“ ‘No,’ said I, still wearily. ‘I remember it well enough. Indeed, I have it all by heart, for I have read it a hundred times:—“I swear by the Almighty God and by the contents of this book that I will not depart from justice in anything, either for orders, or favours, or personal advantage, or any consideration whatsoever, save in the political interests of my class or family, of the Lawyers’ Guild to which I belong, or for such other considerations as may occur to me.” ’
“ ‘That is right!’ said my friend in triumphant tones. ‘Well, can you want a better guarantee?’
“ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I suppose not.’
“ ‘Well, then,’ he cried, rising, ‘let me take you to a friend of mine among the most able scriveners of the city, and be assured that whatever can be done for you will be done.’
“ ‘I have no great part of my fortune left,’ said I timidly, rising as he did, but unwilling to follow him.
“ ‘Fear nothing,’ he returned heartily. ‘Justice in Izmat is not bought and sold. There are, of course, certain necessary fees. But the law compels you to hire no pleader. You can appear yourself in court. That freedom is one of our great privileges; and, believe me, you will be heard as patiently and directed as honestly as though you were one of the greatest pleaders in the city.’
“Half persuaded by such insistence, I followed my friend to a house where, seated in the midst of commentaries upon the law, of metal boxes containing the shameful secrets of great families and the record of their indebtedness, sat an elderly man, whose face reminded me, I know not why, of a vulture.
“ ‘I have brought you, Kazib,’ said he, ‘a client. You will recognize him, I think.’
“ ‘I do, indeed,’ said the scrivener, rising gravely and bowing to me. ‘He is no less than my lord the councillor Mahmoud.’
“ ‘The title is superfluous now,’ said I a little sadly.
“The scrivener, however, continued to give it to me in his great courtesy, and when my friend had left us together, I poured out my story. As the more important details fell from my lips my host jotted them down upon a small tablet with a fine quill that he carried. When I had concluded he spoke as follows:
“ ‘Such a case as yours would appear first in the Court of Sweetmeats.’
“ ‘Of Sweetmeats?’ said I.
“ ‘It is an old term,’ said he. ‘We love these historic traditions.’
“ ‘Exactly,’ I answered humbly.
“ ‘Well, it would appear, I say, in the Court of Sweetmeats.’
“ ‘Yes,’ said I.
“ ‘After it had gone to the Court of Sweetmeats, it would almost certainly be transferred to the Court of Wrecks, Lighthouses and Divorce, or to the Department of Wills.’
“ ‘Indeed?’ said I.
“ ‘It is so,’ said the scrivener. ‘Whichever of these dealt with it, an appeal would lie, of course, to a superior court, which is generally known as the Court of Mules.’
“ ‘Why is …’ I began.
“ ‘Oh, sir!’ interrupted the scrivener, with some impatience, ‘these things are immaterial! We must use such historic names. … From this court again the appeal would lie, of course, to His Majesty in council, which is the supreme authority of the land.’
“ ‘What,’ said I, ‘to His Majesty in council—the very authors of the injustice?’
“ ‘Of course,’ said the scrivener.
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘if the verdict is in my favour, what reason should I have for appealing?’
“ ‘None,’ said he, simply. ‘But your opponents would.’
“ ‘My opponents are the king and his council,’ said I.
“ ‘In quite another aspect,’ said the scrivener, looking on the ground and falling silent. ‘Under these circumstances,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you will do very well to proceed.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘in case these appeals …’
“He waved his hands. ‘We will not talk of appeals yet,’ he said quickly. ‘After all, you lose nothing by first instance. Have you your charter with you?’
“I said I had, and brought it out for him. He read it slowly, consulted a book for a moment, and then said:
“ ‘An excellent case!’ (you may judge, my dear nephews, how my heart leapt at these words!) ‘An excellent case! … You have your charter and its terms are clear. By it there is bound to be paid to you and your heirs forever the revenue from the Salt Tax, and the issue will lie, I think, upon whether the clause implies payment undiminished and perpetual, or whether the recent proclamations make a gumbo-rumbo of the original.’
“ ‘A what?’ said I.
“ ‘It is a legal term,’ said he, a little wearily, ‘and signifies a mixalum-malory or general contortation. … But let us not at this stage go into technicalities of that sort. We must first state our case.’
“ ‘Precisely,’ said I.
“ ‘My own fee,’ said he, ‘is fixed by statute, and I must ask you for ten dinars—a nominal matter.’ With this, before I could stop him, he seized a large metal disc, wet a corner of a parchment, put the disc upon it, struck it with a hammer, and then held out his hand for the fee. Luckily I had my pouch with me, and so, very reluctantly, paid over this first drop of my disastrous leakage.
“ ‘Good!’ said the scrivener. ‘We must next ask the opinion of two eminent pleaders.’
“ ‘Why?’ said I.
“ ‘The law demands it,’ said the scrivener.
“ ‘But you have already given me yours, and told me it is worth my while to proceed.’
“ ‘My opinion,’ said the scrivener, shaking his head vigorously, ‘may serve to guide you, indeed; but it would be altogether irregular to go into court upon that alone. So, I will draw up a statement, as we call it, and have it put before two men of the first standing—it is always better in these cases to use the highest talent. In
