Ed Edwards stood at the courthouse doors in a black robe two sizes too large. Three weeks ago his girlfriend Stephanie snapped her fingers and named him head judge. He had no legal training. He took the job anyway, because Donnell needed one and no one else raised a hand. This morning a farmer stood in the aisle shouting that Ed's last ruling was worthless. Ed had ordered him to pay six silver for a broken fence. The farmer waved a callused finger at the bench. "You made that number up," the farmer said. "Six silver. Why not eight? Why not two? Because you felt like it. That ain't law. That's your mood." Ed opened his mouth. He had nothing to point to. No book. No written rule. He had ruled against Stephanie's own cousin last month for stealing carrots, and the cousin had said the same thing on his way out the door. Personal whim. Ed had heard the phrase in his sleep every night since. Stephanie sat in the front row. She had started speaking to him again on Tuesday. Barely. She watched him now with her arms folded. "You're right," Ed said. The farmer blinked. "Not about the fence," Ed said. "About the number. I picked it. Nothing told me to pick it. That's the problem, and it's mine." He stepped down from the bench. "Court's closed for the day." The room emptied slow. Stephanie stayed. "You just admitted you're guessing," she said. "I am guessing." Ed sat on the step below the bench. "Every ruling I make, somebody walks out saying I made it up. And they're not wrong. I need something on paper. A code. Written down. Same rule for your cousin as for a stranger." Stephanie was quiet. She was the head lawyer of Donnell. She knew what he was asking for. She also knew who would have to help him write it. "It'll take months," she said. "Then it takes months." "People won't wait months for judgments." "Then we start with the simple ones. Theft. Damage. Debt. We post them on the courthouse door as we finish them. Anything not written yet, I won't rule on." She looked at him a long moment. "You'll have half the town furious inside a week. Every dispute you refuse is a dispute that festers." "I know." She pulled a chair to the bench and sat down. She took a pencil from her sleeve. "Theft first," she said. "Define it." Ed climbed back up beside her. That night they nailed the first three rules to the courthouse door. Taking without permission. Breaking what isn't yours. Owing what you promised. Under each, a fixed penalty in silver and days of labor. By sunrise, four people were already waiting on the steps. Two wanted rulings on things the code did not yet cover. One wanted the code taken down. The last held a lantern and a list of complaints Ed had never heard before.