The Sheriff rubbed his belly, apparently in an effort to stimulate thought. “You might try the hotel down the street,” he suggested. “All sorts of riffraff traveling through the Caravanserai can be found there.”
With no further word, Zulkeh stormed out of the Sheriff’s office, Shelyid’s little legs scurrying to keep pace. Down the street, the mage espied a ramshackle building bearing a much-abused sign on which only the letters onthly rat s could still be seen. In but a trice, the agitated sorcerer arrived at the hotel and strode within.
Peering about the Stygian gloom of the lobby, the wizard saw, arranged in a manner which defied all geometry and logic, a multitude of couches and divans. These items of furniture ranged, in their degree of corrosion and disrepair, from shabby and soiled to filthy beyond belief and downright dangerous. Despite their, at best, disreputable appearance, each of the couches was occupied by an individual, none of whom, judging from their slouches, seemed to find any great joy in life.
Across the lobby, Zulkeh made out a jury-rigged little counter which he took to be the reception desk. Seated behind the desk, in a posture which matched the decor, was a sallow-faced individual whose thinning gray hair was adorned by a little cap bearing the letters esk lerk. Advancing upon this fellow, the mage questioned the desk clerk as to the possibility that an attorney-at-law could be found among the hotel’s current clientele.
The desk clerk, alas, proved to be an ignorant, slothful, and insolent wight. Ignorant, in that he claimed no knowledge of any characteristic of any of the hotel’s residents beyond the adequacy of their purse. Slothful, in that he proclaimed an utter lack of interest in correcting this appalling state of ignorance. Insolent, in that he responded to the mage’s vigorous insistence that he do so with a series of exclamations the which ranged from uncouth to downright scurrilous.
No doubt the surly fellow would have been smitten by the mage’s wizardrous fury at that point, had not one of the individuals lounging on a nearby divan spoken up. Croaked up, it might be better to say:
“There’s a lawyer in the saloon,” rasped he, in what seemed to be his last breath.
“Gee,” whispered Shelyid, “I thought he was dead.” And, indeed, the fellow expired that very moment.
The urgency of his task overriding his urge to chasten the desk clerk, the irate thaumaturge immediately stalked to the saloon adjoining the lobby, guided by the sign appended over the swinging doors: needless to say, aloon.
Thence did the mage take himself, entering a low-ceilinged room whose atmosphere was most vilely polluted by smoke and the miasma of sundry alcoholic distillations.
“I need an attorney!” he spoke into the murky gloom.
A long-torsoed individual, thin as a rail, perked up at a table in the far corner. “I am here!” he cried, rising to greet the wizard.
“Mustelid’s the name, solicitor’s the trade.” The whiskers beneath his long and pointed nose quivered with the scent of fee.
CHAPTER IX.
A Barrister’s Informed Opinion. Sundry Cases of Great Legal Moment Encapsulated. A Youth Intervenes, Hot of Temper and Mien. The Wizard Adjudicates. A Youth Denounces, Hot of Temper and Mien. The Consortium is Recompensed!
“And thus you have it,” concluded the mage. He sat stiffly in his chair, Shelyid standing behind. “And now, sirrah, I will appreciate it if you would unfold before me the manner in which I may obtain full satisfaction from these miscreants, not excluding the extraction of punitive damages for the affront they have committed to my dignity.”
Across the table, the lawyer slumped in his chair, utter discouragement evident in both posture and expression. He shook his head mournfully.
“I can’t see what’s to be done. There’s no legal case to be made—you haven’t a leg to stand on. The Consortium—its subsidiary, I should say—acted within its legal rights at all times.”
“Preposterous!” oathed Zulkeh. “By what legalistic legerdemain am I held responsible for this so-called ‘Consortium Cosmological Contract’ by the mere act of buying a ticket?”
“There is no statutory prestidigitation involved,” differed the lawyer, shaking his head with some vehemence. “That’s the law. I refer you to the famous case of The Consortium vs. Grandmother Hapless, in which the decision was written by that most respected jurist, the Honorable Judge Learned Hound. In his opinion, Judge Hound wrote—wait a minute, I have it here in my valise—” Mustelid rummaged around in a briefcase by his feet and brought forth a huge leather-bound book. He laid the tome on the table and rapidly flicked through the pages.