Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter seventeen, Jixus Court. I realized quickly that being a
king involves a lot of listening to people whine. For
two days, the townsfolk of Vance's Folly lined up at
the steps of the Mayor's hall. They held hats in
their hands and grievances in their hearts. They wanted me
to settle boundary disputes. They wanted me to fix the
price of grain. They wanted me to punish a neighbor
whose goat had eaten their laundry. And through it all
they raged about the greed of the mayor, his injustice,
his pompous arrogance. It was boring. It was the work
of clerks and old men and judges. I had conquered
a town to rule it, not to nursemate it, though
I outsourced the judiciary. I dragged a heavy oak table
into the center of the muddy market square. I threw
a velvet cloak over a crate to make a throne,
and I appointed Gix as the high Magistrate of Vance's Folly.
Sat on the balcony of the hall, a bottle of
wine in my hand and watched the show. It was
better than any theater. Dix took to the role with
a terrifying enthusiasm. He wore a judge's powdered wig he'd
found in a trunk. It was methetan, and sat crookedly
on his head, contrasting sharply with the swirling war paint
on his face. He held a butcher's cleaver instead of
a gavel, and on his head was the ever present crown. Next,
Gix shrieked, slamming the cleaver into the table thunk. A
merchant stepped forward. He was a round man, red faced
and sweating, clutching a ledger. He looked like he believed
in rules. He looked like he believed that if he
just explained the rules clearly enough, the madness would stop.
My Lord, magistrate, the merchant began, his voice, trembling but indignant.
I wished to report a theft, a grand theft. X
leaned forward, his eyes wide and unblinking, A crime in
my perfect city, shocking. Who is the villain? Merchant pointed
a shaking finger toward the brewery. Stigand was sitting on
a bench outside nursing a massive cask of ale, watching
the proceedings with a bored expression. The norseman, the merchant cried,
that cask he walked into my warehouse this morning, picked
it up and walked out. It is the winter stock,
high grade stout. He didn't pay, he just took it.
Fix looked at stigand is this true? Giant? Stigan burped.
It was a long resonance. Sound. I was thirsty, he rumbled.
Fix turned back to the merchant. He pursed his lips,
nodding sagely. He tapped his chin with the flat of
the cleaver. I see, Gick said softly. You say he
took it? Yes? Did you stop him? The merchant blinked,
stop him? He he's seven feet tall. He has an axe.
So Dix continued, standing up on his chair to tower over
the man. You saw a thirsty man, a large, thirsty
man with an axe, and you left a barrel of
ale right where he could see it. It was in
my warehouse. Was the door locked? He kicked it in
Dick's side, a sound of profound disappointment. He looked at
the crowd of gathered townsfolk carelessness. Gigs declared criminal negligence.
The merchant's jaw d. What you tempted him? GICKX explained,
his voice, taking on a lecturing tone. You placed a
temptation in the path of a simple creature of nature.
If you leave a stake out, a wolf will eat.
It is the wolf guilty. No, the fool who left
the meat is guilty, I laughed from the balcony. It
was a twisted, broken logic, but it was the only
logic that mattered here, the logic of the predator. But
my stock, the merchant stammered. A court finds you guilty
of incitement to thirst, Dick shouted, slamming the cleaver down again.
You have wasted the court's time and insulted the northman's
honor by calling him a thief. Dicks hopped down from
the table. He moved with that unnerving fluid speed, closing
the distance to the merchant in a heartbeat. He put
a hand on the man's shoulder, smiling his painted, jagged smile.
The fine is one barrel of ale, Gicks whispered. The merchant,
let out a breath of relief. Fine, fine, he can
keep the barrel. No, no, Gicks corrected him gently. He
already has that one you owe him a second barrel,
an apology barrel for the insult. I I don't have
another one. That was the last of the heavy stout.
Nicks's smile vanished. It didn't fade, it just snapped off,
leaving a blank, dead look in his eyes. You don't
have the fine, Gix asked. That is unfortunate. We have
strict penalties for defaulting on court debts. Dix's hand moved
a flash of steel. He didn't kill the man, he
just adjusted him. The knife went through the meat of
the merchant's hand, pinning it to the oak table. The
scream was immediate, and the ear splitting. The merchant fell
to his knees, but his hands stayed on the table,
nailed down by Gix's blade. Crowd gasped and surged back,
a wave of pure terror rippling through the square. Dix
leaned in close to the screaming man's ear. Since you
cannot pay with ale, Gix said, soothingly, you will pay
with time. You stay there, think about your carelessness. When
you find another barrel, you may leave. Bis turned to
the crowd, spreading his arms wide, the bloody cleaver in
one hand. Next case, he chirped, but there was no
next case. A line of petitioners evaporated. People didn't just
walk away, they ran. They slammed their shutters, they barred
their doors. The market, which had been trying to limp
along despite the occupation, simply died. Merchants frantically packed their goods.
Farmers whipped their mules, abandoning their stalls. Within ten minutes,
the square was empty, save for the sobbing merchant pinned
to the table, and Stigand, who raised his cask in
a silent toast to the magistrate. Delene appeared at my
elbow on the balcony. She looked down at the empty
square at the death of commerce. You're killing it, she
said quietly. The economy creates the value. If they are
too terrified to trade, the town is worthless. You are
ruling over a graveyard. A merchant ship saw the smoke
and has already passed us downriver, but took a drink
of wine. It was excellent, peace and quiet, I said,
looking at the deserted streets. Finally, it's not pea stray,
she said, turning to leave. It's silence. There's a difference,
I ignored her. I watched gigs rearranging his wig, waiting for
a plaintiff who would never come. The town was dying,
the wheels were coming off, the machine was breaking. But
from where I sat, high above the mud, with a
belly full of wine, it looked like a hell of
a show,