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But "Bringing the Guild into Disrepute", well that was a different matter entirely. That soon got tongues waggling. And they weren't the tongues of low-ranking gossip-monger fish-wife wizards neither.
Rory Radcliffe, was one such example: casting spells at Militia Officers... tsk tsk.
Rory pleaded guilty during the Spite terrestrial trail to "Casting a Aggressive Spells at Militia". The sentence to this was normally Death. Few wizards suffered Death, however. Unless they were stupid enough to plead Not Guilty. Wizards normally pleaded Guilty and could then claim Article 17. Rory's Wizards' Guild appointed advocate invoked Article 17 of the Spite Constitution. This was all expected and rote. And didn't even raise an eyebrow among the Spite Judiciary.
Article 17 was an age-old throw-back to the heady days of Starfall colonization, when the half-elves first started to live and breed in the vicinity of the Great Star fall, when the city of Spite was in its infancy. Wizards were there from the very start helping to build the city. Hence, they were given extra-ordinary and extra-judiciary privileges.
Post-modern half-elves, free-thinking liberals and scholarly F&W librarians said Article 17 was an anachronism and had no place in a modern, thriving democracy. But constitutional change, needing a three-quarter majority on the Spite Council and a two-thirds majority among the Spite populous, was a difficult thing. And so far, Article 17 had survived twelve attempts at amending.
Article 17 allowed wizards to escape any sentence handled down by Spite Courts. Even capital crimes, (casting a Charm spell on a Militia Sergeant in a pawn shop, for instance), could be absolved with Article 17.
However, every invocation of Article 17, put a further wedge between the public relations of the Wizards' Guild and the Spite hoi polloi. The Wizards' Guild image had already recently taken a battering over *that* incident down at the docks when a pawn shop and, merely, an entire block was taken out in a fiery maelstrom. As such, the Wizards' Guild had begun to look more unfavourably upon such wizards who invoked the Article.
Rory's advocate, Tarquin Holbein, a wizard of minor standing himself, cleared his throat and addressed the assembled dignitaries. A Disciplinary Meeting of the Guild was always a who's who of Spite Wizards: attendance was compulsory. Compulsory with a capital C.
Crowded on either side of the hall in the bleachers, on splintery wooden seats, sat the lowly wizards. These were the neophytes and apprentices; they'd only each had a few times in The Bag.
In the centre back of the hall was the gilded Ziggurat. Here sat the more august members of the Guild, each in their appointed seat, the higher the level on the Ziggurat, the greater the stature and influence.
Starting at the lower levels reclined, first, the lesser dignitaries:
Syra Sequin, her massive magically enhanced bust, literally spilling out of her straining velour top and onto the bench in front of her. She may have been quite attractive herself, but no man seemed to notice.
Poplar "Hairy" Tofu a mass of hair, with two feral eyes peering from the midst, slouched next to her.
Winsome "Scholar" Gildstein in her smart velour suit with stars and moons, pointed hat and all, was next.
Then Duffle Nilbo, head of the Foyer Clerks and Administrative Peons, in a smart suit.
Next, Mistress Lash, Chief Inquisitor of the Guild, resplendent in her tight black velour robes, hood and all.
And a good arm's length away sat Snorter "stinky" MacGee, the Identify Expert. Stinky was an alcatraz gnome. Short of stature, with an enormous bulbous nose that rested on the desk in a pool of clotting mucous. Had the room been quiet, the gentle buzz of the blowflies that perpetually surrounded him, could have been heard. The infected sores and cauls that graced his scabbed tufted head were crawling with maggots, and every now and then he'd pick one out and chomp on it with insane glee.
On the next level up sat Aubergine "White-eye" Flagg with his milky cataract eyes, the colour of fresh pus.
Next to him Doboy the Funicular, his grey beard akimbo, and eyebrows on stalks, as if he'd recently received some giant electrical charge. The air around him reeking of ozone.
Oxymoron "Gnomie" Tunnelhead, a slight gnome, sat on a bolstered chair.
Gnomie was very careful to distance himself of all things alcatraz and it would have been physically impossible for him to be further from Stinky at this moment.
Next to Gnomie reclined Benson Psi-basher. His relentless persecution of psionicists kept Spite psi-free (so he claimed). Ironically, he was badger-bald himself. Needless to say, he did not take kindly to being called "head-popper", "psi" or even "you bald chrome-dome psionicist-loving bastard".
On the next layer up, on a row of the Ziggurat all by himself, sat Rackney Formaldehyde, with his palsy tick and spider-like appendages growing from his head.
And right at the very top was an empty chair. Empty it seemed. But there was no doubt that the Head of the Guild, Spontain "Flashman" Darkeyes, sat invisible and smug. Probably naked too, thought Tarquin. Spontain could cast the powerful Wish spell, it was rumoured.
Tarquin addressed the Chair.
"Ladies and Gentlemen Wizards," he began.
Rory probably wouldn't get the Aldeshore Purge, a painful procedure that removed, physically, the magical portions of the wizard's spleen. This utterly destroyed any magic ability of the wizard. It was normally done without anaesthetic allowing the wizard to feel the "full weight and majesty" of his magic loss. And to "put the boot in" they would then cast the Aldeshore Augmentor onto the wound. This would prevent any magics, short of a Wish, from restoring the wretch's magical ability. Most wizards who had undergone the full Aldeshore Purge committed suicide within a few weeks. Of despair. No, Rory would get something minor, like a good flogging.
"My client Rory Radcliff..."
Tarquin was interrupted. The Chair cackled.
"Not a good sign," thought Tarquin to himself. Spontain always cackled before a stiff sentence.
The Chair spoke. It was Spontain's reedy voice. "Master Radcliff," he uttered.
Rory stood up straight, sweat beading on his brow.
"For bringing the Guild into disrepute, ..."
Rory interrupted. "But I haven't made a plea yet, sirw"
Tarquin flinched and mouthed "Shut Up!" to Rory, who never noticed.
The Chair paused.
"You haven't asked if I am guilty orw not!" stammered Rory
"Silence!" thundered the Chair. "You ARE guilty. I have so decreed."
There was a crackle of magical energy. Then a purple streak of a Magic Missile spell shot down from on high. It hit Rory in the belly and he squealed like a girl, twitching and spasming.
Doing offensive actions while Invisible makes one visible. And Spontain was no exception to this immutable rule. He suddenly appeared up on the Ziggurat's highest level, standing in front of his chair. He was naked, after all. Naked, pale and flabby. Syra tittered and her enormous bust wobbled like two whey puddings. The low level scum in the bleachers tried to hide their laughter, but failed. Spontain's magically enhanced organ dangled onto the floor, for all to see. A trouser snake indeed. "At least that confirms THAT rumour," thought Tarquin to himself hiding his grin. In a flash Spontain had recast Invisibility and he vanished again.
"You are Guilty, Master Radcliff," intoned Spontain quickly recovering his poise. "And your sentence is as follows: You will be taken down to the Guild Cellars..."
"Not a good sign," muttered Tarquin to the quivering Rory.
"Here, you will receive a flogging: twenty-five lashes of the Cat," continued Spontain.
They used an actual cat: a swamp margay. A flighty feline, mad with fear and rage, held by its tail, its legs flailing insanely, claws extended.
"and..." Tarquin and Rory swallowed.
"Your will have your ankles broken," Spontain continued. "With the Gavel."
Unlike the sledge hammer, which broke ankles in one savage blow, the Gavel was the slow way: A judicial gavel swung with minimal force. It normally took twenty or so blows. Per ankle.
"Finally," sneered Spontain. "The Aldeshore Augmentor will be cast on the wounds."
"Ooo, nasty," added Tarquin helpfully to Rory. "That means the wounds won't heal magically."
Rory fainted.
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