The roll unfurls. And unfurls. And continues to unfurl in the manner of documents that were always more than they appeared, extending across the table, off the table, and several feet into the tournament field. The print is very small. It is the kind of small that suggests the author had strong feelings about discouraging readers. Humphrey leans in with great confidence. Reginald with professional reluctance. Goodwife Thripp with the expression of someone who has already read the last page. "Clause four," Humphrey announces, arriving at clause four with the certainty of a man who has simply decided this is clause four. "'In the event that a registered knight presents written petition to the Presiding Judge not later than one hour before dusk—'" He stops. "'The Presiding Judge shall be—'" Both men look up. At the goat. The goat, wearing what is unmistakably an official judge's hat, stands fifteen feet away in a patch of municipal grass, regarding them with the mild authority of something that has approved several things today and remains comprehensively unimpressed. "Right," says Reginald, after a long moment. "You'll need to petition the goat."