[Roalis the 9th, Afternoon] The Court of Public Opinion (Msrah)

Sular

Halfway through the game, the score close and likely to stay that way, Faraji made a blunder. The ball sailed past him and seemed to pass through his racquet as those the netting were nothing more than spider web.  Leaping backward he tried to save the shot but there was no saving it now.  Overextended and now without footing he fell and landed hard upon the warm wooden floor of the court with an audible thud followed by an inspired string of curses.

His mind, he was forced to admit as he looked up at the distant tiles of the ceiling, had not been in the game. How could it have been, when every corner of his thoughts had been taken up by the papers his secretary had handed him earlier in the day.

“Where did you get this?” he had asked, looking over political posters and several pages of of what looked like an unfinished libel, defaming the character of a number of politicians and assailing the platform of nearly every major party in the city. It was quite specific and pointed in its assertions. Worse still, more than half for the tale of scandals, bribes, and underhanded dealings were at least partly true to his certain knowledge.     

“The printer was exceptionally open to a little monetary encouragement,” the secretary, a small and efficient man who looked as though he was made of ancient leather, had replied with some satisfaction.   
“How little?” He had been ludicrously concerned with the cost of the information, indeed the cost of nearly everything that morning. Costs were rising to almost staggering heights, and even his own comfortable income was becoming stretched in the face of the inflation. Now, looking back on events, costs seemed to matter not at all. Only the information mattered.

“Surprisingly little. A handful of concords and the man talked as free as if he were my own brother.”

“Do you have a brother?”

“I do. An irritating man. He never shuts up about anything.”

Faraji had smiled a hard and humorless smile.  “Tell me everything.”

And the secretary had obliged him magnificently, telling him what the printer had said about the man who commissioned the papers; some nameless and unimportant functionary of the One-Suns. He had come in with all manner of papers, posters, and fliers he had wanted printed, and seemed to indicate that costs were of no concern to him, only speed and quantity. Faraji had sat in a kind of meditative rage hearing this. The One-Suns had been making inroads into the Assembly for years now, but they had been small players, mere thorns in the side, not real threats.  The contents of the papers seemed to indicate that everything had changed.  Even if they had fabricated a good portion of the scandals they addressed, it would be enough to seriously cripple of reputation of the Crocus, the Pipefitters, the Elephants, and even the Fat Purse. He had tried to take comfort in that last little morsel of information, but found no relief.

Some means of working out his rage had been called for, and an afternoon on the courts had seemed like an ideal means of doing so. Yet he could barely keep his mind on the game and had played mechanically until his fall.  Even now, cursing still, all he could see were the lines in the libel.  

“Drown it all Msrah,” he said, rising a little from the floor and turning his gaze to his opponent, “how many people know about Mualim’s little dalliances among the dura? Is it everyone, or just the bawds of every brothel in Carptown?”        

knitting

“Officially?” Msrah asked as he shook out his shoulder. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Off the record? Probably the whole assembly, or at least enough to make a scandal but no so many that Futo couldn’t track down the loose lipped and scrape off those lips with a nutmeg grater. In his words at least.”

With that, the other man smiled toothily, striding over to the other man in order to give him a hand up from the floor. His face, shimmering with sweat had taken on a polished stone sort of quality. Supposedly these games were supposed to be fun; an easy way to unwind and stay in shape- but Msrah, naturally had a deep competitive streak- as much of the general assembly must have had too. One didn’t get into the game of votes and backroom deals and bartering and shouting, of elections and ruling over a city without having a love of winning and of asserting dominance. What started out as gentle serving and returning had become slightly more focused and aggressive on Mrsah’s end. More so as he realised how equally matched he was to the other man.

Equal and as different as could be. Msrah had strength on his side, an open easy manner that made his serves and his returns look impressive were there any onlookers. But Futo was quick and tricky about the way he varied his shots in order to make Msrah work for each one he returned. Using his strength against him as he played a more devious kind of game. He was certain that he would be sore tomorrow and made a concerted effort not to look as though this were in any way taxing to him. He’d done this as school too- back when he had been in his sporting hero days , learned to control his breathing and posture in such a way during breaks that all of his efforts came off as cool and unaffected. It was harder now though; he wasn’t twenty any more. Not by a good long stretch of time. Honestly part of him was hoping they could take a little breather.

“I’m sure Futo would find some way to spin it even if it did become public knowledge and by some miracle the city even cared overmuch about the business of some bargain rate cyst of a man. I’m picturing the posters all around the gripe now now: Vote Bull Elephant- we’ll fuck dura in the erse-but never in the assembly.”

A laugh for his own joke, though honestly things were not going as well with the party as he and his superiors had hoped. True it was nowhere near a disaster, as similar as things had been to four years ago as could be. But that was honestly the problem. Social and political upheaval, revolutions across the sea and refugees now beginning to put down shaky roots like weeds in places where they were not needed were supposed to have guaranteed them all kinds of impressive gains. But somewhere along the line these promised gains had failed to materialise. Somewhere down the line was a leak in the pipeworks and the water was flowing somewhere that it shouldn’t be.

“Speaking of posters, how goes your fight to make the people love you and your facts and figures, friend?” He asked out of genuine interest but also suspicion. It seemed unlikely that Crocuses of all the parties were siphoning the votes that the Elephants would go for. But perhaps they had some new strategy.

 

Sular

"Hang the posters and hang Mualim by his own poxy entrails." Faraji got to his feet, stretched, and dusted himself off. “I don’t give a damn about Mualim. He could bed every pleasure girl from here to the mountains of Hox and it wouldn’t ruffle my feathers, provided he did it on the quiet.” He threw the ball to Msrah with a sneer.  “And that’s the thing that goads me like a mahut’s hook,  he’s flaunting his little bedroom tour for all to see.  Or at least for enough people to see so that I hear about it.”

“And as for Futo spinning, well the man is a positive top, but I doubt he can spin Mualim’s escapades,  Yerga Tabor Wubishet’s little dealings with the coffee merchants, or Tarik Tarik Susnios’ pure delight in the subtle art of tax evasion.” The sneer became a smile; a cold and humorless smile tinged with weariness and exasperation. He could have gone on, naming other Elephants whose names appeared in the libel, but it would not have driven the point home as effectively as the next set of names.  “And do not think, old friend, that my own house is smelling like jasmine and sandalwood. Will I give you their names too?   Nazwari Nebiyou Nahum, the Crocus member from Cinnamon Hill? It seems he’s been selling civic offices to the highest bidder and made an astonishing sum. The fact that I can speak to you about this, the fact that I read this in an unpublished libel shows you just how public that supposedly private business has become.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists as though slowly throttling some invisible pair of birds and his breathing grew ragged. If he had been in private he would have screamed, but that would not do here, even on the racquetball court the gods of decorum demanded their token offerings. “I have a copy of the libel, over there in my bag. Go and read it if you don’t believe me. Go and see who our real enemies are.”  

knitting

As these facts and scandals tumbled out of Faraji's lips, Msrah narrowed his deep blue eyes at the man in front of him. At first, he wondered if this wasn't some kind of joke. But it couldn't have been. Faraji was no impish prankster- not about the deathly serious issue of politics and the goings on of the assembly. Couldn't have been a joke, judging by his expression- as if he had swallowed a hornet's nest.

Striding over the bag, Msrah pounced on it- desperate to rifle through it in order to locate the papers and, most crucially, what was written onto it. Dalliances with whores, tax evasion; these claims could be false or true. All of them, some of them or none of them. He knew of course that Mualim's own scandals were a truth, having had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing the man on a professional level for years but as for the rest...

Finding these sheets, Msrah's eyes raked desperatley over them. He knew he wouldn't be in it. Couldn't be in it. His reputation was squeaky clean on the outside, image so managed and carefully honed. But there were cracks in every man. They weren't posters- but people. With open pores and scars and blemishes. Chione was his biggest crack, a dormant volcano to his political career. Not particularly safe; bubbling hot magma and resentment boiling up underneath the surface- but not exploded. Not for the moment. It didn't stop his palm feeling sweaty though as he pawed at the sensationalist publication. 

How had a man gathered such information? Carefully hoarded it until such a vital moment as the beginning of election season. It couldn't have been a journalist, he knew that immediately. They would not have the patience; as clumsy as young boys fresh at University experiencing girls for the first time- hurrying through, releasing things prematurely. It had to be a politican adept at playing the long game. And if he had not been witnessing the man in front of him's reaction he may have labelled him the prime suspect.

But there were Crocuses along with Elephants and the rest. He glanced over the names and the parties they belonged to as little by little he tried to narrow down who could have created this. "No One Suns," he finally spotted drawing his head back and gritting his teeth. "This is an act of war, Faraji. No more no less. How long do you suppose it will be before it is released publicly?" It may have even already have been given out. Outside of the courts, the political landscape could well be imploding.  As they'd been playing raquet ball. He needed to be in a suit for this. Not sweaty gym clothes. 

Sular

“Not until the fifteenth, if they hold true to form. There’s too much high-minded respect for tradition in it for them to publish before the start of the campaign season. That buys us a little time, but not much.” He was guessing of course, but he had come to the same conclusion as Msrah, this was the work of a political insider, and a member of the One-Sun party. And like Msrah, Faraji had not the slightest notion which of the damned utopian meddlers was behind it. No names suggested themselves and the printer had been supremely unhelpful in describing the man who ordered the libel printed.  Yet everything pointed to the One-Suns which was in itself worrying.  He had only a few contacts among them, largely because he had not considered them to be a serious threat. That, clearly, had been a mistake and one he would have to correct with all possible speed.

“Whoever did this is clever, thorough, and subtle.”  Though not subtle enough, Faraji thanked the Good God. His name had not been among the Crocuses called out for various forms of corruption, though it might well have been. He operated on favors and the promise of favors and he rewarded his pawns as best he could. A contract here or there, a rider on a bill, small enough things, and never things that compromised his own positions, but enough to make it clear to his backers and potential allies that Faraji Negash Berhanu was a man of his word and a man who could get things done. It wasn’t quite graft and it wasn’t quite bribery; it was the natural process of politics, the grease that made the city run, but it could be cast in an unfavorable light, especially by someone who could see no difference between legitimate patronage and corruption.

“Damn it all Msrah, but I wish whoever wrote this libel was a Crocus. We could use such admirable thoroughness when it comes to opposition research.” And it was admirable in own ruthless way. It painted a picture of the whole of the opposition as corrupted, decadent, dishonest, and venal. Of course, that was simply the nature of politicians, or anyone with power, and Faraji accepted it as a fact as immutable as the fact that water was wet. There was a limit of course, a sort of unwritten line beyond which one did not cross if one wanted to play the game, but most of the petty scandals in the libel were nowhere near that line. The public, however, would not see this and would likely act with a wearyingly predictable outrage.

“If this is published, if this is believed, we’re all for the rope. As neat a little death-warrant as ever I saw. I don’t intend to let it pass by without action.”  He crossed to Msrah, and sat down on the bench at the edge of the court, cradling his head in his hands.    

knitting

All for the rope, then? Msrah looked down at Faraji and didn't have to try hard to imagine a noose tightening sure enough around his neck. So what was to be done about it? Faraji seemed at a loss; stretched and strained beyond a point of reason. And know Msrah had been told he was involved too, irrevocably- pulled in a tied up with all notions of responsibility and what have you. Too many Bull Elephant names had found their way into this piece of paper and that would reflect badly on him, on his pocket of the vote that had seemed so easy to win not a few minutes ago. Msrah frowned.

It could be managed, of course, by higher ups. The two men could do their due diligence and place the papers in the hands of Futo and his equivalents among the other parties. Let the senior members deal with the issues and the fallout. Let that vein in Futo's temple start quivering and popping fit to burst as it did when he was in his most awful moods. Only that notion didn't sit well with Msrah.

Felt too much like an admission of inferiority against the older Elephants when really he wanted to be seen as more than capable of a few outmaneuvers of his own.

 Here then were the lemons he had been handed. Msrah glared at the papers as he sat heavily next to Faraji and tried to work out how he could turn them into lemonade.  Sugar seemed like a sensible enough place to begin. 

"So in a perfect world we have until the fifteenth," said Msrah with a nod. "We must  work out who this person is before we can plan our move obviously. Track him down or hope somehow he can be drawn out..." he reasoned and then with a heavy sigh he rubbed his temples and began to think aloud. "Worst case scenario and at least there is a forewarning. We warn those who we wish to protect so that they can have their counter arguments ready; so loose ends can be tied up and proofs and can be made that much murkier. The rest can go hang and it's less Fat Purses and Pipefitters for us to worry about" an angry huff then. "Doesnt stop Turmaghrit becoming a clusterfuck of allegations and rumor taking away from valuable campaigning time."

It was something, but it was far from an ideal situation before he leaned back. "Of course...if we were to take a little risk perhaps we could coax this schemer from his rat hole. A little leak from the contents of this paper...regarding someone benign obviously. Some Fat Purse who's career could stand taking down a few pegs and we look closely at The One Suns to see how they respond. Whoever printed the libel will panic and start looking for where the leaks came from, undoubtedly to the place where you obtained this. Lay the trap and then work out how we are to go about lining it with spikes and other such sharp implements" 

Sular

He sat there for a while, gazing into the grain of the wood and moving not at all. His breathing slowed until it was almost imperceptible and for a while it might have seemed as though he had gone either to sleep or catatonic from the enormity of the day’s events. In point of fact, he was thinking as fast as he could, and he feared that even at his quickest he would not be fast enough to out-think and outmaneuver the nameless writer of the libel. Msrah kept speaking and Faraji listened with half an ear to the man’s perfectly reasonable ideas. Reasonable, even serviceable, but too direct. Something else was needed.

“We have two courses of action,” he said at last, still looking into the grain of the wood.  “We can either try and suppress the libel, which is a likely as my suddenly falling in love with my wife, or we can control the leak.” He rubbed his temples for a while, as though the massage would quicken his thoughts. “Give me the middle two pages,” he said at last.  

Head rising now, he looked over the names and the scandals, searching for something, anything, in the tale of misdeeds that could serve their purposes.  He read the names of Fat Purses,  Pipefitters, Elephants, and Crocuses, and a slow smile returned to his lips.  “Fadhili Hasu.” He pointed to the name; that of a minor Crocus, an eager young man with more energy than sense, and one who seemed to have made a rather astonishing number of promises to his friends and relations concerning the filling of various civic offices.  “The man is perfect. He stands a high likelihood of losing his seat regardless of all this, to a One-Sun no less, his ‘crimes’ are laughable considering his near-total lack of influence, and besides, I’ve never liked the man. I shook his hand once and I swear it felt oily for a week.” Faraji grimaced at the memory.  “ I can pass around his name in the right quarters, nudge a few people here and there, and well before Turgamrhit, Fadhili will be denying any wrongdoing with the passion of a drowning man. No one will think I had anything to do with it, and the One-Suns will wonder who it was that let their little plan lose too early.”