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.