The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

“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—”

I shot to my feet.

“What murder? What mayhem?” I demanded. “We haven’t admitted to any part of such crime!”

Bad, bad mistake. I knew it as soon as I shut my mouth.

“D’y’ever hear sech foolishness?” demanded O’Doul.

“The two o’ yers choked th’Baron,” pronounced Flannery. “I know it, ‘e knows it, th’gentleman knows it, y’knows it yerself, th’dogs in th’ alleys knows it, th’babes in th’woods knows it, th’man in th’moon knows it, th’tooth fairy knows it, th’owl an’ the pussycat knows it, th’Queen knows it, th’constables knows it, ever’body knows it.”

Alas, my mouth had a mind of its own.

“Can’t be proved!” I cried. The next moment, I flinched with dismay.

The whole crowd around the table was hissing me down.

“Prove it?” demanded O’Doul. His face was pale with outrage. “Prove it?”

“What’s proof got t’do with it?” demanded Flannery. “What d’ye think this is, y’ mangy cur, some kind o’ court o’ law?” Flannery tottered to his feet, waving his alepot about. “This is not a court o’ law, y’little guttersnipe! This ‘ere is th’ancient an’ venerable Bar o’ Troughly Justice!”