Night Leads to Day; The General & The Snake

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a puddle of what I can only hope was collected rainwater as I rounded the corner that leads to an alley down which, after short walk, leads to the Boarding House in the Anbar District. I thought of Kal-da. Spicy. Pungent. A little bitter and always too hot to swallow soon after it's ladled into one's cup. I thought it would be pleasant to have a cup, my pretentiousness with the fine wines of the Fulvian Foothills due a break. I entered the neighborhood shop on the corner of Sixth Street. One is constantly surprised by the way the Anbar operates. One would not, for example, expect a man of high caste, once an Administrator, to be sitting in such a place. Nor would one expect a woman, of any type other than kettle & mat girl or whore to be in such a place. For the record, there was a whore in that place, one of mine. The dark-skinned, multi-plaited Portia. I do not own all of the whores in Ar. I do not even own all of the whores in the Anbar. I do, however, own the best in the District and the city. One may contest that, but it is an argument one would lose. Check the grafitti in alleyways of the Metellan, The Street of Brands, The Street of Coins or any other District you like. The names of my women will be featured prominently.

Tangents. I seem to wander off on them more than usual of late. The Kal-da Shop. Who was there.

Yes. Other than Portia, the General and the improprietous girl-spawn of Kreeandra were present. Fortunately, as I wandered in with the taste of Kal-da on my mind, the two of them were speaking about a female I met not long ago. Kyron was advised not to drink the Kal-da, or anything else for that matter. Elise was with me. She traded glances and silent conversation with Portia as I spoke of trivialities with the General. Perhaps I had interrupted something. There had been talk of the recent fires, the murders even, linking it to the General. Some linked it to Savana. I do not know if it was either or if it was both, but one cannot help but notice seemingly animated, direct conversations falling off to pleasantry and accomodation when I enter a room.

"How are you, Poet? It has been a long time."

"Would you like some cheese?"

"How is the play coming along. Do you have your fourth?"

Sometimes it is just better not to know, despite my natural inclination to be aware of what occurs around me. Knowledge is power, yes. It can also be a cold knife. The owner of the Kal-da Shop, for example, was dragged into the street and beaten this afternoon. Broken and bruised, it is said he died in the clinic as Physicians tended his wounds. I am not the Magistrate of this District, but I assume this is a grave enough event to get the fellow's attention. 'Who profits?' is the question I would ask first, were it my investigation.

On a less dramatic note, Kreeandra's daughter send an apologetic basket of muffins earlier in the hand. It was a gift after speaking to me in a less than deferential manner. Perhaps I will purchase something for her as well. I have good taste. Women are often thrilled with the gifts I bestow upon them.

Free Women; Women Not Yet Slaves

A woman is a woman. When she is permitted to have her run, to speak out of turn or, indeed, even 'in turn,' as if she were an equal, she is prone to unruly, unfeminine behavior. I speak of slaves, of course, but also of those not yet slaves. Free women, in all their myriad and frustrated form. Lovely bitches, all of them, I am sure, but I am not one to allow a woman her illusions. Oh, they are permitted, those free, those not yet slaves, some indulgence. One must give them their due. They might speak out of turn without incidence now and again. They might exhibit their tempers, pointing their fingers with indignance occasionally. One might even tolerate their flaunting of societal convention and mores to a certain extent. At a certain point, enough is enough. One might gently remind a woman not yet slave, "Mind your tone." One, too, at the incidence of behavior less than proprietous might say, "Do not be shameless. Consider your family."

Of course, not every fellow is patient enough to remind a woman of her place. Some are cruel enough to allow a woman the illusions I find it difficult to abide. They will seek relationships of equality with them. Some, and I have seen this, will accept roles subordinate to them. It is understood, of course, that wealth and caste play their role from time to time. A drover or a sutler or some such fellow might find himself in the employ of a landed female, a woman with an estate and substantial holdings. There are economical reasons for such relationships, logistical considerations and the like. I speak, however, of the fellow that allows himself a subordinate relationship to a woman for other reasons. Perhaps he is attracted to her. Perhaps he wishes to entice her into thinking he is a gentleman, unlike other fellows that are exclusively attracted to slave girls. He, he would have her believe, is interested in a 'real woman,' a 'woman of substance.' He is charmed by her. He is willing to be solicitous for her, ingratiating. He will even be tender, if she would but let him close to her. He is a fool. And on more than one account. Firstly, she wishes, like all women, somewhere deep in her heart, to be the very woman that he claims to have no affinity for. She wishes, like all women, to be that writhing little slut at the foot of a man. In her heart of hearts, she knows that she wishes to lick and kiss her chains - to be permitted to lick and kiss her chains. The entire time he speaks with gentleness, she is wondering how she might manipulate this fellow. She is wondering what she might get away with. And that is the other account that the fellow is a fool. He will allow her to do this to him.

Graffiti in the Anbar District

Greetings to you

Let's get through this

I don't have a lot of time

This is a clue, this

Not a ruse, this

And it's stuck inside this rhyme

What is darkness?

What has sparked this?

What is evil?

What is divine?

In just a moment

Could I foment

Your imagination

From line to line

In the hands and fingers

With what lingers

Of unspoken rendezvous

What is false?

What is true?

What is gray that should be blue?

Braided leather

Blackened through.

Signs

"Nothing odd then?" I asked the fellow, Darwin.

He has been relocated to Samsara, on Aulus Street, for the time being. I've been stretched thin, of late. Actors and whores. Sycophants. There are only so many ahn in one day. It is precisely times like these that I wonder at my own arrogance. The lure of wealth is strong. It is odd to have one's accounts swelling on the Street of Coins, to have one's diversified investments all reaping small, but positive dividends, and still look back fondly on days of wandering and near poverty. I wrote more then. I recited more. Orated. There was a balance between the romance and the sedition. Much of what I write now is painted over the next day. Dissidence and anger. Nothing so harsh as to foment a rebellion, but perhaps enough to open the eyes of the lower castes to the concept of fairness, if not equity. Dignity, if not reward. I do not know. There is arrogance in the upper echelon of my city's society. They play a cruel sort of Kaissa. I remember them carrying the bricks. Bowing. Apologizing for the greatness of what my city represents. Now they wear that greatness as if they never were shamed by it. In bold colors. In audacious fashion.

"It was quiet here last evening," the Cloth Worker informed me.

"Thank you," I said to him, palming the fellow a few coins. "Get yourself something to eat. Sleep a bit. Return here at midday."

"Very well," he answered.

"If you see the Six Girl," I said to him as he started off, "she is to report to Samsara at end of shift each night until further notice."

He nodded as he wandered off. The added security, the change in routine is likely unnecessary, but there are collateral benefits from it. If someone is trying to tell me something, he will need to deliver the message directly.

Fortuitous Timing

The Anbar is not the prettiest District in the City of Ar, but it is honest. You won't find the colored lanterns lit here each evening as Tor-Tu-Gor gives its last breath. The scent of alcohol is far more prevalent than that of pastries. If you catch an alluring whiff of a woman's perfume, be advised that the cloying, lewd scent is not that of a passing free woman. Your nose has been assaulted by Eau d'Ho, the fragrance of a whore, likely one of my own. People gamble here, both with their money and with their lives. There is a drunkard called Artemis that is continually 'sleeping it off,' often in a puddle of his own filth. Last evening, noble Artemis chose my end of the alley to recover from his latest stipend-depleting adventure. I did not gainsay him his claim on the cobblestones. We are all aware of Artemis, those that reside here and those that eke out their livings here. He is as the urt and the frevet and any other mammalian scavenger, noctural or diurnal, horned or otherwise. He is simply a part of the fabric. At the moment, the fabric he wore could use a good scrubbing.

After collecting the day's take and accounting for the coins, I had stepped out of the red doors and onto the front stoop. That was my vision. What I held court over. The back and forth between districts has been tiring, but the numbers do not lie. The women earn more in this domicile, closer to their customers, than they do at Samsara. I will keep them here for a time. There is 'room at the inn' as they say. The second floor is no longer wanting for space as it was a mere hand ago. In time, Elise, too, stepped outside and I allowed her to kneel beside me. She was curious how it was that I seemed relatively safe amongst those of this District. I did not beat her for her curiosity. Women are like that. They would know things. What we choose to tell them, of course, is our perogative. On occasion, it is advisable to loosen one's belt and 'heat the leather' as they say, simply to remind them that all maxims are maxims for a reason. They are not empty threats, mere platitudes. Tonight, however, I was not wearing a belt. I would have let her pose her questions, regardless.

A fellow sits on a stoop for many reasons. There is indolence, of course, but chief amongst reasons is a change of scenery; to gain a place to think. I had come to the stoop to think amidst the clutter and the redolence of this infamous area to clear my head. It is calming, somehow, to watch the shadows shift, to see debris lift in a tenuous vortex as a breeze hurtles through the alley, to hear the carousing of disreputable men and their slaves at a popular tavern a few blocks away, to witness a battle or two between snarling, but mostly harmless, urts over a found, gustatory treasure and to just suffer the general stench of what is distinctly human; sweat and alcohol, piss and blood.

I was strangely unsurprised to see the mysteriously absent Phineahas of Brundisium, the Storyteller who became an Actor, walking down my alley with a cheerful, and rather casual, 'Tal, Szol of Ar.' He had come into a great deal of money after the curtains closed on The Fall of Agamedes. I was not completely taken aback when he went missing. Foreign fellows with deep pockets often become absent, even in civilized places like Glorious Ar. Still, I thought it was more plausible that he had taken that much talked of jaunt to the Sardar. I was unconcerned that, were that the case, he neglected to bid a proper farewell. We are men. It is not necessary for us to syncronize our calendars. We honor our commitments and provide one another with a cup companion from time to time and that is enough. His return, as it turns out, is serendipitous. Fortuitously timed, as it were. There are two parts left to fill for the production of The Good Citizen. He has said that he intends to audition. After the unanticipated level of credibility he attained with his characterization of Julian in The Fall, a marquee of Locutius, Turianus and Phineahas could not help but draw crowds.