Quid Pro Quo

"There is trust between us," I said to Lucius Verus, recently returned to Ar.

"Delightful, Poet," he answered. "But your faith is not shared by the rest of us."

"I do not have the resources," I responded.

"You will be held responsible for this choice," he told me.

"I am well aware of the gravity of my decision," I answered.

"I should have stayed in Lara," he muttered.

Lucius was once of the Caste of Scribes, he wore the Blue in the finest city of Gor. Respected. Trusted. A foremost researcher of a wide variety of subjects. During the Occupation, he was asked to compromise his ethics to support the puppet regime. When he refused, he was discredited. His residence was razed. His libraries were burned. Rather than suffer further ignominy, Lucius Verus left the city of his birth. His status in the Caste of Scribes was removed in absentia. He is a traveling peddler now. He sells trinkets and baubles in cities along the Vosk River, but mostly in Lara. Gaunt and tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he wears an unlikely turban and long robe more suited to a swarthier sort in a desert clime. The slander I've endured pales to that which Lucius suffered. The loss of his Caste was a serious blow. They did not ban him from the city, but the import of their actions were clear. It is not hard to comprehend why Lucius is cautious with trust. He will not stay long. What I've shared should not be shared, but I do not have the resources to solve this dilemma. I do not have a choice. Quid pro quo. An equitable exchange. I must change the Game. I will not surrender the Home Stone to the collective ego of the elite.

"Find the salt," I said to her.

Exposing the culprits and colluders, the guilty and the guileful, will benefit us both. Snakes and favors, a secret for a secret.

Seasons Change

My Game, tonight, as usual, was no match for the Player Rufus. After he thoroughly bested the Player Hephaistion, who holds a chair on the high bridges of Ar near the Central Cylinder, I took my place at his humble table in an alley just off of District Anbar's notorious Sixth Street. Our matches are not about winning and losing, so much as they are about spending time with one another, discussing the details of the day. Rufus is not so far removed from vagrancy that he does not see things others easily miss. My friendship with the fell-from-grace Player started during the Occupation and has continued since.

"He is not very good," a fellow watching us commented.

"No, but the Player enjoys his Game," another answered.

"He plays with no discernible strategy. He relies on the Scribe," the first argued. "Who relies on the Scribe?"

I was not offended by their comments. The Game is something men take seriously, most moreso than I. That they chose to watch and had any inkling of curiosity over what I might or might not do was compliment enough. Elise was with me, behind and a bit to the left where she belongs. She is not permitted to know much of the Game, so I had her face the other direction. I could sense her bristling at the frank manner in which men spoke of her owner's lack of anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of Kaissa, but she was cognizant of her own response enough to keep her chin low and her thoughts to herself.

"When the pantry is empty," the Player said to me. "Know what lies beneath."

"I know a way," I answered.

"Seasons change," he countered.

As we conversed, the pieces moved fluidly. Our conversation seemed independent of the match, but that is never the case. I would find an avenue and he would divert me another way. His comments seemingly cryptic and obtuse were rather pointed and direct. Piece by piece, he removed my men from the playing field.

"Dig a little deeper," he told me. "You will find what you are looking for."

It was inevitable I would lose the match, and when it came to a point that the yellow men were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded by a sea of red, I put my finger on the Home Stone. Rufus smiled and then spoke, "Lose when you must. Concede nothing. Let your mistakes play out."

Game is life. The more I play, the more I learn.

Closing Doors

It had a good run, the Boarding House, and it served its purpose. I have decided to close the doors on the most infamous brothel Ar has ever known. Some would argue that the various brothels on Ludmilla's nefarious alley are far less savory, far more scandalous, but I disagree. Where but the Boarding House could men part with as little as three copper tarsks (four for the blonde) to ride something as sinuous and seductively servile as what the Poet had to offer? Natives, barbarians, outlaw women. All trained to please the eye and stir the loins. Every one of them literate, able to converse intelligently if need be. Now, the property will serve as a residence.

Six will spend the afternoon sanding the doors down, removing the red paint. They will wear a more conservative brown, no longer a beacon for the satiation of lust. Consumer-driven carnality will be taken elsewhere, I suppose. There is a shortage of salt in my city, but there is never a shortage of slut. Of course, some of them may still be sent out to hook for coin. One must keep one's women productive. They will simply have to conduct their lewd transactions on street corners or down alleyways.

The notices have been put up on the boards in the Great Square and in the Anbar herself. It is both a somber day and a day fraught with possibility.

Sense & Probability

It could be anywhere. Or nowhere. I do not believe it is in the Anbar, nor the Metellan. I have been assured there is trust between us, those that oversee those districts and myself. Despite the talk that has cropped up in recent days, I choose to honor that trust. So that leaves the rest of the city, Glorious Ar in its entirety. Where would one hide enough salt to sate a city this size for a hand? For two hands? For a passage hand or more? Would they even be so bold as to hide it within the walls? It is hard to believe, and I do not have the resources to confirm my assumption regardless. Perhaps it is time to rely upon others, to delegate responsibilities rather than take this on myself. If it is, as it seems, corruption on a grand scale, I am ill-equipped to fight it alone. The first moves in a Game often spell the difference between victory and defeat. However, efficient strategy at mid-match can tip the scales in one's favor. I suppose I feel guilty for missing my match with Rufus this hand. Iam leaning too heavily upon Kaissa metaphors.

It is enough to say I have favors to ask. Decisions to make.

If the salt is not in the city, the first logical place it might be is Torcadino. Only a few days west of Ar, the colluders would be able to reintroduce the commodity back into the city at the most opportune moment, painting themselves as saviors and swaying public opinion in the same bold stroke. And while I thought earlier in terms of the potential profit, I wonder if bringing a city to its knees - just to demonstrate how magnanimously the Administration can help the population get back on its feet - is not profit enough? I despise politics. Worse, I despise having to think like a politician just to make sense of it all.

Slander & Correction

I sent Tupita to her kennels early last evening, allowing her the indulgence of her girl-kennel a few ahn earlier than what has become usual these past hands. I was visited by a woman in pristine white robes, trimmed in silver and complemented by beaded slippers and a pale pink veil. Noemi tends to dress for her audience. Her wardrobe ranges from the utterly scandalous to her own interpretation of current fashions. I suggested she wear no less than three veils and that wealthy women of Ar wear no less than five and as many as seven. Proprietous dressing was not the purpose for her visit, however. I have long maintained that the woman requires discipline. All women require discipline from time to time. It can take the form of a mild upbraiding or be meted out much more severely.

When it was mentioned that the Physician Claudius had taken an interest in pursuing a contract of companionship with the woman, I had assumed that he would tend to her sorely needed discipline. It has become clear that such a union is not forthcoming. Most recently, the unruly strumpet had the nerve to slander my name, perhaps assuming that my polite, affable demeanor somehow made me less likely to take exception. When she was told to remove her veil in my presence, she protested mildly, but acceded the directive when I asked her if she wished for me to repeat a command. She understood, of course, what it meant to face strip herself before a man, but she is a vain thing. Her face is not uknown to men. She was less inclined to remove the rest of her garment when I told her to do so. She rose dramatically and said a lot of things that I confess I do not remember. What I do remember is she was soon nude, her elaborate garments put aside. She similarly protested when she was directed to fetch the quirt I keep on the shelves in my office. It, too, was soon in hand, however. She has a curious nature, this woman. She protested every step of this discipline, but ultimately obeyed. Told to crawl, she scoffed, but she crawled. I was then kind enough to discipline the woman. I do not think her vanity prepared her for the type of discipline she received. It was certainly not what she would have liked, but it was exactly what she needed. Afterward, she was instructed to return the quirt to the shelves. I allowed her to dress herself. I, then, dismissed her.