Silence filled the room as the wizard considered the question at great length. Indeed, so long stretched his silence that the dwarf Shelyid made so bold as to tug at Holdabrand’s sleeve.
“That’s awful about the poor peasants,” he said.
Holdabrand jerked his sleeve from the gnome’s grasp. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off my shirt!” he snapped.
Shelyid drew back, hurt and abashed. But then, his normal timidity apparently overridden by some strong emotion, he tugged once again at Holdabrand’s sleeve.
“How much land does your family own, anyway?” he asked the youth.
Holdabrand jerked his sleeve away again, brushing it off. “That’s silk!” he snarled. “Not that I’d expect you to recognize it. And it’s none of your business how much land we own. Besides, who keeps track of such details? Ask my father’s accountants—not that they’d speak to a scrofulous gnome!”
“I’m sorry about the shirt,” whispered Shelyid. “It’s just—well, I was thinking about all those starving people and—well, since you must own an awful lot of land, maybe you could talk to your father about giving some of it—maybe only half of it—to those people, so they wouldn’t have to eat each other and horrible stuff like that. I mean, you don’t really probably need—”
“What is this—social philosophy from a subhuman?” sneered the youth.
“But—” The dwarf got no further, for at that very moment his master finally spoke.
“The question is, of course, transparent from the epistemological standpoint. The entire problem lies rather in the ontological ramifications of the case. But here as well, upon reflection, ’tis clear as a mountain stream that both Reason and the Higher Justice lies with the Consortium. For look you, if—”
Holdabrand lunged to his feet. “Then you too are a Georgia of darkness! I spit upon your Reason and your so-called Higher Justice! Soon enough will the true justice fall down upon your head!” And with that he charged out of the saloon, cuffing Shelyid from his path.
“Impudent youth!” oathed the wizard.
“What would you?” asked the lawyer, spreading his arms. ” ‘Tis the inevitable behavior of these pampered nobles when they are at last confronted with the dictates of progress.”
Zulkeh nodded his agreement. “Oft have I noted the parlous state of the modern aristocracy. Most unfortunate. And now, sirrah,” he rose to his feet, “I must be off and finish my business with the GGNESWC& Etc. I thank you for your assistance in clarifying these matters, and I bid you a good day.”
The lawyer coughed discreetly. “Good sir, you have overlooked the matter of my fee.”
“What fee?”
“Why, the fee for my professional services.”
“Nonsense!” spoke the mage. “I merely asked you for some advice. No mention was made of any fee!”
“But my good sir,” said the lawyer, smiling like a pool of oil, “have you forgotten so soon my exposition of the Honorable Judge Greased Hand’s enunciation of the principle that ignorance of—”
“Are you a subsidiary of the Consortium?” interrupted Shelyid.
“Why, no,” responded Mustelid, nonplussed both by the query and its source.
“Well, then,” said Shelyid, “I don’t see how you could collect anyway because didn’t the Sheriff himself say he didn’t care about anybody’s problems except the Consortium? Didn’t he, master? Didn’t he?”
“Why yes,” mused Zulkeh, “so he did.” Then, to the lawyer: “Odd as it may seem, good sir, my stupid but loyal apprentice has for once stumbled upon a truth. I fear you must forget any receipt of payments for your services, if such they may be called.”
The lawyer quivered in indignation, his long whiskers and pointed nose thrusting and twitching about.
“But it’s your moral obligation!”
“Bah!” oathed Zulkeh. “What boots this sudden philosophical cowardice? Was it not you yourself who so recently demolished the arguments of that foolish stripling, demonstrating with sureness and clarity that no modern society worthy of the name can tolerate the intrusion of haphazard ethical gestures into the workings of its commercial order?” He shook his head sadly. “Fie upon this apostasy! Again, sir, I bid you good day!” And so speaking, the mage strode out of the room.
But Shelyid hung back, and timidly approached the vibrating chord of outrage that was the lawyer. “Maybe,” he ventured, “you should get a job working for the Consortium. I’m sure they must hire a lot—a really, really lot—of lawyers,” he piped cheerfully. “And sure, probably they wouldn’t let you hang out in saloons, and you’d probably have to work in a big room somewhere filled with thousands of other lawyers, hunched over a desk, and sure, probably they’d make you work a lot of hours and you’d get all stooped over and such, but your posture’s lousy anyway and besides, you probably wouldn’t have time to worry about your health anyway because you’d be worrying all the time about getting fired, and all. But at least you wouldn’t—”