Greyboar quaffed his ale thoughtfully. “It’s true that the laws of New Sfinctr tend to be weighted a bit in favor of the rich.”
He eyed the portrait. “So you must legally finish the work, though you will not be paid for it, and—to make matters worse yet—the model himself is no longer available.” He shrugged. “But I still don’t see the problem. Surely an artist of your skill could—”
Benvenuti cut him off. “Finish it from memory? Oh, to be sure! But that would only satisfy the legal side of my obligation. The problem, I said, was artistic.”
The glint in the artist’s eye was now pure steel. I took another look at his sword. A very well-used sword, it looked like.
Then, Benvenuti explained what he wanted.
Again, I shot to my feet.
“Insanity!” I pronounced. “Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He’s a dangerous lunatic!”
Greyboar now began laughing, if the term “laughter” can be applied to a rumbling earthquake. I glowered at him, then at the artist.
“See what you’ve done?” I demanded.
Greyboar’s great paw patted my shoulder. “Relax, Ignace. I’ll tell you what. Let’s put the question before the ancients.”
Good idea. The ancients of The Trough would have no truck with this madness.
“O’Doul! Flannery!” I shouted. Then, I had to shout louder still. By that time of night, the sound of The Trough was like a heavy surf of conversation and camaraderie.
“O’Doul! Flannery! Come over here!” Then, the traditional, hallowed words: “We need sage advice and wise counsel!”
In an instant, the uproar in The Trough died away. A multitude of heads turned our way in sudden interest. Immediately, two of the ancients sitting on their prestigious stools at the Old Bar drained their mugs and upended them ceremoniously. A moment later, they were shuffling their way across the room.
Proper ancients, O’Doul and Flannery. Took the customs seriously.
Before they had even arrived at our table, Leuwen was already there bearing new pots of ale. I winced, but couldn’t object. By right and tradition, ancients called upon to make an official Ruling of The Trough were entitled to free ale at the expense of those who called for the Ruling.
As soon as O’Doul and Flannery arrived and took their seats, I laid out the case before them. I was careful to present both sides of the dispute, fairly and dispassionately. Not my natural inclination, that sort of judiciousness, but I had no choice. The worst thing that can happen to you, in a Trough Ruling, is to be charged by the ancients with “special pleading” or, even worse, “lawyering.” The penalty for special pleading is official Trough derision. The penalty for lawyering is outright ostracism. Extreme cases are even banned from The Trough for life.
By the time I was finished, a huge crowd had gathered around the table. Outside of a brawl, there’s nothing proper Trough-men love more than a Ruling. The comments from the crowd were loud, drunken, and, often enough, obscene. As was hallowed tradition.
My presentation done, I glared at the artist and waved my hand majestically, inviting him to argue his side of the matter. I was hoping, of course, to trick him into special pleading. I figured he’d fall right into the trap, being an Ozarine. To my chagrin, however, he smiled good-naturedly, loudly admired the fairmindedness of my presentation, and simply added a few little details which, though they highlighted certain charms of his argument, could hardly be accused of legalism.
The ancients launched into the case. O’Doul began with the traditional appeal to precedent.
“Reminds me o’ the time Hammerhand Hobbs throttled that gov’nor while he was engaged with one of the girls o’r to Madame Henley’s House of the Purple Lamp. The lady o’ the evening wanted Hammerhand should pay her on account as how he’d robbed her of rightful wages for an unaccomplished labor o’ unspeakable debauchery, whilst Hammerhand claimed he owed not a farthing inasmuch as the girl hadn’t actually had the chance to perform the act o’ grave moral depravity, inasmuch as Hammerhand had burked the old guv’nor before he’d even got it up, though he allowed as how iffen he’d done the terminal deed after the guv’nor ’ad managed—doubtful though that latter event might be in any case, in light o’ the guv’nor’s advanced years and state of inebriation at the time—that he’d’ve per’aps owed her recompense—”
“Oh, stop blitherin’ on,” interrupted Flannery, “the situation’s no way comparable at all! The gentleman ’ere’s not claimin’ Greyboar owes him no money on account o’ no financial loss. Indeed, ’e’s most graciously conceded right from the start that ’e ’as not the least claim on th’infamous strangler’s purse on account o’ th’desp’rate villain’s recent act o’ callous murther ’n’ mayhem—”