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.

My captive begs to be fed

"My victory over you is something I will savor," I said. "I will not conquer you all at once. I will take my time with you. I will completely devastate you and remove your defenses entirely."
My captive has has resigned herself to her fate over the last hand. Having not eaten in better than five days, given only water, she begged food. "I am hungry, Master," she said to me. Understanding that her refusal to beg for food would only get her strapped to a Physician's table with a funnel in her mouth and a tube down her throat, she crafted her words and her mien carefully to avoid that indignity. I was not unaware of her behavior, nor bothered by it. I do not require her, at this moment, to be genuine. She is, within reason, allowed recalcitrance. She is permitted to struggle, to reconcile her fate. There are limits, of course. If she becomes bothersome or shrill, it is a simple thing to gag her. Too, I am not completely averse to putting the belt across her ass at this stage. I am simply in no hurry. She is on my schedule. Her wrists remain shackled and she continues to wear the same garment she wore on the day she was chained. I have, of course, altered it significantly. The skirts of her robes have been shortened. The sleeves have been completely removed. Though I have allowed her to retain the slippers, she has been denied veils. It has not occurred to me to be cruel to her, but I do not intend to be gentle. She will learn what she is. She will learn, too, what I am.

The Progress of Six

Six Girl seems to be progressing nicely at the Capacian House. I am well aware of the rigors of her training and she does not complain much, making mention of her tribulations only when prompted to do so. In the last passage hand or so, the effect on her physique is starting to show. Like most bath girls, she is getting leaner through the middle. Her arms and legs, too, have started to take on some swim-specific definition. I am assured, too, that her cardiovascular health and respiratory limits have been steadily improving. She seems determine to succeed, though she recently came to understand that her success might ultimately lead to her sale. Her training at the Capacian is something of a trial period. She is a beautiful girl, there is no arguing that point, but she must demonstrate her endurance while learning an entirely new skillset. Early comments on her progress indicated she had the desire to learn, but questioned her strength, both physical and emotional. The most recent notes I have received from Andreas, one of the men overseeing her training, judge she has about a sixty-five to seventy percent chance to complete the program. Her fitness, I am told, is commensurate with expectations due the time she has spent training. She has proven, mostly, her determination in the face of adverse conditions. She completes the lowest tasks assigned to her competently and does not complain. The only reason she is not one hundred percent assured of finishing the program is that most girls that get this far fail in the last months. It is a matter of statistics, I am told.
I have given her some responsibility in managing my shackled captive as well. I can hardly have the woman chained to the floor of the main room at all hours of the day, so I have decided to put her on the second floor in a room with Six. In her chains, dressed in the robes she wore the day she was chained, Six was put to the task of bathing her. That will continue.
Another note - the captive, asked if she was hungry yesterday morning, indicated that she was. Six was directed to bring her a half-ration of gruel and put it before her. I fed the first morsel of it to her myself, pushing the dollop adhered to my finger past her lips and teeth. I could tell by the tension of her jaw that she considered biting me like a recalcitrant animal. Fortunately, she did not. When she was told she was permitted to address the remainder of the bowl herself, without the use of her hands, of course, she scoffed and disdained to eat another bite. She will come to regret that decision.

Captive Audience

Just a little pin prick.

I let my guard down for a moment and found myself stuck by the poison pin of a woman. Noemi, to be exact. The day had not gone the way I had envisioned. You see, I own this woman. I have, in a legal sense, owned her for some time now. Several hands prior, nearly two passage hands to be more precise, she had committed several actions befitting a slave girl. Six of them that included, but were not limited to; face-stripping herself in the presence of a man. She was told on that day that she was owned and confirmed that she understood the fact before I dismissed her from my presence. Of course, she would have said anything to get out of that office that day, but it does not change the severity of what occurred. That day, I took the time to draw up her Writ of Enslavement. I had it signed and notarized and filed the document in the appropriate places, including the Hall of Records of Ar.

But the pin prick...

I had been forewarned of this woman's poison pins and, of course, expected no less from any free woman. It was foolish of me to let my guard down. I had sent for her, knowing she would come to the Cylinder of Justice due her greedy nature and to sate her curiosity. The letter was delivered by a functionary of the offices and stated plainly that her 'immediate attention was required to discuss an issue of property.' She, herself, of course, was the property with which there was an issue. She was, collared or no, a slave girl living the life of a pampered free woman. I had allowed her to do so, giving her the freedom to leave after accepting her submission. It is a fine thing to tear down a woman's defenses and utterly devastate her in one grand gesture, but it is also equally delightful to let her have the length of the chain, so to speak, for a time. She knows she is shackled, but she allows herself to believe it is not so. 'There is no collar on my neck!' She tells herself. 'He would not dare to make me a slave!' She protests in the depths of her mind. All the while, she knows the truth. He would dare to do so. He has already done so. It is you, woman, that have to reconcile this. He is allowing you time to absorb the truth. How long will he give you before he simply pulls the net out beneath that wire you walk upon? Do you think you he would allow you this slack in the chain if it did not please him to watch you struggle?

I swam for a moment after being pricked.

My eyesight was clear, unclouded. I could feel the cool floor beneath me. I could see her crawling about me, taunting me. She chose this moment to speak to me. To protest my cruel treatment of her. I could not move, but I was completely cognizant. This was the toxin described to me by the Physician, Sertorius. Paralysis was induced, but consciousness was not forced away. She reveled in her small victory, but that victory would be short-lived. Whether it was the guilt of her conscience or somehow, inherently, she knew she could not run from me. She knew I would rouse from this and put the men and the sleen at my disposal on her trail. She had made a poor choice and tried to do what she could to reverse the misstep. She administered the antidote. Another pin prick that sent a sudden warmth through my limbs and torso. The movement came slowly, but she was not hurrying from me. She was saying her farewells. She was warning me....warning...me not to come after her. I pushed myself to my feet and called into the hallway. Her guard, Marcus, was there with her. I indicated I wished to speak to him. Though he is her guard, he is a citizen of Ar. There was no reason to refuse an audience with me, a fellow citizen, a magistrate of his city.
We spoke. I showed him the Writ to which he immediately admitted ignorance of his employer's indiscretions, and the level of them. He could not remain employed to her, a slave, any longer. He understood this woman had nothing at this point, that she was unable to tender his salary, were he even amenable to working for her, which he clearly was not. He agreed to furnish me with a list of her property and holdings, with the numbers of her accounts on the Street of Coins and other various assets and interests.
Noemi, two days later, would still be wearing the same robes as she wore that day. She would find herself chained at the wrists and shackled at the ankle in my Anbar District residence. She would, in time, be taught much more. She miscalculated. She is now my captive.