Convocation of Disputes

The Hall of Disputes is where the illusion of civilized vice nearly collapses under its own weight.

It is a grand chamber—vaulted, acoustically unforgiving, deliberately overcrowded—where representatives of the Legions gather not to question whether a crime was committed, but to whom its proceeds properly belong. Because in Rinyldissen, every criminal act pays kickbacks. Always. To someone. Often to many someones. The only uncertainty is which strata is entitled to skim first, how deeply, and under what ceremonial justification.

The screaming is constant.

A forged land deed—does its revenue fall under the Renowned Legion of Forgers & Counterfeiters, or the Triumphantly Exalted Legion of Slumlords who ultimately benefited? A smuggling route that ferried people instead of goods—was it a matter for the Singularly Illustrious Legion of Safe Houses and Exilers, or the Lofty Highborn Legion of Smugglers? A scandal manufactured by rumor—does it belong to the Notable and Veritable Legion of Muckrakers, or to the Eminent Legion of Blackmailers who monetized it afterward?

No one agrees. Everyone shouts.

Arguments are made with precedent, with annotated ledgers, with citations from centuries-old charters of vice. Clerks scramble to keep up. Arbitrators—retired criminals of impeccable reputation—bang staffs, ring bells, threaten expulsions. Nothing works. The noise is part of the process. Volume is influence. Outrage is leverage.

Because the kickbacks are enormous.

Rinyldissen taxes crime better than most cities tax labor. Every act feeds not just the perpetrator, but a cascading hierarchy of patrons, protectors, enablers, and “ethical overseers.” The city itself takes a silent cut through intermediaries whose titles are deliberately vague. The more profitable the crime, the more ferocious the dispute over its classification. Entire weeks can be lost arguing whether a single operation constituted extortion, facilitated vice, or reputational arbitration—each category taxed differently.

And yet, despite the chaos, the system works.

No knives are drawn in the Hall. Violence there would be unthinkable—barbaric. This is a place of law, after all. Screaming is permitted. Insults are expected. Threats are phrased as procedural objections. The worst punishment is reassignment to a lower strata, where one’s crimes still pay—but pay less.

Outsiders who witness the Hall often mistake it for dysfunction. In truth, it is a pressure valve. A place where greed, resentment, and ambition are allowed to detonate loudly so they do not explode elsewhere. Better to scream over percentages than stab over territory.

The city points to the Hall with pride.

See? it says. Even our criminals argue like citizens.

And compared to the blood-soaked simplicity of the gangs beyond the walls, it’s hard to argue.