The Court is in Session

“Coming to you live from the Interspecies Court of Justice, I can confirm Prince Burnhammer has indeed arrived,” reported an elven woman. “Our earlier approach was rebuffed, but know that we will immediately update you on any developments. This is Stella Nightstar for Elven Entertainment. Back to the studio.”

Angor Hamfist gave a mighty shake of his head. Elven Entertainment. He wrinkled his nose. Had the dwarven king not personally made the phone call, he’d have declined. His father was right. You can take the dwarf out of the tunnel, but you can’t take the tunnel out of the dwarf.

His client, Prince Dar Burnhammer the Third, was a sprightly youth in his eighties who had yet to develop his father’s regal beard. His wide girth, earthy perfume, and lazy eye—most likely a result of inbreeding—reminded Angor why he moved to the city.

“Mr Hamfist,” ventured the prince. “Father said you are the best.”

Angor sighed and patted the lad on the back. “Better a clear conscience than a good lawyer, my prince.”

“I still don’t see why visiting a brothel is a problem.”

If your brothers don’t pressure the treasury to pursue the misappropriated mithril. Angor kept this thought to himself. The prince was dishonest, as all clients are likely to be. He’ll just have to wait to find out why.

The prosecutor was an elven woman, tall, sleek, and well-groomed. She cast Angor a venomous stare and then went back to shuffling her documents. The judge, Molok Bovinox, a minotaur with hide darker than coal, swung his gavel, setting off a loud bang that made the defendant jump.

“Court is now in session, moo,” declared Judge Molok. “We will now hear the case of the Elven Union vs. Prince Dar Burnhammer the Third, moo.”

“Your Honour,” began the elf. “I’m afraid Prince Burnhammer has not only been unfaithful to his marriage and brought his house into disrepute but has also violated several laws of the Free Dominion.” She paused and gave Angor the smile a spider reserved for the captured fly. “For starters, he still has outstanding accounts with Happy House, one of the many parties he has callously aggrieved.”

With each accusation—delivered with elven eloquence—the prince paled a fraction. Angor, tapping his foot, peered up at the clock. Recess could not come sooner.

“Session adjourned, mmm,” the judge declared. “Resuming in thirty minutes moo.”

With that, the gavel fell again. Angor, heaving a sigh of relief, dragged his royal client into the nearest consultation room and slammed the door shut.

“Interesting,” said Angor. "When were you going to tell me everything?"

The young dwarf shuffled about and stared at the floor. "I gave you the... big picture."

“You didn't tell me it was an interspecies brothel!” exclaimed Angor. "You hide anything else from me and I'm going to drop you as a client. I'll do it!"

“Okay, okay,” replied Dar. “Look. I went on a diplomatic mission, and I may or may not have... ah, had a bit too much fun. But what's wrong with that?”

“She was too young.”

The prince blinked and for a moment, almost engaged his grey matter. “What?”

“You know. Minor. Underage.”

“Impossible!”

Angor lit a cigar. “You know the elven age of consent?”

“Thirty—”

“2500. And she was?”

“I d-don't know. I was drunk.”

“Of course you were. 1500. You. Are. Screwed.”

Dar turned purple. “This is bullsh—”

A panicked Angor muffled the prince. “Watch it!” he hissed. “Didn’t you see the judge?”

Dar nodded.

“And you think he’d appreciate you using male bovine excrement as a curse word?”

The prince slumped into a chair. “Well, what do we do now?”

Angor unfurled his laptop and began typing furiously. Moments later, after some dragging, clicking, and slamming of the mouse, he found the said whorehouse, its name adorned with gaudy pink stars. Huffing, he punched in the number.

“Angor Hamfist speaking,” Angor began, “no, no, double no, but yes, I’d like to speak to your manager.” As he waited, he tapped the table impatiently. “Hello. I’m calling on behalf of my client to settle the outstanding accounts. He has agreed to a 30% premium—” he quickly waved away the protesting prince. “Yes, you heard me right. In mithril.”

The lawyer hung up and stared at the ceiling. In less than one minute, he’d been offered a happy hour discount, royal harem package, and a coupon to the cyclops escort service aptly named Single Ladies. He almost wanted to laugh. When he first passed his bar exam, the dwarves and elves had barely concluded a bitter war spanning centuries. War crimes, reparations, and border negotiations were all the rage. The redrawing of the maps—

“Wait!” exclaimed Angor, jumping to his feet. “That sly elf... my prince, which path did you take?”

Dar took the mouse and traced a path on the map. As the blue curve extended westward, his smile widened. Quickly, Angor reclaimed his computer and queried the Single Ladies, popping up a large eye peppered with garish cosmetics.

“You lucky son of a...” muttered Angor. “Dar, go order your wife some flowers. We got this.”

The daft prince cocked his head. “Am I going to hide in a cyclops whorehouse?”

Angor threw up his arms. The boy didn’t even know why he went westwards. Woe be the dwarven kingdom if this horny little mutt inherits the throne.

“Cyclopes aren’t natives,” he said. “They’re not allowed to provide escort services. That is, unless they’re in the Free Dominion. Catch my drift?”

Dar’s eyes brightened with realisation. “So that’s why father sent me to sign the free railway agreement.”

“Yes, the 50th anniversary for the Autonomous Province of Interspecies Prosperity! Dar you beautiful idiot! You just made my day!”

The court session resumed with three more thunderous gavel swings. The prosecutor, still wearing the same smug grin she had in the morning, settled into her chair. Angor, giving Dar a pat on the back, returned a sly smile.

“Counsel for the defendant will now respond, moo.”

Angor straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and began pacing about.

“Your Honour,” said Angor, “this trial is an expensive joke by a prosecutor who failed the most basic due diligence. The premise in question resides beyond the jurisdiction of the Free Dominion. It is in fact—” he paused to steal a glance at his elven rival, who had gone deathly pale. “It is in fact an Interspecies Autonomy Zone and has been for the past fifty years. The defence recommends Your Honour to throw out this case.”

Molok fixed the prosecutor a furious stare. When the elf remained silent, he flared his nostrils and reached for the gavel.

“Moomoomoooooo!” bleated the judge. “The court fines the prosecution 500 mithril for contempt. Case dismissed.”

Escorting Dar to his royal carriage, Angor swiped through his lengthy schedule. His next case would open just before lunch, and it promised mayhem. The prospect of an interspecies custodial battle almost made him wish for another war with the elves. He groaned, lit another cigar, and went back inside.

His client was already in the courtroom. One needed only a passing glance to know Versula Medusa was a gorgon. Her scales glittered an enchanting rainbow under the lights. In their previous meeting, she claimed that beneath her blindfold—a designer brand studded with creamy seashells—were a pair of diamond eyes. Angor, however, was not keen to find out. Tentatively, he sat down next to her, keeping his distance from her living hair. He did not trust the flimsy red ribbon to keep the hissing vipers in one bunch.

“Mr Hamvist,” said the gorgon with her habitual slur. “When can I see my children?”

“You seeing anything is the problem,” whispered Angor.

“Isn’t my lawyer supposed to help me?”

“You were supposed to shackle your hair.”

“No, no, no,” said Versula as she caressed her hair. “Too heavy. And no, we don’t chain vamily like wild animals.”

“If they gnaw through the blindfold again, we’ll have another mass petrification event and the courts just might make a shield of your head,” Angor warned her in a rapid-fire whisper. He paused to catch his breath. “Anyways—play the aggrieved mother card. Like we practiced. Got it?”

Versula looked ready to protest when a granite gargoyle lumbered into the room. Immediately, she turned away in disgust while her hair bared their fangs with perfect synchronicity. It was the father, Gustus Clawmason, with a goblin attorney perched atop his shoulder like an ugly green parrot.

“His claws are purple,” whispered Angor with great urgency. “I’m no expert on gargoyles but that can’t be good.”

Versula chortled knowingly just as Judge Cindervis, an elderly salamander bathed in a scarlet hue, clapped his paws together.

“Court is now in session,” said the judge with a drawling hiss. Flame danced on his tongue. “This is a custody hearing to find the best parenting arrangement for the two children.”

“In that case, Your Honour,” rasped the goblin, “Ms Medusa poses a clear and present danger to the public. Prior to her separation from my client, she had petrified her children on multiple occasions and still refuses to wear a blindfold at home. This is a clear case of child endangerment.”

Versula’s hair vipers hissed, causing both parties’ attorneys to cringe. That red ribbon was beginning to look increasingly unreliable. Judge Cindervis, lowering his monocle, cowed the snakes with a questioning gaze. Angor snickered. Monsters still fear their superior relatives.

“Your Honour,” said Angor. “My client is attending creature safety lessons at Monster Academy and is showing great improvement. What will not improve, however, is Mr Clawmason’s financial circumstances, dismissed from three rooftops within the last three months. In his last one, he fell asleep, tumbled off the shingles, and cracked the skull of a poor garden gnome.” He paused to challenge the goblin’s hostile gaze. “Funny headlines don’t feed hungry kids, Your Honour.”

Gustus grumbled something to the goblin, grunted several times, nodded, then got up.

“Good judge, sir,” pleaded Gustus in a guttural rumble. “I’m now repairing roofs and sweeping chimneys. I have rented an attic in a vampire’s manor for the kids. The gnome has agreed to not press for damages. I can make this work.”

“Oh yes,” snickered Versula. “You can’t even tie their hair without getting bitten! No wonder you didn’t bring the girls today. Wait till you see how he cleans their scale!”

“They’re not here today because you literally scare them stiff and—”

Judge Cindervis sighed small fireballs. “Order.”

Angor nodded appreciatively at the judge. “Mr Clawmason,” said the dwarf, marching until he was directly under the gargoyle’s nose. “What are you feeding the children right now?”

The goblin leaned forward and bared his fangs at Angor. “Enough, that’s all you need to know.”

Angor smirked and glanced at the judge. “Goodness, and here I was thinking this was a family court.”

“Question is fair and relevant,” droned Judge Cindervis. “Please answer, Mr Clawmason.”

“I’ve been feeding them coal and sardines.”

Angor winked at Versula, upon which the gorgon broke into a terrifying wail.

“My babies, my poor babies,” she screeched. “They eat like common catfishes!”

“Oi!” exclaimed Gustas, his booming voice echoing through the courtroom. “At least they don’t freeze when they see me!”

Versula cried even louder while her wriggling hair licked tears from her cheeks, smearing her makeup in the process. Though more grotesque than moving, this stunt earned her a sympathetic gaze from Judge Cindervis.

“The drama again,” taunted the gargoyle. “Oh, that’s right—you had a minor in theatre! You reptiles—”

The goblin kicked Gustas, cutting him off. But the damage was done. White smoke billowing from his nostrils, Judge Cindervis narrowed his eyes at the gargoyle. The little green lawyer, slapping his forehead, shot his dwarven counterpart a murderous glare.

“My client, Your Honour, is undoubtedly the better provider,” said Angor, strolling back to his client. “Dr Versula Medusa is not only the heir to Medusa Incorporated, but has multiple, highly profitable patents on scale beauty and health.”

The goblin sneered. “Her patents better include a way to reverse petrification.”

Jumping off his client, the goblin waddled up to the judge and slapped a bulky folder before the salamander. He eyed Versula and shook his head.

“Child failed to recover from petrification after twenty-four hours,” read Judge Cindervis. “Hospitalised for two weeks... intensive lava therapy... heartbeat returned after 72 hours...”

Versula fidgeted while her snakes played dead. Angor gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply as the litany of medical conditions continued. Cindervis, finished at last, removed his monocles and let loose a sigh that warmed the courtroom.

“As I recall, Dr Medusa,” lectured the judge, “our last hearing ended with our bailiffs throwing a sheet over you when your hair ripped your blindfold. I almost lost my tail that day. The Free Dominion has no nest for gorgons giving out unsolicited love bites.” He cleared his throat, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Even today, you have failed to shackle your hair despite abundant and explicit forewarning. This is unacceptable. In recognition of your progress at Monster Academy, the court will waive the fine.

“Mr Clawmason, rooftops are workstations, not nighttime lodging. Almost every estate that hired you was burgled with no intervention from you. On top of that, you came within inches of negligent gnome-slaughter. The court acknowledges that you’re actively trying to improve your situation, but coal and sardines is a compromise, not a meal.

“Neither of you are ready for children. You two weren’t even ready for marriage, by the sounds of things. But that just means you haven’t shed enough skin.”

For the first time, Judge Cindervis cracked his gavel.

“Dr. Medusa may visit the children twice a week but must be accompanied by no fewer than two qualified agents from the Perseus Foundation.” ruled the salamander. He paused to lick the air. “Safety is not a suggestion. She may apply for independent visits after graduating Monster Academy.”

The large lizard faced the gargoyle.

“Mr Clawmason is to keep custody of the children for the next two months, during which both parties will undertake mixed-species parenting lessons. Become someone worthy of your children. Dismissed.”

After receiving a spine-tingling hug from Versula, Angor found the nearest coffee machine and punched it for a short black. It was disgusting, but at the very least, it was consistent and in this line of work, certainty was weighed in mithril. He had barely wiped his mouth when an unknown caller buzzed his phone.

“Mr Hamfist,” a clattering of bones accompanied the hoarse greeting. “It’s been two weeks since our union leader spoke to you. Do we have a case or not?”

The dwarf sighed and punched the coffee machine again.

“Who’s speaking?”

“The Union of the Undead Legion—”

Angor scowled. It sounded like something heavy fell off the shelf. “Hello? Hello?”

Click.

“My apologies,” rattled the speaker. “I am Rattles, the treasurer of our fledgling union—”

“Get to the point.”

Some more clattering followed.

“Lord Doomdragon has refused to improve our working conditions. Since we last spoke, we saw off three self-proclaimed heroes and two squads of dragonslayers. The conflicts have devastated our graveyards and the excavator we use to smooth the soil is busted. We can’t take this anymore.”

The mere prospect of undead clients had Angor pinching his nose. “That’s next Monday,” he replied, suddenly very tired. “See you in court.”