious, and hungry to be dominated, like Portia. Still others are like Elise - serene, thoughtful, and deeper than Thassa. Sana, I assume, thrives in the Pool of the Northern Forests at the Capacian Baths. Portia, I am told, did not stay long in the Municipal Pens, having been selected for purchase by a private owner. Elise, as of this morning, wears the collar of the first girl at the Braided Whip Tavern in the Teiban Sul District. I sold most of my investment in that establishment to my business partners, retaining a minority stake.

Another turning point.

Later this afternoon, I will purchase the girl, Tupita, who serves as slave-scribe to the Magistrate of the People. After that, I will see to her manumission and pay for her passage to the city of her birth - wherever that might be. If it turns out she was born of Cos, I will do my best not to beat her and immediately re-enslave her - rather I will see that she is returned safely and given enough money to start her life anew. She is a lovely girl with incredible potentiality, but her true love lies in the theories of accountancy and mathematics. She may decide in years to come that she longs for the collar. I will afford her the opportunity to come to such a conclusion on her own. After she is safely sent on her way, I will turn in my keys and resign my post as Magistrate of the People. I will still be a voice for the people, as my Caste dictates I must, but politics have left me too jaded to continue in that capacity.

I need to see the world again, feel the grass of the fields beneath my feet; share the kettle of a peasant off a lonely stretch of highway; interact with the men of different cities. The traveling a citizen does outside the wide, white walls of Glorious Ar cannot help but reaffirm for him that he resides in the world's finest city. Perhaps I will walk for a Passage Hand, or maybe a year. One thing is certain. I will always return.

Sentiment of the Day

If I write, and you are moved, I have done my due diligence. If you find, despite your best efforts, you are not ambivalent to my indulgent rambling, I have made my point. You may agree whole-heartedly with my sentiments, raising a defiant fist in support, or you may spit, unable to contain the bile rising in your throat. So much of what I write fades from this physical plane; withered and dog-eared pages burned to ashes, lost to time, or graffiti upon the walls white-washed or rinsed away by the rains. If I have a place in history, if I am to be remembered for song, slogan, soliloquy, or slur, it will be because you keep my words, tenuous things they tend to be, deep in your heart.
Catch of the Day was performed last evening in The Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. Due the greatness of the actors Locutius and Alcobiades, their ability to deliver the words I pen with proper pace and sentiment, I believe it went well. Not every patron in the tiers received it favorably, but I do not recall an ambivalent reaction among them. Perhaps the words were more divisive than many would find polite, but that is only indicative of the divisions of the day. I do not speak of mere privileges. For the record, I believe in the structure of caste, in the fitness of a society in which every man pulls his weight by engaging in what he was born to, and born to do. Each of us has our role to play. Mine is to write verse addressing the glory of my city, to recite prose dedicated to the wonder of love, lust, and the range of human emotion - but there is more. The Poet is a bellwether against corruption, conspiracy, and a catalyst for change. Today's current events are tomorrow's history. While I would not be so bold as to think a Poet should write the history of his day, such things are for Warriors to forge and studious Scribes to record, my caste does what others cannot. We record the sentiment of the day. We are not here to record the chronology of things. If you wish to know what occurred during the life of Szol, you will find little in the lines of his poetry and less in the dialogue of his plays to form a complete history. What you will find in these things, however, is far more telling. You will know what men felt.

Flyer

Demands

Once, for your lapse in judgment

Twice, for your need to speak unbid

A third time, for your not-so-subtle betrayal

And three more times, for I felt like it.

I was not angry, I do not lash out unchecked

I was unhurt, for I expected no less

It would be falsehood to claim ambivalence

For I knew precisely why I did it

I would do it again, that is the lesson

Subversive diversion, manipulation

Temerity, the order of the day

Modus Operandi of an inglorious past

I will not be swayed from this path

I will not be convinced otherwise

You will endure this

When you are finally left with nothing

Bereft of all, depleted of stores

Then I will take everything

When you have nowhere left to turn

No avenue not traversed

Then I will show you the way

The Planting Feast Approaches

We are deep into En'Kara, the first month of the year. The First Passage Hand approaches and, with it, the Planting Feast. With the animosity between the lower castes and the five high, particularly the Initiates, I wonder if differences will be put aside for the three ceremonial days that necessary sacrifices, prayer and ritual may be completed. It is a solemn, important event not taken lightly, particularly by the working men and women of the lower castes. This event is not so sacrosanct, however, that it has not been blasphemed in the past. A glaring example from history was the time a rogue tarnsman from Ko-ro-ba dared to storm out of the city astride a fierce, black tarn with the Home Stone in hand - not moments after it was sprinkled with the offering of the Life Daughter. He took, as well, a woman once known as the daughter of Marlenus, but in retrospect, I take no offense to that - only that he failed to keep the bitch in irons from Day One. I will say that he has done service to the city since that time, but there are some slights so grave that one does not easily forgive - and one certainly never forgets. Given the opportunity, I would certainly drop Tasta's leash to see just how heroically he might run.

Whatever the political climate in a few hands time, I will make my observances and honor the day in hopes others are good enough to do the same.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a man that might have been Ubar, had his personal pride and ambition not outweighed his sense of civic responsibility. "This is my city," I told him. "Your city?" he answered incredulously, as if I were a threat to his machinations. I have no doubt he could have gutted me where I stood, if the notion occurred to him. "My city, yes," I answered unwavering in my claim. I still believe that. This is my city. With defiance and obstinance, I have defended her gates. With conviction and determination, I have been the voice of her People. With a patriotic and dissident heart, I have defaced her walls that acceptance and kow-towing to the elite would not become the order of the day. So yes, my friend and sometimes adversary, Ar is mine. My love for her is deep and abiding, unending and enduring. Let no man or nation stand between us.

Graffiti on the Avenue of Turia; A Conversation Overheard

"What do you make of this?"
"Damned insolent to be marking walls in this District!"
"I suppose so. Were you at the festival, the parade and so forth?"
"Indeed I was. The rabble of this city have some nerve!"
"You are exciteable this afternoon."
"The wall to my shop was defaced, Timon! Should I be pleased?"
"It is only a bit of paint and an opinion."
"My opinion is that these rabble should leave well enough alone. Marcus Claudius is a hero!"
"So it would seem."
"Your empathy with the lower castes is ill-placed, Timon. The cut of your tunic is far too crisp."
"Perhaps you are correct."
"Caste distinction is the foundation of an ordered society. You would do well to remember that."
"I doubt the average Peasant has any desire to give up his plow that he might learn the mathematics of Builders or the letters of Scribes, any more than I have a notion to dismiss the study of Medicine that I might recite poetry or knead dough."
"Do not speak of poetry."
"Very well."

A Letter to Brutus Aurelius

Administrator,

I was relieved to hear you were unharmed in the attempt on your life last evening. I would have preferred to express this sentiment personally, however I was turned away at the entrance of the Central Cylinder this morning. I understand the added security and find it a prudent measure.

As you are well aware, I spent a good part of last evening and all of this morning effecting the release of Citizens jailed during the festival. The chaining of Citizens exercising their right to assembly was, in my opinion, a poorly considered course of action. Further, adding the insult of incarceration was a regrettable decision. Magistrate Silenti overstepped the bounds of his Office last evening and should be sanctioned. This, however, I leave to your discretion. The People of this City, the finest City, are passionate. They do not need to be 'shown their place.' They know their place rather well. What they require, what is their right as men of Ar, is the respect and support of this Administration - of your Administration. If you wish to be successful in your term of Office, to leave a lasting legacy of your name, I suggest you avidly seek the endorsement of the People.

Respectfully,

Szol of Ar

Magistrate of the People

Beginnings

Spring sprung

Sentiment sung

And the rain washes clean

Another year

Perennials bloom

Brushing back gloom

And the naysayers have

Said their solemn say

I greet you, Lar Torvis

My door a verdant hue

You remember me

I remember the sun-dappled dew

The crisp mornings

And warm afternoons

It is month One

En’kara undone, open

To any and all avenues

But today is not for planning

Our laurels are for wearing

Not standing upon

Good-natured drinking

Not worrisome thinking

Fill my cup

From the bottom up

Return my smile

Accounting

New Year

With another somber Waiting Hand having passed, we welcome the start of another En’Kara and with it, another new year. I was up before the Central Fire crested the Voltai. Tasta prowled the cul-de-sac as I painted the door to my Anbar domicile green, a celebration of the season. The first hand of En’Kara is always a festive time. There is much to celebrate entering this new year, but much to be wary over as well. The Initiates have been exposed, but one cannot help to reason they will be preaching their dogma again soon, gathering the faith of the fearful and the adherence of the pragmatic in the process. The repeal and prescribed restitution of unjust levies have been met with begrudging consent, but that may hold true only so long as the ambivalence of our current Administration remains intact. New challenges are sure to arise. Our city is at its best, I fear, when conquest is on the agenda. During times of peace, the power-brokers are all too willing to turn inward, against their own to satiate their greed. I can only hope they have seen the folly of pushing the People too far. When you leave a man with nothing to lose, logic dictates he has nothing to lose. Each day another ten walls are defaced in districts across the breadth of the city, the contempt plain in the words, in the crude renderings. Some speak of it as social commentary, others dismiss it as the petulance of the poor. What it truly represents, in my mind, is a warning. The men who sweep your stables, light your lamps, sing your standards, vend your food and drink, brand your bitches, tool your sandals and perform a thousand other menial tasks most take for granted are not to be thought of lightly. We are all of Ar, from the tavern master renting a flat in the Trevelyan to the Scions of the City with their Tabidian Tower residences. There are no men of humble birth in this city. We are men of Ar. 

A Conversation Unheard

"He is still alive."

"The intelligence was sound."

"He is still alive."

"Do you really think he is the problem?"

"He is hardly the solution."

"Agreed."

"So it is the sleen on your heels or the larl at your throat, is it?"

"So it would seem."

"I choose neither."

"If you do not make a choice, a choice will be made regardless."

"Perhaps the time has passed for picture-painting and slogan-craft."

"You may be right, old friend."

"Is it better to be ruled by the sublimely apathetic or the ambitiously corrupt?"

"I choose neither."

"As you say, if you do not make a choice, a choice will be made regardless."

"Perhaps I spoke in haste."

"How so?"

"What if there were a third option?"

"That is intriguing Kaissa, Player."

"Intriguing, certainly. Dangerous, assuredly. And I am hardly a Player."

"We are all far more than we seem these days."

"We are of Ar."

"We are Giants."

"Both are true."

Distraction pt. 2

Preternatural lust
One hunger
One ache, just
Swim-headed
Cold-sweated, gone
The leash is broken
The cage door
Knocked down
Slake, sate
Seethe, rape
Coming

& coming again
Say my name
Say my name
Say my name
Shut your mouth

Graffiti in the Street of Brands District; A Conversation Overheard

"It seems Marcus has purchased a sleen."
"Big, gray one, by the looks of it."
"The gray ones are said to be excellent trackers."
"I do not wish to be tracked by any sleen, be it gray, brown, black, barred or purple."
"There are purple sleen?"
"If there were, would you wish to be tracked by one?"
"No, certainly not."
"Tenacious. Tireless. Always get their man."
"I knew a kettle & mat girl like that once. Face looked like she was hit by a butter pan, but she was an insistent, little slut."
"You are the most indiscriminate fellow I know."
"And you, my compatriot, are far too wrapped up in superficial beauty."
"I think I would like to see a purple sleen."
"So long as it was chained."
"Indeed."

Graffiti in the Anbar on Sixth Street; A Conversation Overheard

"Sloshing pissbuckets of the Priest-Kings, why is it always on my walls?"
"Not just yours. Something similar was put up in the Great Square just yesterday."
"Bold, aren't they?"
"Or foolish."
"Both, likely."
"Certainly."
"D'you suppose there is anything to it?"
"There is always at least a notion of truth in this things. If not more."
"Hm."
"I will fetch one of the sluts to get this scrubbed clean."
"No. Leave it."

Graffiti in the Great Square; A Conversation Overheard

"Do you think it is true?"
"It is only art, subject to interpretation."
"I suppose so, but the artist seems to guide the viewer into a rather narrow field of possible interpretations."
"Indeed."
"It is an accurate likeness. Of both."
"The essence of each has been captured admirably, yes."
"Would you rather be bitten by an ost or a larl?"
"What sort of question is that? I choose neither."
"I would choose to be bitten by Keri, a Dancer at the Braided Whip."
"She is a delightfully fierce, little slut."
"I am thirsty."
"As am I."

Poetry In The Margin

Unadorned
Unable
Unsound

Unraveled
Unstable
Unfound

Unsung
Unheralded
Uncrowned

Untouched
Unlabeled
Unbound

Diversionary Tactics

I have decided to ask Locutius to accept one of the parts in the new play, which I have entitled Catch of the Day. It might prove difficult to find him timely, but I have sent word to Vesutto of Venna who seems to have a rather reliable network. He has been able to locate the actor extraordinaire for me in the past. I sincerely enjoyed Alcobiades' performance in The Good Citizen, so it is my hope he can be persuaded to accept the co-lead in the new production. He is of Ar. If he is within the walls and not off performing with some troupe on a dusty trail, it should not prove too taxing to find the fellow. 

I have found myself slipping a little of late, unable to quench certain thirsts, sate certain hungers. The distraction, diversion, whatever one calls it, helps to take my mind away from work-related issues. In the past, I have turned to the bottle to ease the stresses of everyday life, but I do not have the taste for grain alcohols like I once did. I will indulge in a bowl of paga now and again, of course, but I do not miss waking in the morning unable to lift my head from the couch. I am coming to realize, however, that the distraction of soft thighs and a tender throat is still an addiction, an obsession that is far too easy to cede control to. I find that writing, a return to the work of my Caste, rather than the work of the People, is helping to hone my focus. I have been prolific of late, three poems and a play in the last hand or so. 

It is a thin line that divides having control of one's desires and letting one's desires take the reins. 

Poetry in the Margin

Forget me
Remember me
Dismember me not
Judge me
Begrudge me
Come
Take my spot
Relieve me
Reprieve me
Black kettle
Blacker pot
Imbue me
Re-undo me
Re-imagine
Life and lot

Playwright

Two years prior, during the Fair of En'Kara, The Fall of Agamedes was staged in the shadow of the Sardar for the world to see. It was a play about two men, each seemingly at odds with their place in the world; the archetypes of Assassin and Warrior. Famed actors, Locutius and Nikos of Tyros delivered my dialogue to the world. Earlier this year, in the middle of En'Var, The Good Citizen was produced on the stage of the Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. It was a historical account, a chronicle of true-to-life events that took place in the Street of Brands District of Ar several years ago, but most probably took it for dramatic fiction. There were four parts. Locutius, again, deigned to accept a part. Turianus of Torcadino, Phineahas of ...Cos, and Alcobiades of Ar were the remaining Actors. That was my third production on Tallux's grand stage, and by far the most successful. The previous two were my first work, Merchant of Ko-ro-ba, and a reprise of The Fall of Agamedes.

The new work, as yet untitled, will feature two principals with minimal stage production and props. If the parts can be filled timely, I hope to stage it soon after the start of the new year. Inspiration comes from the strangest of places.

Smolder

We are tired
Your huddled masses
Worn and bruised
Disillusioned, confused
Disparate from you
The grease to your wheels
The gears of your machine
Lean, but not broken
Hungry, but not starved
These setbacks will not
Tear us asunder
Like tin men you fell
Sanguine waters, the well
Still you dance, oblivious
Lascivious, your greed
Your corruption, a seed
Deep in the dogmatic soil
Pampered feet refuse to touch
These embers, remember
Have yet to cool

Distraction

Undeniable addiction
Absolute predilection
An unkempt desire
Unchecked, unchained &
Tirelessly devoted
To the feast
Licking rape-hot thighs
Kissing sleep-worn eyes
Untenable, ostensible &

Purely driven to

Exhaustion

Repeal, Restitution, Responsibility

The notice went up quietly last night on the Public Board of the Great Square of Ar. While the People threatened to become the Mob, the document was posted. It read:

DAY 6 / MONTH 12 / 10,157 C.A.

BY ORDER OF THE MAGISTRACY OF THE PEOPLE OF AR:
PURSUANT TO PROOF OF CORRUPTION , TAX INCREASES INSTITUTED IN THE MONTH OF SE'KARA 10,157 TO THE PROPERTIES OF THE PEOPLE OF AR AND SERVICES RENDERED WILL BE REPEALED EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

(1) BE IT KNOWN, THE 'PEOPLE OF AR' IS DEFINED AS ALL RESIDENTS WITH A LEGAL CLAIM TO CITIZENSHIP WITH A CASTE BENEATH THE HIGH FIVE, WHICH ARE DEFINED AS; INITIATES, PHYSICIANS, BUILDERS, SCRIBES AND WARRIORS.

(2) BE IT KNOWN, THE PEOPLE OF AR ARE SUBJECT TO INCREASED TAXATION ONLY IN TIMES OF WAR, HARDSHIP OF THE STATE, OR EXPANSION OF THE EMPIRE.

(3) BE IT KNOWN, TAXATION AGAINST THE INCOME OF THE PEOPLE OF AR WILL BE APPLIED ONLY AFTER DUE CONSIDERATION OF ALTERNATE FORMS OF REVENUE AND ONLY IN THE EVENT THAT ITEMS DETAILED IN SECTION (2) HAVE OCCURRED.

(4) BE IT KNOWN, THE SCOPE OF THIS OFFICE ACTS AS ADVOCATE ONLY TO LEGAL CITIZENS WITH A CASTE BENEATH THE FIVE HIGH. NO OFFER OF REPRESENTATION IS INTENDED OR IMPLIED TO CITIZENS OUTSIDE OF THE SCOPE OF THIS OFFICE.

(5) THE PEOPLE OF AR, BY WAY OF RESTITUTION, WILL HAVE TAX AGAINST PROPERTIES REDUCED BY THREE PERCENT FOR THE SUBSEQUENT PERIOD OF THIRTY HANDS. TAX ON SERVICES RENDERED IS HEREBY REMOVED. FOR IMMEDIATE AID, CITIZENS SHOULD APPLY DIRECTLY TO THEIR RESPECTIVE CASTE LEADERSHIP.

SIGNED, SZOL OF AR

This morning, the slave Tupita was laden down with a satchel containing signed and notarized copies to be posted to every public board in every district of the city. The investigation will continue, but I suspect it will be at a level above my grade. Now that corruption has been exposed and the knowledge of it made widespread, it is entirely possible that the remaining culprits will be anxious to deflect responsibility onto functionaries, lackeys, and scapegoats, thus painting themselves in the best possible light. It is becoming known that the responsibility lies not only with Initiates placed highly within the White Caste, but also with certain parties in the Administration. I am told that the Administrator's trusted advisor Marcus Claudius covets the title of first citizen. It is only a matter of time before fingers start to point at one another in the halls of the Central Cylinder. Two cases of arson done upon high placed pieces of real estate in the last hand all but guarantees the gears of the guileful are grinding.
The rub of it is this - I don't see governmental reform as the outcome of these events. At best, another will use the Office of the Administrator as a seat of power, abusing his authority, albeit a bit more gently than his predecessors, while the sting of the past year still smarts, remaining fresh in the minds of the People. With the repeal and restitution in place, the risk of further rebellion may not be commensurate to the reward.

Prayer

Priest-Kings,

I do not ask you for guidance. I do not pray from my knees. I stand in the shadow of the Black Sardar at this, a moment of truth. I speak to you directly. Understand that I do not ask you for permission at this juncture, for any endeavor I choose to undertake. Understand, too, that my transgressions are not directed at you, but at those claiming to speak in your stead. I ask that you do not take offense. I do what I must. Do what you must. I do not fear you. I will not bow. I shall defeat those presuming to be your emissaries. I will not stand by while this fable of fate unfolds, accepting all without question. It is with a clear conscience that I move forward. Mark my name.

Lo Szol, Civititas Aria.

Chaining the Giant

You are Giants. Bow to no one. It was a simple message, scrawled in red paint boldly across the sheer, white wall of the Cylinder of Initiates. The delka, painted under cover of darkness on that same wall, was long since white-washed. This message, a message for the People of Ar, was done with an indignant attitude, at midday, facilitated by a well-rehearsed scuffle on the avenue that fronts the power base of the White. Punches were thrown, guardsmen distracted, and a crowd of apparent onlookers shielded the front wall of the Cylinder while the defacement took place. It was meant to be a blow to the dogmatic, the carnivorous, shaven-headed fear-mongers of the Temple. Let them see that superstitions and pragmatism will not prison all low men in cages of their own fear. Giants. The men of Ar are Giants. Lay your chains upon them at your own peril.
Most disturbing is that the inevitable has occured. A serpent's hiss tells the tale of more than happenstance, but of intricate orchestration. As chaos begins to reign, the strings of the puppet masters pull tauter. The mob rule may play directly into the hands of the elite. On one hand, it is a fine thing, a just thing, for the People to proclaim sa'ng fori, but I wonder if the chains are about to break, finally, or simply be replaced by something far more constricting, pervasive and inescapable.

Retribution, Not Rivalry

Much like the arsons early in the year, the assassination of Administration and greed-merchants alike continues unchecked. Scarcely a hand goes by without another of my magisterial peers or some shamelessly wealthy fop being cut down. The latest were displayed publically, a disturbing notion if it is to continue. Deserved or no, people have a way of becoming desensitized to such spectacles. Eventually, the longer they must pay an unjust tax, they will need more to still their wrath. If the Initiates do not stir them to violence, the pot may boil over all on its own, cutting a swath in every direction until just one is left. I struggle with the idea of a Ubar that is not Marlenus, but a Ubar is needed. It is difficult to be the first in a city, moreso in the finest city of our world. Who would ascend such a throne? Who could bring together all factions, summarily quieting the voice of the White and the influence of the power-brokers? Perhaps the killing will not stop until every stone in the Plaza of the Central Cylinder is soaked in the blood of those culpable. They are not all bad men. It is my hope that the ones lining the pockets of Assassins are discriminate.

"These things tend to be circular," I said to one of my constituents, a vendor whose food I favor in the Great Square.

"Indeed," he quipped. "The last time around it came full circle and bit you in the ass."

His comment was crude, referring to the day I was brought down by a Killer's bolt not a handful of feet from the spot we now stood, but his observation was astute. I did not gainsay him. When your peers are falling one by one around you, it is an easy thing to imagine your turn is inevitable. This is my city, however. I do not fear them. It is my hope this is the justice of retribution and not rivalry. To replace the vacated filth with ones dirtier still would be...heartbreaking.

Once Upon a Time

What claims pure
Is driven & un-riven
Whole & focused
The Locus of Control
Knuckle-bones & Frail frames
Slit-throat screams
Endeavor to tame the masses
What passes for integrity
In the first of all cities
A mass mind interpretation
Integration, wholesale assimilation
Open wide for another mouth
Full of sunshine, promises & hope
Swallow, follow, grope
Swing from the rope
From which we all will hang
Tomorrow is today
What we sing we sang
To your ambivalence

Once upon a time.

She Hates Me

"I hate you," she said to me.
I collared a woman last night. She has been mine, in a legal sense, for several hands. I administered discipline to her one afternoon in the Office of the Magistrate of the People and then allowed her to dress herself, dismissing her as if she were free. In fact, she had made several verbal and physical gestures of submission which I accepted before she was sent off. That afternoon, I drew up her Writ of Enslavement and filed it away, but she was already owned. Not long after that day, I wished to be served wine by my property. I had her picked up during her afternoon shopping and brought to me. She, believing herself a free woman, was not pleased to be summoned in such a manner. She protested, scandalized, but she served my wine nonetheless.
On another occasion, it occurred to me to exercise rape privileges over my property and I summoned her once again. It was then she chose to stick my thigh with a poison pin to 'teach me a lesson.' As a free woman, of course, it would have been perfectly within her rights to defend herself against the unwelcomed, unbidden carnal advances of a man. Her convenient denial of submission, however, did not excuse her behavior. She was at that time, as I have illustrated, a slave. When I was free of the effects of her poison, I reminded her of the things she said, of the things she did which, incontrovertibly, supported by the notarized Writ of Enslavement, made her a slave.
I did not, at that time, choose to collar her. Arguably, it would have been a wise moment to do so, but it pleased me to keep her throat bare. For several days, I left her in the garments of a free woman. I kept her wrists shackled. She protested her treatment and I allowed it. Eventually, she was given something else to wear, something more appropriate to her station, and her wrists were unshackled. She held out hope, I think, that I might tire of the 'game' and free her, returning to her the possessions she once owned, the funds in her name on the Street of Coins and, most importantly, her freedom. As long as her throat remained bare, she convinced herself that this was a temporary situation.
She was wrong. It was never a temporary situation. When she wakes this morning and crawls to the mirror, her hands will go to her throat. She will pull at the collar locked securely on her neck. It is functional, the sort of collar I am fond of. Heavy, simple, and obdurate, it has a large ring welded at the front for the attachment of a leash or chain.
She hates me. I permit her to do so.

Checks, Balances, Rituals & Murder

"Nero was corrupt," Martius opined. "He got what was coming to him.
"I won't argue the point," Callidorus concurred, "but it is troubling to have the mark used in that fashion."
"Gah. Fuck 'em," Martius shot back. "Let the Guardsmen worry over it, chase after shadows."
I walked into the small tavern, hidden in one of the meaner warrens of the Street of Brands District. The blonde slave, Noemi, not yet collared but fully imbonded, was at my side. The men grunted their acknowledgment of me as I sat around the table, but continued their conversation. They paid little attention to the blonde girl, which was indicative of the importance of this meeting.
"It is troubling that an Assassin would do something so ritualistic," Callidorus answered.
"Well it certainly wasn't one of the bald ones," Martius replied. "Unless they specified it was done that way."
"We cannot afford to let up," I interjected. "But we must be prudent in our activities."
"Prudent?!" Martius answered sharply. "Are we not reactionaries?"
"Martius, calm down," Callidorus answered. "There is no need to be rash."
"We must increase our activity!" Martius asserted.

"I agree that we must continue," I answered, "but I, for one, do not wish the murders of Bronte or Valois pinned on me."
"There is no proof!" Martius exclaimed.
"They will not need proof," I answered. "The mark will be enough."
After a time, we agreed it was time to adjourn and I bid the fellows well, bringing the blonde girl at my side up by her hair. I was stopped at the door by Callidorus.
"I cannot control Martius, Poet," he said to me. "He is angry. He lost much with the last increase."
"I am doing what I can," I promised. "I intend to file another repeal and then I will apply for restitution on behalf of the People."
"No, no..." he started. "Nobody here blames you. I did not mean to...let us talk another time."
Callidorus paused and glanced at Noemi. He offered the girl a smile and then wished me well.
There was much on my mind when I left the tavern with the unmarked door in the Street of Brands District. Men like Martius are well-meaning, but hot-headed. It is something we cannot afford. The memory of our faction and the respect it garners has been usurped by others, repurposed. It is troubling. The murders are, doubtless, connected. The People's endorsement is tenuous at this point. They will rally as the tide starts to turn against the elite or they will retreat to a pragmatic, 'safe' stance, putting further faith in the establishment that abuses their trust. Either extreme is troublesome; blind ambivalence or a violent revolt, but I have come to understand the path between two extremes is no solution. Society requires checks and balances. Every man has his part to play, his performance to deliver. It is paramount to discern just where I stand on this stage, before the entire house comes down in a pile of shattered timbers.

Behind the Mask

There was a party at the Savant Estate a few evenings prior, a masquerade ball. Though I was invited personally by the scion himself, and endeavored to go, I found myself working late into the evening. If pressed, I would admit that I was not entirely keen on attending. I felt I would be a little out of place. I am, of course, of the Poets. At such gatherings, men of my caste are often sought to recite something topical, providing one of many diversions for the guests. At the moment, however, I am also the People's Magistrate of the city. The invitation was extended to that Szol of Ar, the fellow which wears that particular mask. I am between two worlds and the longer I remain there, the more out of place I feel in both of them. How does one attend a soirée for Ar's elite and continue to be regarded as the voice of the People? It always comes back to the concept of fact and appearance. It is as important to appear ethical as it is to actually be ethical. How would it appear to a Weaver or a Saddle-Maker or a Leather-Worker that is skipping a meal to satisfy the demands of the latest unjust levy if his 'voice' is supping on choice viands amongst well-heeled company? There are those amongst my constituency that already harbor doubt. "The list of the corrupt, does that include you, Magistrate?" The outward appearance, these days, seems to outweigh the inward truth of things. Circumstance presumes guilt.

The delka made an appearance again, this time in the chests of two men seen leaving the very party I declined to attend. While I can be reasonably certain that recent appearances of that mark in the Anbar and on the sheer face of the Cylinder of Initiates were painted by members of an anarchist faction, I would bet heavily against the Brigade having anything to do with the murders of Nero Bronte and Tiberius Vilios. It just goes to show that Scribes of Accountancy and a Poet named Szol are not the only people cognizant of the power of appearances.

Dogmatic

The zealots increase in number as the days pass, as the men of the White chant, ring their bells, collect their gullible adherents. The Initiates are just one more group of players in the political arena, always with their own agenda which is, like any other powerful group, the acquisition of further power. They seem to enjoy parading through the Great Square at the tenth or eleventh ahn when much of the city is seeking a midday repast and a bit of company with friends. All too convenient, all too calculated. They have no need to preach to the masses. Their very sight is enough to recruit the beguiled and fearful into giving their sermon for them. "Repent!" I have heard. Repent? What the fuck would I repent from? Or for, for that matter. Ring your bells, anoint your heads, and choke the city with the smoke of your incense. I am not of a mind to listen to you. And I will do what I must so others might think for themselves. Do not call me a heathen, nor a hypocrite. I am Szol of Ar. I am of the Poets. I honor the Priest-Kings. I honor the traditions of my city. I do not, however, subscribe to the pervasive dogma that systematically strips a man of his opinion, his free will, and his pride. I do not care if he is an Initiate or an Administrator. I do not care, even, if he is a Ubar.

We must expose and close the doors on those that try to strangle and mangle the truth.*

[*Zack de la Rocha]

The Science of Reaction

Once set in motion, the outcome of events are often unpredictable. Every action will prompt a reaction. There are theories about this phenomenon, claims that it is more than common sense, but an inevitability predicted by science. I am not a Scribe, but these ideas are not entirely beyond my ken. Most of the things people do or say, in fact, seem to be said or done precipitating a desired reaction. The neglected slave girl acts out that she will be disciplined, thus reminded that she is owned. In a dual, one combatant feints in hopes his rival will strike, thus opening his guard for an offensive attack. Such feints are used by men as readily in Kaissa as they are in mortal combat. Animals, too, are bound by the science of action and reaction. A larl will threaten with a fierce roar, done to strike fear into his prey's heart, thus freezing it in place for a swifter, more efficient kill. Certain predatory fishes, grunts and sharks, are said to show themselves at a distance, drawing one's focus to a spot in which they abruptly submerge, only to deliver the attack from directly below. I do not know if that is true, but it is a frightening thing to consider the intelligence of such beasts, the calculative ability, the innate, instinctive understanding of such sciences.

Men have fallen. More, I think, will fall. Their actions prompting reaction, some calling it justice, others calling it murder. One further thought; corruption necessitates collusion, but collusion predicates betrayal. Greed knows no bounds and breaks all ties.

Poetry in the Margin

Titus went swimming
In the Founder's sparkling pool
Lucid fountain waters
Spoke a cold and crimson truth
Just days before his anointment
His appointed bloody end
Two accountants lost their footing
Their last entries left unsent
Vengeance for the Isle of Filth
Or justice for a cause
Rumor rampant painted far
And wide upon the walls
And on the lips and tongues
Of people, dispirited not tame
Who falls next, they ponder
For whom the blade is named.

Equations of Corruption

It is just a ledger.
There are names, dates, notations, amounts of payments, amounts in arrears, accounts payable and receivable - in short, precisely what a ledger should contain. Not much is coded in the ledger and the code that is there is not so cryptic that it cannot be readily deciphered. It was in the lockbox left to me by Ibrahim, the large southern man I first encountered at the party for Bonnane. After the news of two more dead in the ranks of the Magisterial Offices, I was compelled to finally look inside the box. I wonder now what, if anything, I might have done. I wonder if I would have done anything. I think, perhaps, I should say something to the others that are named in this ledger. I do not think it is necessary, however, with Bonnane and the two that followed him into the City of Dust already expired. It does not take a mathematical genius to sort out the equation. Someone, an individual or a collection of individuals, has taken exception to the conduct of a select group that, unfortunately, happens to be counted among my peers. One would hope those that have this coming to them know precisely who they are.
It would beg the question 'why?' on several levels. Why was the attempt made on my life? If, of course, it was truly an attempt at all. Why was I given a front row seat to the execution of one Magistrate and what appears to be a guidebook to the next in line to fall? I have some of those answers. I have had them for some time. At least, I think I understand. The weather in Ar is regarded as temperate, but when it rains, it pours. Like any other city, great or small, the detritus, blood and filth accumulates in our gutters. Something has to wash it all away.
Coincidentally, just a few evenings prior, I spoke with my own provocateur. She has made progress and she, too, has a list of names, but I do not know if this list of names coincides with those in the ledger provided by Ibrahim. I will have to meet with her, speak with her in confidence. Something tells me this is beyond the scope of my Office, but something greater tells me it is not beyond the domain of my Citizenship.

The Waiting Hand comes early

There are a dozen Passage Hands in each year. After the twelfth of these, we recognize the Waiting Hand. It is still quite far off, nearly a full season until the Spring, En'Kara, but I find myself tending toward a pensive demeanor earlier and earlier each year. I think it is the cooler weather, the way we huddle in our cloaks, heads down to avoid the wind, minding the puddles left by the cold rains. It affords us time to ourselves even amidst others. We resist this, of course, being men of Ar, scoffing at the chill by labeling it 'brisk' or 'lively.' We continue to dress our sluts in as brief an attire as the weather will reasonably allow. There is no denying, however, the propensity for self-reflection during this time of year. Many cities will distract themselves from the true nature of the Waiting Hand, allowing their slave girls to run amok just one day before, perhaps justifying the practice as a fitting way to close the year. 'Let the bitches run wild today,' they say to themselves. 'Tomorrow, we will observe the Waiting Hand.' They are wrong, of course. The proper time to celebrate Kajuralia is closer to the Love Feast. It is a festive time when games and races are often sponsored. Men are better disposed to a temporarily unruly girl when the wine is flowing freely and there is a spirit of joy in the air. I prefer to spend the day before the Waiting Hand painting the door to my residence white, having the branches of the brak bush fetched to ward off the ill-omens. It is best to leave the poison of the past in the past and start each year fresh. I am rambling, with far too much on my mind.
The transition from vending whores to investing a greater interest in the Braided Whip has been largely successful. Though the duties of the Magistracy keep me occupied far more than most would deem reasonable, Darwin has shown himself a capable enough proxy at the tavern. Elise supervises the women, a duty she is well-qualified for due the nature of her past owner's business. I would prefer, of course, to be more intimately involved with the running of the tavern, but I have come to understand that the duties of a People's Magistrate, when the overall population of the city is vastly skewed to the lower castes, is nearly an insurmountable task for one man - at least a man of my background. There is a reason, I think, Magistrates are commonly of the Scribes. It is fitting.
The greatest reason for this far-too-early bout of self-reflection is the real lack of anger or even open indignation on the part of my peers. Just a few months prior, they seemed poised to revolt, to stand up and demand their due, equitable representation for the taxes, fees, and fines assessed against their incomes and properties. They have apparently accepted their fate, having been shown their place. Salt, I know, is in the city. The tax is, therefore, unsuitable and improper. I do not have the proof to pursue it further. I would challenge it, demand it be repealed as is the right of my Office, but it would fall on deaf ears. The sharks and profiteers, extortionists and black market dealers have already moved into Ar to prey on a population resigned. Talena does not stand upon the dais beside Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, and Seremides, the Captain of the Guard, informing us that Lurius, fat tarsk of Jad, has our Home Stone clutched in his swollen, sweating fingers, but the lack of ire in my brothers and sisters, scorned citizens of Ar, brings those memories far too close to the front.
Perhaps it is time that I step down.