Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode sixteen,
The Worthless Icon. The sun died and the world was
left in shades of purple and gray. We stood over
the pilgrim's body, the silence of the empty road a
heavy shroud. The brief, ugly violence had solved nothing. The
hollowness in my gut was back, and it had nothing
to do with hunger. Celaine I nodded toward the dead pilgrim.
See what we've earned. She needed no encouragement. With the
practiced efficiency of a butcher dressing a carcass, she knelt
beside the body. There was no hesitation, no squeamishness. This
was business.
Speaker 2: The rest of us crowded around a tight circle of vultures,
our faces illuminated by a single torch. Gigs had lit.
Speaker 1: She was thorough.
Speaker 2: Her nimble fingers searched every pocket, every fold in the
old man's robes. First she found a small, hard lump
of stale bread and a half empty water skin, which
she tossed to Cob without a word. Then her hand stopped.
She had found something in a hidden pocket sewn into
the lining of the robe. It was a small leather pouch,
but it was heavy, deceptively heavy. She untied the draw string,
her movements precise and unhurried. The torchlight reflected in her cool,
calculating eyes. She tipped the pouch into her open palm.
The sound was like a long forgotten song, not the
pathetic rattle of copper, but the deep, satisfying clink of
real silver. Several heavy coins, each stamped with the radiant
sun of the sea, gleamed in her hand, and silver
solari real money enough to buy our way into a town,
to buy food and wine, and a proper roof over
our heads. A collective breath was released. The grim tension
that had held us shattered in an instant. Ha Stiggins's
booming laugh broke the silence. Silver, real silver. Cob was
actually weeping with joy, muttering thanks to God's he'd been
cursing an hour before, even also allowed himself a thin,
rare smile. The hollowness was gone, washed away by the glorious,
beautiful weight of our prize. The murder was forgotten. It
was no longer a crime. It was a profitable transaction.
As the men celebrated Selaine. Ever, the professional continued her search.
There's something else. She pulled a final object from the
pilgrim's robes. It was a piece of carved ivory, about
the length of her hand. She held it up to
the torch. The carving was of a man's face, severe
and judgmental, with a stern, unforgiving mouth. The stern visage
the same icon that had been nailed to the wall
of the priest's hovel. It was old, the ivory, yellowed
and smooth from years of handling. Selaine turned it over
in her hands, her brow furrowed in appraisal. She waited,
tapped it with a finger nail, then let out a short,
sharp scoff of dismissal. Worthless, she declared, her voice, cutting
through the men's cheerful chatter. Ivory, Yes, but the carving
is crude. No collector would want it. It's a token
of a dying faith. Without a second thought, she tossed
it aside. It landed in the dust near my boot.
The men's attention was already back on the silver, but
I found myself staring at the discarded icon. Something about
it held my gaze. I crouched down and picked it up.
It felt cool and smooth in my calm, Heavier than
it looked. As my fingers closed around it, a strange
cold feeling washed over me, a sense of foreboding that
I couldn't place. It was just a worthless piece of ivory,
but it felt like a key or a stone that,
once thrown, could never be taken back.