After The Bighorn, Chapter Six May it Please the Court by Tracker

 After the Bighorn  Chapter Six

May it Please the Court

“May it please the Court”

I still like hearing that.  After all these years, I still like hearing that.  I am the Court, Senior Judge Franklin Kellogg.  Senior Judge means that I am over sixty-five and don’t have to work full time if I don’t want to. A new regular judge has been appointed to take my place, and I still get paid, have chambers and can work if I want to.  And I do want to.  But not murders, or drug cases or fraud, just slow, dry cases that don’t excite much public interest or comment, where I can take my time on judgements and court dates are few. Like this case.  VanRijn Investments vs Frick Steel.  Patent case.

 

“All rise, United States District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania, The Honorable Frankin Kellogg presiding”

And then I sweep in wearing my robes.  I think it is a pity that the lawyers don’t wear robes as they do in Canada or the UK; and in those places the judges get to wear red and white robes.  I think it adds something to the majesty of the law.  Still, in these civil cases, the lawyers do dress well, better than in the criminal cases, where the District Attorneys, poor underpaid souls, are so scruffy.  And the defense lawyers too, unless the malefactor is rich.  Then their lawyers are really well-dressed, or at least expensively but often tastelessly.

Still these lawyers look good, some I know, some I don’t.

“Barbara Quigley for the plaintiff your honor”.  Nicely dressed, good-looking, conservative clothes, old Pittsburgh legal family. I overheard her once talking in the Solon Club, our local lawyers’ club, to another woman. The other woman, one of those tedious complainers was going on about how Miss Quigley should be a partner already, “You certainly would be if you were a man!”  Miss Quigley, pointed out that she wasn’t a man, and that there was no point in complaining about it.  A sensible woman.  She will go far and manipulate many a foolish man with that attitude.

“Your honor, this is Mr Samuel Vansittart, counsel for VanRijn Patent Accumulators of Oakland, who has been admitted to the Western District bar yesterday.”  Some tension there, I think, Miss Quigley thinks she can handle things on her own, this Vansittart in his sharp coastal suit, looks like he looks down on all we Mid-Westerners.  I wonder how this tension will affect the case.

“J. Augustus Frick IV, esq, for the respondents, your honor, and our associate counsel, Patrick Masters of Masters Patent Law.  Mr Masters has been admitted to the Western District bar this morning.”  Clever of old Augie Frick not to mention where Mr Masters is from, even if right now there is no jury.  Mr Masters of Masters Patent Law is well known to those of us who read the law reports, though not much outside it.  And the appearance of Masters has rocked Vansittart a bit, he was not expecting Masters who is mostly in the tech patent world. Poor Barbara Quigley looks a little confused, but she will soon be up to speed no doubt.

And so, we begin.

“May it please the Court”

Vansittart and Quigley both rise, but Vansittart pushes Quigley into her seat.  He talks about discovery, lone lead times for motions, all the usual from a patent troll looking to force a settlement out of court. Now we will get some postponement ideas from the Frick people and I will see them all in six weeks.

“May it please the Court”

Augie Frick gets up, some quick talk about uncertainty being bad for business, and pushing for an expedited schedule.  That upset Vansittart, he expected a quick payout if the Fricks wanted to avoid uncertainly and a long postponement if they wanted to drag things out.  Quigley is smiling, she knows both her fees and her involvement will go up if there is more wrangling and court involvement.  Vansittart looks unhappy, already he looks like he does not like the heat of our midwestern summers and expected to spend the next six weeks in Oakland by the bay.

Then Masters is up with a flurry of motions for immediate discovery, summary decisions, and requests for returns from the VanRijn people.  He asks for a next Tuesday court date, and today is already Thursday.  Quigley looks like she wants to get her teeth into things, Vansittart asks for three weeks to prepare. I remind the Oakland lawyer that the VanRijn people wanted a decision when they filed on the day after the death of Willard Frick.  But I don’t want the San Francisco lawyer to be too happy, so I set a date of Monday afternoon rather than the Wednesday I think he was wanting.

And with that, it is 5.00 PM and Court is adjourned.

“All Rise”

(This story takes place in 2016 earth reckoning, before the Corcyrus-Argentum war, so Scipio Metellus does not encounter Roland, Chelsea, or Rykart).

Scipio Metellus of the Caste of Slavers awaited his turn as his caravan prepared to leave through the gate that led to the road to Brundisium.  He had business in that City, a long-maturing scheme that due to the costs and time involved would bring little profit, but would afford the Slaver a great deal of enjoyment.  It would not even add to his reputation, because after the scheme was successfully completed, he would not bruit about what he had done.  That would mean he could not carry out similar plans elsewhere.  And the joke was too good to only complete once.

The gate guards were a little distracted, due to events in the city the day before. Argentum’s most skilled general, its best at training and leading troops had been killed.  His body had not been discovered until one of his slaves, coming to tell the general that his bath was ready, had discovered him dead in his salle des arms where he practiced daily with sword and spear. A crossbow bolt was in his back.  A black crossbow bolt!

Speculation ran high in the city of Argentum.  Who had hired the assassin?  Who had ordered his death?  Was it the jealous leader of the city, or was it another general coveting his position?  There were at least three consensus suspects, but no conclusions.

Scipio Metellus’s portion of the caravan, his three thalarions, his short coffle of beauties, and his six hired guards and two assistants inched towards the gate.  A peddler and his cart were in the gateway.  The fellow did not appear prosperous, but he did have two slaves, a brunette with the look of Ar, and a tall girl from Schendi to pull his two wheeled cart. Peddlers did not usually use thalarion to pull their light carts, they ate too much and girls could be rented out at night to eke out the meager profits of peddling to tight-fisted peasants.  But two girls argued some level of prosperity.  Scipio Metellus did not look at the peddler.  He did not want to appear to have anything to do with him.  Besides he was not sure that the fellow was who Metellus thought he was.

Metellus and his group passed out through the gate of Argentum.  Going through, he noticed the scanted maintenance, some brickwork that should have been repointed at least a year ago, the metal bands and hinges on the gates showing more rust than they should. After the general’s death, the marketplace had whispered that the deferred work on the defenses of the city was one reason for the tension between the general and the treasurer.  Well with the general dead, it looked like the treasurer had won, and money would not now be spent on the walls of Argentum.  Scipio Metellus did not suspect the Treasurer in the general’s death though.  He had information that the marketplaces of Argentum did not.  For Scipio Metellus, before coming to Argentum had been in Corcyrus and had gathered a few straws that suggested that the orders for the assassination of the general had come from outside Argentum. 

Scipio Metellus was a noticing man.  He noticed little things and added them up to big things.  When in Corcyrus, he noticed that the walls and gates of that city were in excellent repair.  He noticed that in the markets of Corcyrus, the price of vulos was low, lower than would be expected given the supply on sale daily.  Scipio nosed around because he did not like unexplained things.  The price of vulos, the main meat of the poor was low, not because the supply of vulos was high, but because there was more of another bird than would normally be expected.  This fowl had less meat than a vulo but was prized for another quality: its feathers were considered superior for fletching arrows. So Scipio took a stroll not along fletcher’s lane, but down amongst the glue makers.  To attach feathers to arrows, glue made from boiling the skins of a rabbit-like creature the resulting liquid strained then reduced.  This glue held the arrows in place while they were being stitched to the shaft of an arrow making a secure connection. 

As was natural for a member of the Slaver Caste, Scipio Metellus visited a few neighbourhood blacksmiths, using a pretext the desire to add a collar or two or perhaps an ankle ring to his inventory.  In each place, in the back of the shop, he noticed veiled and gowned women, doubtless the Companions and daughters of the blacksmith hammering out arrow points.  Such a task was easily within the strength of the women and would add to the income of the shop.  And why was it important that Free persons were making these arrow points – because the points of war arrows would be made by the free, not the enslaved!  And if the neighbourhood blacksmiths were turning out points for war-arrows, it was certain that the main production blacksmiths were doing so as well.  But Scipio was too clever to go poking around there; if Corcyrus was stockpiling arrows and crossbow bolts, then it was wise not to be too openly curious. 

Then Scipio Metellus went over to the metals market, not the makers of bronze, but the sellers of the raw materials for making bronze for cauldrons, lamps, the beautiful daily goods that Goreans loved, and spearheads.  Those foot-long, broadleaved extremely lethal heads of spears and pikes used by the infantry on the field.  He calculated the number of cauldrons and the like in the markets and was sure that more bronze was being made in the foundries of Corcyrus than was being sold as goods in the markets.

So Corcyrus was stockpiling weapons of war.  Not obviously, and not a great deal in any given month, but it was clear once one looked deeply that the armories of Corcyrus would soon be bulging.  And who would be the target of such a war.  In the main market of Argentum, not the slave market, but the main market itself, Scipio Metellus saw the display of slaves of tribute from Corcyrus, youths delivered yearly.

Taxes were lower in prosperous Argentum than in grim Corcyrus.  Argentum fattened on tribute from Corcyrus, on trade with mighty Ar, and from its silver mines.  Corcyrus had higher taxes, but not suspiciously high, yet there was little grumbling in the marketplaces of that city.  So largely the people of Corcyrus approved of the way their Tatrix was spending their money; and what spending would they approve? – spending for revenge and war.  And those who complained doubtless found their sons and daughters included in the tribute to Argentum!

Scipio judged that the war would not begin for a few years and made a note in his mind to have a low inventory in about five years.  Slaves would be cheap then.  Scipio had visions of villages, towns, even cities burning as invaders surmounted the walls and entered killing and burning.  Such visions meant profit to him, as many girls lost their fathers and their freedom on the same day.  

Which brought to mind the girl, still in her veils and robes in the false bottom of one of the chests in his caravan.  For yesterday when the tributes from Corcyrus had been displayed in the marketplace, among the leaders of Argentum making speeches glorifying their city had been the general.  And in the crowd, at the edges had been the peddler with the two slaves, one from Ar, one from Schendi watching.  Not obviously to many, but to a keen observer like Scipio Metellus, it seemed that the peddler was watching most closely the general.  And Scipio thought, but was not sure, that he knew that peddler.  But he did not approach him.  But Scipio was watchful, and when the hue and cry went up following the discovery of the body of the general, the opportunist in him was ready.  People were crowding in and out of the part of the Central Cylinder where the general had lived.  Crowds of officials and even more, crowds of the curious.  The daughter of the general was distracted by grief, the crowds of people were many, and Scipio was able to spirit her away in a rug.  Now, gagged and bound, she awaited unwrapping, stripping, collaring and branding.

On Gor it was not unusual for a girl to lose a Father and freedom on the same day.

As the great caravan took the road to Brundisium, neither the peddler nor Scipio Metellus gave any sign that they might know each other.  When the peddler took a turn-off leading to a peasant district, neither the peddler nor Scipio Metellus gave any sign of farewell.  Along the road to Brundisium Scipio made some purchases and sales, in one town he came across a sale in the street, A tailor had died leaving debts, the companion and the children were being sold by the magistrates to satisfy the creditors.  He purchased two likely girls, still so stunned from their bereavement they did not protest their enslavement. 

On Gor it was not unusual for a girl to lose a Father and freedom on the same day.

J Augustus Frick IV, esq. seemed pleased with the outcome. “Well, that rocked them, our being ready to fight.  Willard would have done so of course, but these patent trolls who tried to take advantage of us didn’t expect anything else but a settlement.”

I agreed, “they will have to scramble to get all their submissions ready for Monday Afternoon, meanwhile we can get busy on preparing more defenses against them.  I will work with your people tomorrow and fly to San Francisco Friday night, and put together a team to come and work here, while another group works at my offices.  The difference will be Vansittart and VanRijn did not prepare for a real fight, and my office is always prepared. It is what we do.”

Augie Frick smiled, “in some ways you remind me of Willard, always ready for action.”

I had not thought of myself that way, but recalled my confrontation with two enemies of the Fricks on the Bighorn that left them dead and me with Juli as my slave and the friendship of the Fricks.

We agreed to meet at the Frick Mansion to brief Wyandotte and Woodrow Frick, Augie said he would drive himself while Zach Frick was to continue as my chauffeur and aide.  Young Zach was grinning at the discomfiture of Vansittart at the Frick readiness to do battle.

Augie Frick was at the Frick Mansion before us, greeting us at the door with two of the house-slaves I hadn’t met yet. Woodrow Frick was there making drinks while a couple of other slaves, wearing only collars attended waiting. 

“Chelsea is in with Wyandotte, she is just learning that she is to be deprived of all of her personal kajirae, they were property of Willard, and Wyandotte is making a point of who is Master here now.  She can have the services of Family property while she is here or at the ranch, but she is a guest here now.’

Augie Frick answered, “it is hard to lose a father and her position at the same time, and she was quite spoiled by Willard, one of his few weaknesses was his indulgence of that girl. I am surprised though that he didn’t have another legitimate son before this now though.”  He made a no offense gesture to Woodrow.

“He always thought he had lots of time, he was very vital, he had taken a few spins on the Carousel you know.”

Augie cast a quick look at me, apparently Woodrow had said something he should not have, but I pretended it passed me by.  I don’t think they were fooled, but it is such pretenses that make life possible.

“It made him vital, it didn’t make him bullet-proof.”

We were interrupted by Chelsea Frick coming out of the den, she was crying, Wyandotte was sitting at the desk.  He did not look up as the crying girl exited.  Mrs Magruder, the outgoing housekeeper, who was apparently also losing her position, came out after the crying girl.

“There, there, now,” she said with a tenderness I had not suspected, “you have gotten all disarranged, your top button is undone, you don’t want that.”

It was true, the top button of Chelsea’s black mourning dress was undone, her throat was exposed.  I remembered Woodrow telling me on the Lazy F that traditional women of the Families did not expose their throats or ankles.  He told me among men who had been to Gor that an exposed throat made men think of encircling it with a collar, and an exposed ankle made them think of dancing bells.  Indeed, looking at Chelsea’s throat did make me think of it in a collar, my collar.  Thinking of girls in my collar made me think of my beloved Juli, in my collar already.  Apparently having one woman in one’s collar did not stop a man of thinking of other girls also kneeling naked in his collar. I envisioned Juli and Chelsea kneeling side by side, both beautiful, each unique. 

Woodrow looked after the weeping Chelsea as we prepared to meet with Wyandotte.  “At least she still has her freedom.  It is not unusual on Gor for a girl to lose Father and Freedom on the same day.