Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter twenty six, Fool's Gold Payday.
Speaker 2: A normal army pay day is a ritual of order,
a table, a roster, a bag of silver coins. Men
line up, take their pay, salute, and go to the
tavern to drink it away. In Vance's Folly payday was
a hostage negotiation stood in the courtyard of the hall
my dogs. The fifteen thugs who hadn't run off or
been beaten into a coma by gigs were gathered in
a loose, sullen semi circle. They wanted their money. I
looked at the chest or so had dragged out. It
wasn't full of silver shillings or copper pennies. It was
full of what we had stolen from the abbey, five
pound bars of stamped holy bullion. I promised you gold,
I said. I reached into the chest and pulled out
a bar. It was heavy, cold, and worth more than
every building in this town combined.
Speaker 1: Here.
Speaker 2: I tossed it to the biggest of them, a scarred
brute named Vic, who had somehow risen to the top
of the dogpile. Vic caught it. He grunted under the weight.
He looked at the bar. He bit it just to
be sure, and he looked at me. He wasn't smiling.
What am I supposed to do with this, boss, you
spend it? I said, that's a lifetime of wages. You
should be thanking me. I can't drink a brick. Vic
spat hefting the bar. I go to the tavern and
slap this on the bar. What happens, innkeeper hasn't got
changed for a house. He hasn't got changed for a
lifetime of earnings. That's not my problem. Work it out,
share it, melt it down. I don't care. I kicked
the chest shut. You wanted gold, you got gold. Now
get out of my sight. Vic glared at me, his
knuckles white around the bar. For a second, I thought
he was going to throw it at my head. Instead,
he shoved it into his belt, which sagged comically under
the weight, and turned to his pack ale. He growled. Now.
I watched from the balcony of the Mayor's Hall as
night Fell should have felt powerful. I had paid my troops,
I had a fortune in the vault down in the town.
The screams had started. It wasn't the scream of a raid.
It was the scream of frustration. VIC and his dogs
were at the red lantern. I could hear the crash
of furniture from here. I imagined the scene, Vic slamming
that five pound bar onto the sticky wood of the counter,
demanding ale. The innkeeper, a terrified little man named Olan,
staring at a fortune he couldn't touch. I have no silver,
Olan would be pleading, I have no change. It's gold,
Vic wid scream take the damn gold, and then the crunch.
I winced as a particularly loud crash echoed up from
the street. The economy of Vance's folly wasn't just broken.
I had crushed it. I had flooded a market of
turnips and tin spoons with the wealth of an empire.
I watched a loaf of bread change hands in the
street below. One of the dogs tossed a golden ring,
probably worth fifty solari, to a baker for a single
stale loaf. The baker looked at the ring like it
was a curse. He didn't want it, he couldn't eat it,
and if he tried to spend it, someone would cut
his throat for it. The gold was trash. It was
too big, too heavy, too valuable. Down at the red lantern,
the noise stopped abruptly. A moment later, the door kicked open.
Vic stumbled out, wiping blood from his knuckles. He was
carrying a keg under one arm and clutching his gold
brick in the other. He kicked the dead body of
Olin out of the doorway as he left. He hadn't
paid for the ale. He had killed the man because
the man couldn't give him change. My enforcers were wrecking
the town not to keep order, not because there was
an enemy, but because they were bored, rich, and unable
to buy a simple drink. I gripped the cold stone
of the balcony railing. I was a king with a
treasury that could buy the world, and my kingdom was
burning down over a pint of ale. Or so, I
whispered to the empty air. Or So stepped out of
the shadows behind me. Coinage implies civilization, dre We have
neither melt it, I said, watching Vick stumble down the street.
Tell Selaine to get the shears. We clip the bars,
we make slugs, We make our own damn money. It
won't bring the innkeeper back, or so said no, I said,
turning back to the dark Hall. But it might stop
them from killing the Baker.