Reflection; Turning the Page

It started with the death of the girl, Jen.

It had taken months for the sleen, Mathor holding the leash, to find her. She was in Port Kar at one point, Besnit (or was it Harfax?) at another. The intrigue involved in having to put the sleen on that girl's heels is a little fantastic, and better served as a story for another time. The important component of that thread is the sleen, tenacious bitch that she was (and still is), found her and conducted her home. Then, something like a Passage Hand later, she was dead. The circumstances are not important. She was only a slave, so no investigation was conducted. I cremated her in the cul-de-sac in which my Anbar District domicile is now the sole residence. A few wondered at what I was thinking for taking the time to give the girl any sort of send off at all, but it was what it was - a turning point. I am not ashamed to admit I mourned the loss. Both the girl and my ability to see to her safety. I dedicated myself to work after that, allowing the hired men, Mathor and Darwin, to tend the business of taverns and whores.

Asked to be a voice of the people, I accepted. I have always been that, just never in an 'official capacity.' Magistrates are generally Scribes, but how could a Scribe, one of the five high, represent the people of the lower castes? I have every confidence that there are impartial and right-minded fellows in the Blue ranks, but this is an age of elitism and class separation. Such decency these days is difficult to find. I swallowed my pride and stepped into public life and politics. I think I did some good, and very nearly became a martyr for the cause - but I knew the risks going into it. I love my City. My City. Spilling my blood at the Founder's Feet, however, was another turning point - another unexpected twist.

I did not anticipate selling so many of them off or, indeed, any of them. Women are truly inspiring things. I won't go deeply into snowflake metaphors, but there is truth to it. We expect much the same thing out of the slaves we own and out of slaves in general, absolute obedience & exquisite beauty, but each strives for those twin maxims in her own fashion. Some are soft, sensitive, and eager-to-please, like Sana. Others are vibrant, audacious, and hungry to be dominated, like Portia. Still others are like Elise - serene, thoughtful, and deeper than Thassa. Sana, I assume, thrives in the Pool of the Northern Forests at the Capacian Baths. Portia, I am told, did not stay long in the Municipal Pens, having been selected for purchase by a private owner. Elise, as of this morning, wears the collar of the first girl at the Braided Whip Tavern in the Teiban Sul District. I sold most of my investment in that establishment to my business partners, retaining a minority stake.

Another turning point.

Later this afternoon, I will purchase the girl, Tupita, who serves as slave-scribe to the Magistrate of the People. After that, I will see to her manumission and pay for her passage to the city of her birth - wherever that might be. If it turns out she was born of Cos, I will do my best not to beat her and immediately re-enslave her - rather I will see that she is returned safely and given enough money to start her life anew. She is a lovely girl with incredible potentiality, but her true love lies in the theories of accountancy and mathematics. She may decide in years to come that she longs for the collar. I will afford her the opportunity to come to such a conclusion on her own. After she is safely sent on her way, I will turn in my keys and resign my post as Magistrate of the People. I will still be a voice for the people, as my Caste dictates I must, but politics have left me too jaded to continue in that capacity.

I need to see the world again, feel the grass of the fields beneath my feet; share the kettle of a peasant off a lonely stretch of highway; interact with the men of different cities. The traveling a citizen does outside the wide, white walls of Glorious Ar cannot help but reaffirm for him that he resides in the world's finest city. Perhaps I will walk for a Passage Hand, or maybe a year. One thing is certain. I will always return.

Sentiment of the Day

If I write, and you are moved, I have done my due diligence. If you find, despite your best efforts, you are not ambivalent to my indulgent rambling, I have made my point. You may agree whole-heartedly with my sentiments, raising a defiant fist in support, or you may spit, unable to contain the bile rising in your throat. So much of what I write fades from this physical plane; withered and dog-eared pages burned to ashes, lost to time, or graffiti upon the walls white-washed or rinsed away by the rains. If I have a place in history, if I am to be remembered for song, slogan, soliloquy, or slur, it will be because you keep my words, tenuous things they tend to be, deep in your heart.
Catch of the Day was performed last evening in The Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. Due the greatness of the actors Locutius and Alcobiades, their ability to deliver the words I pen with proper pace and sentiment, I believe it went well. Not every patron in the tiers received it favorably, but I do not recall an ambivalent reaction among them. Perhaps the words were more divisive than many would find polite, but that is only indicative of the divisions of the day. I do not speak of mere privileges. For the record, I believe in the structure of caste, in the fitness of a society in which every man pulls his weight by engaging in what he was born to, and born to do. Each of us has our role to play. Mine is to write verse addressing the glory of my city, to recite prose dedicated to the wonder of love, lust, and the range of human emotion - but there is more. The Poet is a bellwether against corruption, conspiracy, and a catalyst for change. Today's current events are tomorrow's history. While I would not be so bold as to think a Poet should write the history of his day, such things are for Warriors to forge and studious Scribes to record, my caste does what others cannot. We record the sentiment of the day. We are not here to record the chronology of things. If you wish to know what occurred during the life of Szol, you will find little in the lines of his poetry and less in the dialogue of his plays to form a complete history. What you will find in these things, however, is far more telling. You will know what men felt.

Flyer

Demands

Once, for your lapse in judgment

Twice, for your need to speak unbid

A third time, for your not-so-subtle betrayal

And three more times, for I felt like it.

I was not angry, I do not lash out unchecked

I was unhurt, for I expected no less

It would be falsehood to claim ambivalence

For I knew precisely why I did it

I would do it again, that is the lesson

Subversive diversion, manipulation

Temerity, the order of the day

Modus Operandi of an inglorious past

I will not be swayed from this path

I will not be convinced otherwise

You will endure this

When you are finally left with nothing

Bereft of all, depleted of stores

Then I will take everything

When you have nowhere left to turn

No avenue not traversed

Then I will show you the way

The Planting Feast Approaches

We are deep into En'Kara, the first month of the year. The First Passage Hand approaches and, with it, the Planting Feast. With the animosity between the lower castes and the five high, particularly the Initiates, I wonder if differences will be put aside for the three ceremonial days that necessary sacrifices, prayer and ritual may be completed. It is a solemn, important event not taken lightly, particularly by the working men and women of the lower castes. This event is not so sacrosanct, however, that it has not been blasphemed in the past. A glaring example from history was the time a rogue tarnsman from Ko-ro-ba dared to storm out of the city astride a fierce, black tarn with the Home Stone in hand - not moments after it was sprinkled with the offering of the Life Daughter. He took, as well, a woman once known as the daughter of Marlenus, but in retrospect, I take no offense to that - only that he failed to keep the bitch in irons from Day One. I will say that he has done service to the city since that time, but there are some slights so grave that one does not easily forgive - and one certainly never forgets. Given the opportunity, I would certainly drop Tasta's leash to see just how heroically he might run.

Whatever the political climate in a few hands time, I will make my observances and honor the day in hopes others are good enough to do the same.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a man that might have been Ubar, had his personal pride and ambition not outweighed his sense of civic responsibility. "This is my city," I told him. "Your city?" he answered incredulously, as if I were a threat to his machinations. I have no doubt he could have gutted me where I stood, if the notion occurred to him. "My city, yes," I answered unwavering in my claim. I still believe that. This is my city. With defiance and obstinance, I have defended her gates. With conviction and determination, I have been the voice of her People. With a patriotic and dissident heart, I have defaced her walls that acceptance and kow-towing to the elite would not become the order of the day. So yes, my friend and sometimes adversary, Ar is mine. My love for her is deep and abiding, unending and enduring. Let no man or nation stand between us.