Deeper

The Trevelyan District of my city is not a welcome place for strangers, particularly after dark. It is much like the Anbar in that respect, suspicious and quick to level judgment on those that wander into her midst. Having said that, I was not to be deterred. If the salt is making it into the city surreptitiously, held in reserve until the Administration has the population under control, it will be in the warehouses of the Trevelyan or somewhere equally foreboding. That is my assumption, that it will be kept where no one wishes to go looking for it, if it is in the city at all. I know it isn't in the Anbar, arguably the only place more foreboding than the Trevelyan in the entire city. There are few that would perpetrate such an insult against their neighbors in that District, the District in which I personally do business. If there is a perpetrator of this sort in that neighborhood, he will not have to worry over a mere Magistrate of the People when he is found out.

My sojourn into the Trevelyan last evening was ill-advised. My presence, particularly in an official capacity, was not welcome. I traveled with two slaves, Elise and Six, but they were unharmed. Rational men are unlikely to harm beautiful women. There are better uses to put such things to. I expected resistance, even hostility when I made my intent known. I would inspect the warehouses, unannounced, and demand an accounting of their inventories. I did not bring a cadre of armed men, for such a display only invites an armed defense. Also, I do not feel as if I can rely upon men not directly under my employ. I trusted the imperium of the Office, such that it is, and a self-assured tone would be enough. It was not. I was turned away by the man standing watch over the warehouse doors. And, to further the point, I was fired upon by an unseen assailant with a crossbow. In time, I am sure I will feel more shaken by the experience than I do right now. However, the sound of the bolt rushing by my ear and burying itself in the wood of the warehouse door isn't something I am able to get out of my head. The 'sssst' and the thunk as it struck the timbers brought me out of my sleep several times last evening. The only consolation is that it was obviously a warning and not an earnest attempt to put me down. I am running into too many obstacles in the search for answers. And I am in over my head.

Faith & Microeconomics

I am coming to the conclusion there is nothing I can do to disprove the legitimacy of the Salt Shortage within the walls of the city. Too, I cannot wait on return correspondence from Habib. There is no guarantee my Merchant contact is even in Tor to receive the missive. Also, much as I like Habib, I cannot vouch for his integrity on this matter. It could be that salt is being delivered, per usual, and stock-piled somewhere. Or, the chokepoint could be further south, back in the city of Tor herself. If so, those Merchants allegedly colluding with the Administration stand to make more money withholding their goods for future shipment than they do selling it at present market value. Economics is a Merchant science, but I have read enough to gain the understanding that demand equals profit. The longer the shortage continues, the greater the demand. The greater the demand, the higher the price. And the Administration, should all of this be true, benefits by profiting from hardship subsidies in the interim. I don't want that to be true. I would rather believe what I am told in those sequestered Council meetings; there is no salt to be had. Without proof otherwise, there is no point in continually repealing tax increases. I find myself in the unenviable position of being alienated by my Magisterial peers and, worse, the constituency that loses further faith with each passing day that I am unable to effect change.

"It is my right to speak out," the Lady Tia of the Bakers said to me. Particularly, she intimated, when the man elected to be her voice has failed. While her tone was unacceptable, her sentiment carried a rueful veracity that I could not argue. Unless I can discover some scandalous stockpile of salt, hidden away from the public behind the very walls of my city, I will take the road west to Torcadino. From there, I will journey south to Kasra and points beyond, including the desert destination of Tor.

Irony

"Post it in the Great Square, Tupita," I said to her, handing the shorn-headed slave that serves my Office the latest document for wide dissemination.
It put a sour taste in my mouth, honestly. I had no choice but to deem the latest tax increases 'reasonable.' I have no evidence otherwise. The city-wide shortage of salt, by definition, is a hardship to the state which allows a recalculation of tax assessments. To suggest, in light of that, the People not forward the amounts demanded, would be to endorse anarchy. Publically, I cannot call for such a thing. Privately, I do not know that it is such a bad idea. I have sincere doubt that the shortage of salt is anything but a strong-arm tactic by the Administration to put the lower castes 'in their place.' Suspecting such a thing and proving it are two very different notions.
Were I a politician, the reversal of my repeal would be a serious blow to my career, but I am not a politician. Nor am I concerned about a lengthy career in politics. I am not trying to curry favor by making empty promises. If there is power to be had in this office, that power belongs to the People this office represents. It does not belong to Szol of Ar. It takes so few whispers, however, to create so many rumors. If I cannot change the tack the Administration has taken, I may be the most convenient source for the People to vent their frustrations upon. For someone with such a dissident past, it is a bitter irony.

The Inevitable Course

There are notices on the Public Boards for citizens to pay their taxes or forfeit their properties. There is an inexplicable shortage of salt in the city that only worsens each day. I find constituents with brusque responses and wary glances cast my way or, at times, a physical reminder that their faith in best intentions and honest effort is fickle at best. We, the lower castes, are looking for someone to blame. It is disheartening to think that we would look amongst ourselves, amidst our own, for culpability. Those that know me remain unwavering, of course, but I have been elected to represent all with caste beneath the high five. Even those hostile. I understand the hostility, of course. I share it. For lack of a clear villain, the mob must sate its desire to vent. Gnieus Lelius was once labeled an enemy of amity, a subverter of peace and a tyrant. He had the unfortunate honor of holding the title of Regent during the occupation. History was not kind to Gnieus Lelius. He was, in my estimation, a good man. He was a competent administrator, overburdened and underappreciated. In the end, he was a victim of propaganda and a verr led to an all-too convenient slaughter. Those were dark days in my city. With Winter approaching, the time Lar Torvis shines shorter, I wonder just how dark it will get before we see the Spring.

Preservation

In recent days, there have been reports of mild violence; heated tempers and some instances of fisticuffs, in the various markets around the city. It turned out to have something to do with shortages of salt. What little is available for purchase has been priced out of the reach of most consumers and small business owners. I first became aware of it through the girl, Elise. She shops for dry goods several times a week, keeping the pantry of the Boarding House stocked. A fellow made mention to her that he wished to speak to me. I assume he wishes to voice his concerns and I am all too available to hear them, but I am not certain what I can do about the problem. Portia, too, has relayed tales of brawls in the street over perceived favoritism about some receiving more than their fair share and at what price.
It seemed, at first, an issue for the Caste of Merchants to handle directly. They oversee trade; the imports and exports of the City. If there is a shortage of salt, they should be brokering deals to obtain what the City needs to sate itself. However, after tiring extra-curricular research, I find that a shortage of salt can have a rippling effect on more than household consumers and purveyors of food. Most people understand that salt is used to season or preserve food. However, there are several salt-related by-products that do much more. There are medicinal and antiseptic products derived from salt, as well as tanning chemicals, cleansers and bleaches. The manufacture of bottle glass, too, requires salt. Just off the top of my head, the shortage of salt, then, would directly affect the Caste of Physicians, the Caste of Leather Workers and the Caste of Brewers, in addition to the Merchants and a myriad of sub-castes. Of course, any and all castes and vocations having to do with food and/or the preparation of food will be affected. Nearly one fourth of the world's salt comes from the region of the Tahari and, due to it's relative proximity, I assume my City relies upon that region for an even greater percent for its own share. I do not know if the shortage is due to our dealings with the desert or elsewhere, but it seems a logical conclusion. I know of two Merchants from that area; Hadj and Habib, both of Tor. Hadj is an acquaintance, he brings his rugs to my City once or twice per year. Habib is a friend, a man I have known for some time. I have traveled in his caravan on two or three occasions. He may know more. It is just a matter of finding him.