"The Sparring of Her Betters"

Log Date:
	3/3/99

Log Cast:
	Farouk, Faanshi, Madirakshi, Kiral

Log Intro:
	Although she is quite new as of yet to the ways of being a shudra so
far as the world at large is concerned, one aspect of servitude is not new
at all to young Faanshi -- being invisible to one's betters, until such
time as they have need of you. And a shudra in the right place at the right
time, so long as she is not expected to carry out any particular duties,
might well find herself witnessing conversations between illustrious persons
indeed. Such as, for example, the new seneschal. Such as a woman of Clan
Khalida who is _also_ a priestess of Khalid Atar. And such as the Foreign
Minister himself. Any one of these persons might strike Faanshi dumb with
shyness, but all three of them together is enough to make the shy young
maiden forget at least momentarily that propriety does not exactly dictate
that one stand around listening to the verbal sparring of one's 
betters....

----------
Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven(#430RJM)
     If indeed the Hebrew folk of lost Earth are correct in their legends, 
  then this must be the legendary garden from which mankind was expelled. The 
  flat expanse of the great courtyard of Atesh-Gah is covered in the most 
  luxurious grass of bright emerald green, broken only by a cobblestone path 
  for riding and walking to prevent wear upon the lawn. Rich copses of 
  carefully tended wood grow by the walls, lovingly groomed flower gardens 
  acting as a barrier of colour before the rising trees. 
     Perhaps even more relaxing than the sight of the yard are the sensations 
  of it. The lovely scents of flower and tree; honey-suckle, apple blossom, 
  peach, and jasmine; combine with the soft cushion of green grass to provide 
  a sense of peace and harmony that defies the looming sand-hued walls of 
  unbreakable stone. Not even the shadowed maw of the main gate, nor the 
  blocky, unimpressive presence of the impenetrable main keep can overshadow 
  the beauty of this place. Indeed, the stark contrast serves only to enhance 
  it. 
Obvious exits:
Fountain <F>  Out <O>  Entrance Foyer <EF>  Stables <S>

Farouk passes between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to 
  Atesh-Gah, and joins you in the courtyard.
Farouk has arrived.
Farouk walks into Atesh-Gah from the streets, looking chipper and happy.
Farouk looks at you for a moment.
Farouk nods to Faanshi. "Imphadi," he says, smiling kindly.

Her posture and stance demure, Faanshi is taking the time to quietly admire
  the beauty of the courtyard... a shudra at rest, perhaps, at least until
  she is called upon to resume her duties. But at the voice sounding not far 
  away, she starts, her sari-covered head swinging round, green eyes blinking 
  in puzzlement. When Farouk proves to be the only person in sight, she shyly 
  bobs her head to him, while blurting, "Do... do you address me, sir...?"

Farouk slows his trot, and veers his bulk towards the young woman. "Indeed I 
  do. Who else would I be speaking to, my dear?" He chuckles lightly to 
  himself. "For you and I are the only ones hear, excepting of course, our 
  ever-present Agni-Haidar." He nods to the shapes by the doors to Atesh-Gah.

Behind her veil, Faanshi soundlessly ohs. This is unseen, but the slightly 
  bemused comprehension in her gaze is obvious enough over the top of the blue 
  silken stuff which obscures the lower half of her countenance. She then 
  drops a small curtsey, saying softly, "Then, good evening to you, sir. Is 
  there any way which I may serve?"

Farouk shakes his head. "Nothing immediate, I'd imagine, but thank you for 
  asking." He tilts his head, and asks, "You will be attending the meeting I 
  called, then?"

Madirakshi enters from the carefully tended bushes which conceal the sight of 
  a gurgling fountain.
Madirakshi has arrived.

Farouk stands near Faanshi, evidently enjoying a pleasant conversation. He 
  looks over to Madirakshi as the latter appears from between the bushes.

Faanshi's green eyes blink a few times. Meeting? What meet... oh. Hastily, 
  she bobs her head once more to Farouk, murmuring, "I shall do my duty and 
  attend, imphadi; if there are new services which I might take on while I am 
  permitted to stay at Atesh-Gah, I will do them gladly...!"

Farouk nods to Faanshi, "Of that I have no doubt, my dear. Your devotion to 
  your duty is admirable." He turns to Madirakshi. "Imphada. I do not believe 
  I've had the pleasure...?" He offers her a friendly smile.

Faanshi respectfully inclines her head, then takes an unconscious step back 
  as Farouk's attention diverts. A glimmer of curiosity flickers across the 
  girl's green eyes at the new arrival, but for the most part she keeps that 
  gaze of hers shyly pointed towards the cobbled ground.

Madirakshi emerges from the realm of the courtyard occupied by the fountain, 
  the aquatic chiming of water fading behind the concealing flora. The shechah 
  jilbab flutters in the warm evening breeze, looking no more out of place on 
  her frame than the rest of teh saffron crimson fabric that covers her. At 
  the sounds of speech she slows, the grass beneath her slippers announcing 
  Madirakshi's approach far less than the unforgiving red of her attire.
Madirakshi looks at you for a moment.

Farouk leans forward, raising his eyebrows, expectantly, in Madirakshi's 
  direction. "Allow me to rephrase, imphada: may I have the honour of knowing 
  whom I address?"

From behind the veil that fully shrouds her face, Madirakshi bows her head 
  first, the rest of her body following in line as the woman slips into a 
  rather narrow bow that extends perhaps a touch more than would be expected 
  of a shachah of her station. Although another moment passes before anything 
  occurs, the 'lapse' is soon explained as her voice rises. The sound, a 
  collection of echo tinged whispers is both thin and rich as it phrases, 
  "Imphadi, those who address me have not used any other term. Perhaps I can 
  offer you the one I was given: Madirakshi."

Farouk raises a brow, and his smile widens. "I see we shall have to offer 
  speech lessons around here, as well." He shakes his head, regretfully. 
  "Allow to me to ask a few questions to clarify your unfortunately enigmatic 
  introduction, imphada. Those who address you have not used any other term 
  than -what-, precisely? And who offered you this name, Madirakshi? And have 
  you no family? No position?"

Faanshi blinks a few times, withdrawing a few steps more, not sure what to 
  make of this newcomer in red robes -- or of her reply to the portly noble 
  with whom she had just been conversing. Her golden brow crinkles slightly 
  under the gold-trimmed edge of her sari, clearly in bemusement.

Madirakshi
        A decoction of a fiery sunset, spun upon gilt spindles and crafted as 
  only a Varati weaver can, this woman's garb is a combination of both 
  tradition and efficiency. No overt adornment that would mistake her station 
  in life as one of frivolity and wasted splendour. Indeed, the burqah is 
  completely barren of decor or ingenously stylish design, again steeped in a 
  frugal stoic elegance, if there can be such. A combination of two types of 
  silk in a brilliant garnet allows for a diaphanous film to cover her the 
  slit where the vague glimmer of her eyes lie. Below, a longer swath of the 
  same color yet far more opaque fabric covers the rest of her face that the 
  raiment would otherwise leave her face exposed. The jilbab that shields the 
  rest of her head and her entire frame is faintly trimmed with a stellar 
  pattern in gold thread, reminiscent of a style of embroidery favored at the 
  rise of the Al-rutan period. Yet even this is plain yet voluminous, the 
  folds of the saffron cloth covering the backs of her hands and brushing 
  against the groundcover as she walks.
        Occasionally the faintest glimpses of a gloved hand or slippered foot 
  can be scryed; yet considering her guarded and silent movements even those 
  accoutrements is unlikely to be discerned from the collection of saffron 
  sunset of her attire. An unusual break from the minimalistic norm is a slim 
  gold chain that fastened about her neck bears the weight of a large and 
  rather well cut yellow sapphire. Although the symbolism is clearly not a 
  traditional one, it is without question an heirloom.

The star littered night allows for dim celestial illumination to shine down 
  upon the verdant foliage of the Atesh-Gah, night blooming flowers suffusing 
  the warm wind with heady scents familiar to any Varati. The saffron cloth 
  now clinging to the let side of Madirakshi's face hitches slightly, 
  distorting the shadows cast in the process. As the woman straightens her 
  face remains politely bowed, looking no further than whatever lies just 
  beyond the sheer red of jilbab's eye slit. Again her speech rises no more 
  than a cloying whisper, "Simply a minor member of Clan Khalida, from Port 
  al'Salla'hin, I served as a Nabi there by the grace of Atar."

She is Khalida...! And a Nabi...! Faanshi gives a tiny gasp, stealing a 
  further peek at the other woman, a golden hand flitting up momentarily to 
  her own blue veil.

Farouk shakes his head, dejected. "One would think a Nabi wouldn't be 
  seemingly incapable of answering questions to any real extent. You have 
  answered the question of your family, incompletely, and ignored my other two 
  questions. I had thought the court in al'Salla'hin encouraged manners. I see 
  that it has slipped since my last visit. Unfortunate, but certainly, you 
  musn't be held accountable for your slipshod presentation." He sighs. "My 
  work is never done. We simply must work on you." He looks her up and down, 
  frankly. "And that robe...! Have you no humility?"

The Nabi shechah seems unruffled by the queries, perhaps accustomed to the 
  commentary or otherwise. The breeze continues to flutter the hem of her 
  burqah against the grass, creating a ripple of movement through the rough 
  silk. The woman remains silent.

Farouk folds his arms behind his back and regards Madirakshi, both brows 
  raised now. "I must confess, imphada, that while a certain quantity of 
  mystery is attractive in a woman, I hardly believe my questions are 
  difficult enough that you should be struck dumb by them. Have you any 
  intention of responding, or will you merely stand there, fluttering in the 
  breeze?"

Madirakshi remain silent for another lapse of time, perhaps in comtemplation, 
  or indeed there might be a mote of truth to Farouk's comment of being 'stuck 
  dumb'. Nevertheless the shechah does reply, in no tone higher than the very 
  same one she has used, "Truly Imphadi I am humbled by your interest. As for 
  my name, it was given by my family. Yet is has been years since anyone has 
  used it, for I am usually addressed by Imphada by those who can."

Farouk raises a brow, and titters. "The anonymous Nabi?" He chuckles for a few 
  long seconds, and then adds, "Dear me. However do you tell yourself from the 
  other 'imphadas' in the room?" He looks pointedly at the flaming red robes. 
  "I also asked you about humility, I believe. I don't know -what- they're 
  doing back in al'Salla'hin these days, but around here, we expect a certain 
  degree of somberness. Dignity. Pride of place, rather than pride of 
  appearance." He sniffs indignantly.

Kiral steps out of the embassy and joins you in the courtyard.
Kiral has arrived.

Farouk stands near the entrance to the fountain, hands on his hips, smirking, 
  talking to Madirakshi. Faanshi stands off to the side a bit, seeming to have 
  withdrawn from the attention of the other two.

Indeed, Faanshi has withdrawn a bit, for this conversation between her betters 
  has decidedly bemused her. The young shudra tries to resume the quiet
  posture in which she had been earlier enjoying the beauty of the courtyard,
  but curiosity keeps tugging her attention back to Farouk and Madirakshi.

Madirakshi simply replies in those exact whispers she has used for the length 
  of the conversation, "Of course Imphadi." The quiet agreement stated, the 
  shechah does not divert her gaze anywhere else than where it has rested all 
  this time.

Stepping out into the courtyard with only two of his usual Agni-Haidar guards, 
  Kiral takes a peek around the wide expanse with cautious grey eyes. He seems 
  to be in a peevish mood today, if his expression is any indicator. Smoothing 
  down his haik with careful hands, he steps out further.

Farouk sighs, and shakes his head. "My dear imphada, you really do need some 
  work if you're going to ably represent our people during your stay at 
  Atesh-Gah." He hasn't noticed Kiral. "I daresay I will have to speak with 
  whomever is your immediate superiour." He shakes his head once more. "I 
  shall take my leave of you. We will most certainly see each other again, if 
  only so that I might outfit you with something more becoming." He turns to 
  walk away, and notices Kiral. His step slows, that he might see if Kiral is 
  headed in his direction.

How very, very odd; should not a Nabi be wearing red, Faanshi wonders? Is 
  there some bit of knowledge of priests she has managed to miss, or is it 
  perhaps that this Nabi is a woman? Unable to resist another furtive peek at 
  the red-clad female, Faanshi makes it a swift one, once she notices the 
  approach of another man into the courtyard.

Kiral
     Dusky-hued and dark of hair, this man's Varati heritage is obvious from 
  the leanly muscular cut of his body, to the noble features of his face. 
  Silvery-grey highlights mar an otherwise silky, ebony black mane of hair 
  that runs in wavey curls down to his shoulders. His eyes are calm in their 
  steel grey intensity, yet his intelligence and wry humor is seen just below 
  the depths of those orbs. His face is characteristic in its desert charm, 
  yet is perhaps too sharp in its features to be called 'beautiful'. Precise 
  in motion, graceful in step, he is a striking figure for those who bother to 
  notice him.
     Dressed in a lightly brocaded haik, it is formal in its design, yet 
  simple enough for ease of movement. Wearing the colors of Clan Khalida, 
  patterns consisting of different textures of red shot through with gold, 
  dominate the haik with a firm edge of blue to lend definition. The pale blue 
  sash wound tightly around his hips complements his eyes nicely with only 
  gold trim added for flavor. A silken shirt of bright crimson erupts upwards 
  from the sash, its collar square and baring the stark curves where the hint 
  of flesh can be seen. The sash also covers the waist of his dark charcoal 
  breeches, their cuffs tucked into tall leather boots which are wrapped in 
  lengths of brocade like that of his haik. The breeches are thick silk and 
  rather plain, considering everything else. A dark red brocade pouch hangs 
  from a belt under his sash as does the black leather scabbard of his 
  traditional wavy-bladed keris, the ebony handle of which is studded with a 
  starscape of white diamonds.

The Nabi maintains her head bowed, "Certainly imphadi, I shall accept any 
  suggestion or offer you may provide. May the evening give you solace and may 
  Ashur Masad illuminate you always." That said she straightens, a glove 
  emerging from the edge of her burqah.

Sauntering lazily further into the courtyard, Kiral spies the oncoming Farouk 
  and arches a delicate black eyebrow. Holding his position, he just stands 
  and awaits the newly arrived gentleman. Looking a bit bored, one hand rises 
  up so that the Minister may inspect his fingernails.

Farouk slows to a halt as he nears Kiral. "Good day, imphadi. If I guess 
  correctly, you would be our esteemed Foreign Minister." He bows, as far as 
  his round stomach allows, and straightens. "I am Farouk Al-Hassan Behzad, 
  seneschal of Atesh-Gah. I do not believe I've had the pleasure."

"Yes, well, you have it right," states Kiral, as he looks over his fingernails 
  so as to eye Farouk. "I am indeed the Foreign Minister." This second comment 
  seems thrown more in Madirakshi's direction than Farouk's and there is an 
  edge to it. "In any case, Seneschal, what can I do for you?"

Faanshi doesn't dare breathe, not now; she just barely manages to rein in her 
  gasp before it escapes her as little more than an exhalation of breath. So 
  many important people, here in this place...! Nervously, the girl once more 
  clasps her golden hands at her breast, her gaze demurely lowered, striving 
  her best to become invisible.

Farouk chuckles and shakes his head. "The war does seem to have eroded at 
  basic courtesies, it seems, Minister. Perhaps an introduction would be in 
  order, as a step on the road from these dark times to a celebration of the 
  glorious future that awaits our people?" He smiles obsequiously. "In such 
  small things as the simple exchange of names do we honour the vaster canvass 
  of the Varati way of life." He folds his chubby hands together in front of 
  his belly.

"Oh, if you /insist/. I am Kiral Khalida of the /royal/ Clan Khalida. You do 
  know what that is, yes? Descended from the Amir-al's /half-brother/ Jamil? 
  Yes?" My, Kiral seems to be in a rotten and snotty mood today, moreso than 
  usual. "Behzad, did you say?" He drawls the word 'Behzad'. "Nice, quiant 
  Clan. For a Minor Clan. For a Clan accused of treason more than once. You 
  must be /so/ happy the Amir-al didn't extinguish your family."

_He_ is Khalida, too...! Faanshi, in her Khalida colors, cringes a little 
  where she stands and shoots a surreptitious peek to both her left and her 
  right, warring between a discreet exit and staying on hand in case either of 
  these men should require her for something.

Farouk smiles, a perfectly friendly response, somewhat at odds with the 
  Minister's tone. "Ah, Minister, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do 
  thank you for reminding me of the royalty of Clan Khalida. Between meetings 
  with yourself, and my twenty year service to the Amir-Al's personal needs, I 
  am sure I won't be forgetting the station of Clan Khalida anytime soon." He 
  folds his arms, and taps his chin thoughtfully. "As for the disposition of 
  my admittedly minor clan, I must confess to a certain disappointment that I 
  and my kin yet live. Still, one does what one can." He nods to the 
  Minister's guards. "For example, I would certainly be lax in my duties if I 
  failed to point out that the state of your guards' dress is absolutely 
  abhorrent, and must be an insult to your station and to the -royal- Clan 
  Khalida." He looks Kiral up and down. "You, however, are the very image of a 
  Varati gentleman."

The Nabi shechah pivots a few degrees, not lifting her face as yet, 
  identifying Kiral by nothing more than the attire clothing his legs and his 
  voice. The wide appropriately overlong armcuffs of her burqah shifting over 
  her scarlet gloved fingers in the breeze. The thread thin gilt embroidery of 
  her jilbab catches the moonlight and shimmers in it forthe briefest moment.

Faanshi is not particularly acquainted, as of yet, with very many images of 
  Varati gentlemen; thus, for now, curiosity wins out over fear to keep the 
  young shudra in her place. Green eyes peek up over the top of her blue veil. 
  _He is Khalida,_ she muses wonderingly, and _Foreign Minister... I should 
  remember him...!_ Not that the title holds much meaning for her, but Ulima 
  will be able to explain it to her, surely!

"Oh, is that so?" Kiral rolls his eyes, dramatically. He drawls, "Well, I am 
  /sure/ you can take it up with the /Seraskier/. Do you think someone of my 
  rank and importance has the time or inclination to bother about the state of 
  my guard's attire?" Lifting his chin up, he states mildly, "As for my own 
  attire, of course I am the the image of the perfect Varati gentleman. I have 
  many shudra and naraki to handle my clothing. They get beaten regularily to 
  remind them of my wrath when they act inappropriately."

Farouk clucks his tongue reproachfully. "A representative of our government 
  has not the time to control appearances? Forgive my presumption, imphadi, 
  but is not the determination of appearance the very best tool an ambassador 
  has in his arsenal?" He shrugs minimally. "As for the beating of your 
  servants, that is, of course, your prerogative. I have found an even, but 
  firm hand, most successful in workin with the staff of the Amir-Al's palace 
  in the homeland." Finally, he says, "As for the Seraskier, I shall certainly 
  discuss it with him, probably over dinner this week."

A chill streaks down Faanshi's spine. Naraki... and shudra... beaten? She 
  cannot withhold her involuntary gasp, not this time, and it comes out 
  half-whimper, a tiny little squeak of sound. Aghast, she immediately claps 
  both her hands over her veiled mouth, and renews her search for the best 
  unobtrusive path back into the foyer doors.

"Oh, I see your methods have worked /so/ splendidly for Clan Behzad in the 
  past. You are lucky Warlord Sakhr did so well in the field, otherwise I 
  wouldn't be surprised if your Clan became nothing more than a large grouping 
  of naraki and shudra!" Kiral turns up his nose and sniffs loudly. "And the 
  guards are the Agni-Haidar. You /do/ know that only the Amir-al and their 
  own officers can discipline them? So I leave them to the Seraskier. I have 
  better things to do." For their part, the black and silver royal guard seem 
  to take this chatter about them with stoic disregard.

Farouk looks over his shoulder and smiles kindly at Faanshi. He looks back to 
  Kiral, and adds, loudly enough for the girl to hear, "Faanshi, over there, 
  is a fine example of the" and he emphasizes this "palace staff." He looks 
  over to her and smiles as she heads to the foyer, looking to catch her eye. 
  "And she serves her mistress with a devotion that is an admirable tribute to 
  the perfection of our caste system. All things in their place, functioning 
  in tandem."

The seneschal has pointed her out? Oh, sweet Mother of the Khalid...! Color 
  drains out of the visible upper half of her visage, as she does indeed see 
  Farouk's glance. Her own, however, is as fleeting as a breeze as she freezes 
  where she stands, immediately dropping a deep curtsey in Kiral's direction 
  and murmuring humbly, "You honor me, Imphadi Farouk."

Farouk looks back to Kiral. "I am aware that the Amir-Al and his Seraskier 
  have the authority to discipline them. You, as their acting commanding 
  officer, also have that authority." His light tone betrays his obvious 
  knowledge of the subject. "And I, as seneschal, have the duty of pointing 
  out when they feel to meet the standards of presentation within these 
  walls." He smiles amiably. "And should Behzad become a grouping of shudra 
  and naraki, it would be as the Amir-Al wills, and no insult to us. For who 
  can question His divine will?" He tilts his head, as if in wonderment. "Even 
  if such a mighty clan as the Amir-Al's own was cast down to be mere slaves, 
  who could question His will? Certainly not I." He leans towards Kiral. "And 
  you, Minister?"
Farouk lets his eyes slide from Kiral, and offers Faanshi the barest of nods. 
  Then Kiral consumes his attention yet again.

Madirakshi seems completely unaware of the conversation being carried on 
  between men, regarding it as one woul the droning of bees. Playing upon that 
  strad of though the shechah migrates toward a collection of mahua bushes. 
  The pendulous blooms effusing with a thin sheen of insect attracting nectar.

"Oh /please/. You really /do/ insult me by implying that the Amir-al would 
  /ever/ consider throwing down his own /blood/. The children of Jamil. We who 
  served him from the very time of his coming!" Kiral snorts, a derisive snort 
  at that which threatens to become a sneer. "And as I said, my guard's duty 
  is to protect me. Nothing more, nothing less. I am quite pleased with how 
  they act. If /you/ have problems with it, Seneschal /Behzad/..." He says the 
  word Behzad as if it were an insult "...you can take it up with the 
  Seraskier. I am /so/ sure he would /love/ to hear your opinion."

Farouk now frowns, at last. "Forgive my ignorance, and stupidity, Minister," 
  he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Do you mean to imply that you know 
  the mind of the Amir-Al? That you can say, with certainty, that he would 
  never cast down the children of Jamil? That you can predict his actions?" 
  His hands fold behind his back, and his frown remains. Not reproachful, 
  perhaps, but very, very thoughtful.

"You are a conniving one." Kiral smiles a slow, smile that is more menace than 
  humor. "I would save your skillful words and entrapments, however, for those 
  times you really need to use it and against those who are your real enemies. 
  Unless you mark me as one, already?" Glancing down at his fingernails, he 
  finally responds to the question itself, "I am saying that I do not believe 
  that the Amir-al would thrown down the entire bloodline of Ashur Masad's 
  first son. No."

The words of Kiral Khalida sink through the consciousness of Faanshi, and as 
  they do, they leave disquiet in their wake. _Let them not care that I 
  leave,_ she prays urgently to both Ushas and her almighty Son, as she 
  anxiously flits off into the foyer.

[End log.]