Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter twenty five, The Rot. The
table was set for a banquet. We had pulled the
finest silk tapestries from the Mayor's private collection and laid
them out as tablecloths. We had golden chalices encrusted with rubies,
filigreed silver platters, and candles of beeswax that smelled like honey.
Now those silver platters sat the only thing left in
Vance's folly rot. I sat at the head of the table,
staring at my dinner. It was a slab of salted
pork that had turned a sickly iridescent green. At the edges.
It smelled of ammonia and old sweat. Next To it
was a heel of hard tack bread spotted with fuzzy
blue mold. I looked at my court. Stigan was hacking
at his pork with a diamond hilted dagger, his face
twisted in disgust. Gicks was picking the mold off his
bread with a long, dirty fingernail, humming a tune that
sounded like a funeral dirge. Selaine wasn't eating, she was
just drinking. Water from a crystal goblet. Staring at the wall,
Stigan took a bite of the pork. He chewed once twice,
and then spat a mouthful of gristle and gray meat
onto the priceless silk rug bare kings of a compost heap.
He roared, slamming his dagger into the table. The silence
that followed was heavy. It was the silence of men
who were rich enough to buy a kingdom, but too
poor to buy a sandwich. It's not my fault. Bob
was standing by the kitchen door, wringing his hands. His apron,
usually stained with grease and flour, was terrifyingly clean. I
can't cook gold dray, he whined. The stores are empty.
The rats got into the flower. The gardens have been
picked clean by by them. He gestured vaguely at the
town outside. I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor,
a harsh sound that made everyone flinch. You are the cook,
I said, walking toward him. Your job is to feed
the king. I am feeding you. Cob shrieked, backing away.
That pork is it's just aged, it's perfectly I grabbed
the platter from the table. The smell hit me a
wave of rancid fat that made my stomach turn. Shoved
the platter into COB's chest. Beat it, I said. Bob froze.
He looked down at the green meat. He looked up
at me, his eyes wide with panic. Bray, Please, it
will make me sick. If it's good enough for the king,
I whispered, leaning in, it's good enough for the cook,
eat it. I hated myself as I said it. I
sounded like every petty bullying lord. I'd ever gut it,
but I couldn't stop. I needed to hurt someone. I
needed to force my will on the world, even if
it was just making a fat man eat rotten meat.
Bob's hand shook. He picked up the slab of pork.
He took a bite. Tears leaked from his eyes as
he chewed, gagging, he swallowed. He took another bite, sobbing quietly.
The room was dead silent. Gicks watched with a flat,
predatory interest. Selaine looked away, disgusted not by the food
but by me. Note. I saw Gick slide his block
of hard tack, mold and all into his pocket. I
saw Seline's hand drift to the small flask of oil
at her belt, checking it was still there. We weren't
a pack anymore. We were rats on a sinking ship,
hoarding crumbs. Enough, I said, turning away from the weeping cook.
Get out of my sight. Tob fled into the kitchen.
This is madness, Stiggin rumbled. We have gold, we have swords.
Why are we starving? Because the farms are hiding it,
I snapped. The peasants are burying their grain. They'd rather
starve than feed us, So we take it. Stigen said,
standing up, I'll take the boys. We'll hit the farmsteads
to the west. We'll shake them until the grain falls out. Oh,
I said, pointing at the door. Bring me meat, stiggand
or bring me the heads of the farmers who are
hiding it. I waited on the wall until sunset. My
stomach was a knot of hunger and shame. I saw
Stiggins's party returning. They were riding hard, kicking the dust.
I met them at the gate. There were no wagons
of grain, no herds of cattle, no sacks of flour
tied to their saddles. Stiggins slid off his horse. He
looked tired, confused. Well, I demanded, where is it. It's
not that they're hiding it, Dre, Stiggins said, wiping dust
from his beard. They refused to talk. There was no
one to talk to, Stigin said. He looked back toward
the darkening hills. We had three farms, big ones. The
houses were empty, doors open, meals left on tables, rotten,
the fields. The wheat is rotting on the stalk. The
cows are gone, and it's I asked, no bodies, Stiggin said, no,
blood just gone. It's like the earth just swallowed them.
He looked at me, and for the first time I
saw genuine fear in the big man's eyes. There's no
food to steal, Dre, because there's no one left to
grow it. I looked out at the empty road, at
the silent fields beyond silence. Wasn't just in the town,
it was spreading. We had conquered a kingdom, but it
seemed the kingdom had decided to die rather than be
ruled by us. Open the reserve wine, I said quietly.
If we're going to starve, we might as well be drunk.