Momonga stretched his legs as he stood in front of the fountain, the silky skirt he wore rode up his thigh, and for a moment he felt a burst of ecstasy. For the last few nights, Albedo had been helping him with his wardrobe, their little fashion modeling sessions had become preludes to sex, and every time it happened, it felt like he was strengthened. But when you're already among the strongest in the world, what was a little more strength?

Nothing.

Nothing compared to the bliss of waking up beside her, though he was fairly sure there was gossip aplenty within the tomb among his long term guests and full time residents, that was a trivial concern.

Particularly now that he was having fun, applying the lessons of his old world brought from games, fables, myths, movies, and tv, to solving problems in this one. They had no Judge Di or Sherlock Holmes here, and from what Momonga could tell, anything prior to six hundred years ago was essentially a myth except to elves, who said little if anything about those days they remembered.

Not that anyone was asking, those were mostly slaves, though he saw few enough of them. He sat down at the fountain and watched the crowd begin to form, among them were now some who were dressed similarly to himself, 'Judges too, I suppose.' He thought and lightly touched his garb. The coincidence was startling, but at least it led to some enjoyment as he heard the newest case.

"I was made sick by the food I ate, and made unable to work. This cost me several days wages. I want to be compensated!" The laborer explained and glared at the man to his right.

"How do you know it was the food?" Momonga asked.

"It was an ache in my stomach, and I felt it not one hour after eating!" He exclaimed in response, his hand resting on his stomach, he shivered at the memory. "I don't know why it made me ill, it was a simple chicken dish, but he is at fault for my illness!"

"What say you?" Momonga asked of the restaurant owner, he stood there still in his white chef's hat and the stained up apron of a man who worked with food.

"I say nonsense!" He declared and crossed his arms. "I get hundreds of customers per day, none of them got sick, neither from the chicken nor from the fish! Doesn't matter what he ate, it wasn't me!"

Momonga perked up, "Do you use the same material for both dishes? Same pots, knives, everything?"

"Yes, of course." The chef replied, and Momonga turned his eyes back to the plaintiff.

"Do you have an allergy to fish?" He asked.

"I get sick when I eat it, that's all I know." The peasant answered.

"Cross contamination." Momonga said at once.

"Cross what?" The two asked at once.

"When you use the same materials from both food items, you carry small bits back and forth, sometimes too small to see, but enough to get someone sick." Momonga explained, "So that would be why he was made ill, but others were not."

The chef gasped, as did the crowd, and narrowed his eyes, "I've never heard that before."

"Test it, if you do not believe me. Find a few people with bad reactions to some foods, prepare them dishes in the same way as was done with this man," he waved his hand toward the plaintiff, "and you will see the same result. I picked this knowledge up… far away. But it is true."

The chef glowered at him, "Even if that is true, I had no way of knowing that, I've been cooking all my life and never heard it, nor have any of my comrades."

"I told you." The plaintiff said and glowered back at the chef.

"It wasn't done through malice or incompetence, just bad luck." Momonga pointed out, "I cannot penalize the chef as you wish. Therefore I cannot find in your favor." He tossed the two coppers over his shoulder to land in the fountain, "But you are not a rich man and cannot afford to go without your pay for long periods. Therefore I will compensate your loss… on the condition that he," Momonga gestured to the chef, "and his comrades will test my statement and when they find I am correct, vow to enact standards of food preparation to prevent all such future cross contamination."

"I will." The chef straightened his back and said, "As a matter of professional pride, I can't have it any other way. Nor can anyone who wishes to call themselves a chef!"

Momonga then removed three silver coins and held them toward the plaintiff. "My 'court' awards you compensation for your loss, be careful where you dine, in the future." He said, then looked to the chef once more, "And as for you, after I turn out to be right, I would suggest you begin a chef's guild and a group of food inspectors to ensure those standards are upheld. Every person kept sick at home is one less out working, and one less dining at your establishments. You affect the very state of the Empire with the quality of your work. Remember that."

The chef's stiff back somehow went stiffer at the grandiose praise for his work and its role in the turning of events.

The crowd murmured as the esteemed 'traveling Judge' praised a profession's significance. Before the pair could properly withdraw, a page approached, clad in his white wig and golden clothing and boots curled slightly up at the toe, he even wore a purple sash across his right chest and left hip to ensure his role was understood.

"Wandering Judge, Momonga, you are cordially invited to follow me to the Palace of the Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El-Nix for an audience." The page had not so much as waited for his greeting, nor looked away from the scroll he was reading. As messages went, it was to Momonga's ears, peremptory to the point of rudeness.

"I will have to wait. I have made a commitment to hearing the people out until sunset." Momonga said and waved his hand toward the mob.

"But- But-" The page lowered the scroll on which his invitation was written and looked at the judge properly for the first time.

"No buts." Momonga said, "They were here first, and what kind of just judge would I be, if I were to break my word while holding people to theirs? No. The Emperor will have to wait until my commitment is seen through to the end."

Murmurs of disbelief and wide eyed admiration spread throughout the mob, "You may wait here to guide me as I finish, or you may return and inform your master of the time of my arrival. But I will keep my word." Momonga promised.

"I-I-I will inform His Majesty… I, yes, ah, please do not delay more than you must…" The page clearly had no contingency for how to answer a refusal of a summons, but for that, Momonga could hardly blame him.

After all, if greed didn't compel people, fear would. But Momonga was fairly certain he could have bought and sold the entire Empire a half a dozen times while barely diminishing his treasury, and there were no threats to him that the Emperor could make that Momonga himself could not utterly crush.

And so keeping his word and reputation as 'the wise judge' was easy.

Not to mention the powerful boost to his name that it granted him.

But even so, a twinge of curiosity ran through Momonga that kept him on the edge of his seat in one of Arwintar's many fountains, and a little bit of that curiosity was rooted in one thing.

'How did the Emperor hear about me? I hadn't intended to make contact with him until after word of my help toward Draudillon reached his ears.' Momonga pondered that between each case he heard, and only when the sun was near to setting did he recall the girl he 'freed' from her father and mother. 'Aritia? Arate? Archie? Arche? I wonder if she had something to do with it… she did mention an academy…?' It seemed likely enough, but it was something to ask later, he concluded, until the sun began to set, and the watchers saw their revered judge stand up, making ready to go to meet what might just be…

A new friend?