"What does it require?" the woman repeats, as though this is a very reasonable question she has nonetheless been hoping no one would ask. She resumes knitting. "Well. The hat is the Official Tournament Judge's Hat, registered with the County. It belongs to the County. The goat is not the County." A pause to count stitches. "However, the goat ate the Deed of Transfer, which means there are grounds for disputing ownership under the Third Compact of Midden — if anyone can find a copy. They can't. The original is in the goat." As if summoned by bureaucracy itself, a slight figure in a faded blue-and-yellow tabard scurries from behind the collapsed hospitality tent, shedding parchment as he goes. He clutches an overstuffed satchel with the air of a man who has been waiting for exactly this moment and resents that it has finally arrived. "I HEARD THAT," announces Reginald the Herald. "I have FORMS."