The ticket vendor sniffed. “Finally, you are fined fifty ducats for allowing yourself to be robbed while traveling on a vehicle operated by the GGNESWC& etc.” He laid down the scroll and stared stonily at the mage, palm outstretched. “The total fine amounts to seven hundred and ninety-five ducats, payable in the legal tender of the region, which, in this instance, is the Consortium Ducat.”
“I refuse!” bellowed the wizard, beside himself with fury. “O monstrous! O monstrous!”
“Sir,” stated the ticket vendor in a voice devoid of inflection or discernible tone, “am I to understand that you are calling into question the philosophy and commercial weltanschauung of the GGNESWC& etc., a subsidiary—”
“A pox on your philosophy, sirrah! I shall take this arrant thievery to the law!”
And so saying, the mage strode forth into the street, casting his eyes about for the location of the forces of law and order. Almost immediately, his attention caught by faint wails of agony, he spotted nearby a large gray building built of heavy stone, windows barred, steps blood-stained.
“The Hall of Justice!” he cried, and hastened thence. “Come, Shelyid,” he spoke over his shoulder. “You are shortly to witness the manner in which base curs of low degree are called to order!”
Entering the building, Zulkeh saw to his left an old wooden door, upon whose peeling surface was crudely lettered the words: Sheriff’s Office. He strode within, there to espy a man before him, seated at a large and much-carved desk, belly overhanging belt, booted feet propped up, visage totally obscured by an enormous hat slanted sharply forward.
“Are you the Sheriff?” demanded Zulkeh. The man behind the desk looked up. Faded blue eyes peered at the mage from a face whose every feature was masked by a complex maze of wrinkles, crow’s-feet, creases, and the like. A luxurious mustache adorned his upper lip.
“That I am,” drawled this worthy. “Sheriff Pike.” Then, in a tone which belied the words: “At your service.”
“Excellent!” spoke Zulkeh. “I have a complaint which I wish to register with the Law.”
The Sheriff spat with unerring accuracy into a nearby spittoon. He sighed wearily.
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “What is it?”
“An abomination! An insolent offense! An outrageous calumny!”
Pike grimaced, or so, at least, one could interpret the heavings of his mustache. “I assumed that. Why else would anyone complain to the Sheriff? Which abomination? What offense? Whose calumny? These are the questions that need to be answered before modern police investigation can get off the ground.”
Zulkeh brought himself under control. “I wish to register a complaint against the Consortium. These scoundrels, these—”
“Shove it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘shove it’!” bellowed the Sheriff fiercely. “I haven’t got the time or energy to be bothered by lunatics who want to file a complaint against the Consortium.”
Zulkeh gazed coldly at the agent of the Law. “I now perceive the truth. You have been suborned by the Consortium.”
Pike’s face turned beet-red with outrage.
“Why, damn your insolence!” he roared. “I am a sworn servant of the Law doing my duty! This office as well as the jail which appertains to it is a bona fide subsidiary of the Consortium and I am carrying out my responsibilities as a faithful employee of the firm!”
Zulkeh was silent for a moment. “The law in the Caravanserai, do I understand you to say, is owned outright by the Consortium?”
“Lock, stock, and barrel,” stated the Sheriff. “Quite a profitable concern, too,” he added with some pride.
“Clearly, then,” spoke the wizard, “I can expect no justice from these quarters.”
“Ruled out right from the start,” agreed the Sheriff.
“I must then seek redress elsewhere,” mused Zulkeh. “The rot has sunk deeper than I had perceived.” He glared at the Sheriff. “Where may I find an attorney-at-law?”
“A what?”
“A lawyer!”
“Oh.” The Sheriff shook his head slowly. “Couldn’t tell you. There isn’t any need for a lawyer in this town. You can say what you like about big city police efficiency, but in my opinion we’ve brought the science of criminology in this little town to a state of perfection that would be envied in Ozar itself. If anybody has a complaint against the Consortium, they’re automatically wrong. If anybody has a complaint against anybody else,” he yawned, “who gives a shit?”