Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey. The
information Selaine had bought with Stiggins's blood money was a key,
and now or So was going to show us the lock.
We were gathered in our squalid little room, the door barred,
the air thick. With anticipation, Orso knelt on the floor
and unrolled a piece of cured hide, a crude hand
drawn map of the gutters. He must have paid a
beggar for it wasn't much, just a smear of charcoal
lines showing the main alleys and a few key landmarks.
But in Orso's hands it became a kingdom. He picked
up a handful of splintered, sharp edged twigs from his
pouch and placed them deliberately in the center of the map.
All right, he began his mercenary instincts taking over. Based
on what we've seen. Are two players. This, he said,
tapping the chaotic pile of twigs, is Silas the established power,
probably a brute who has held this gutter for years,
all rage and brute force. He then placed a few smooth,
dark stones on the eastern side. And these must be
the challengers, the red Hands, the informant's crew, younger, more disciplined,
trying to take the territory ambitious. He was laying out
a classic power dynamic, the one we'd seen a dozen
times in a dozen different pits. But Silain, who had
been silent until now, spoke up, you've got it backwards,
or So. We all turned to look at her. Or
So paused his hand hovering over the map, and raised
a single, questioning eyebrow. Silene's face was grim, her voice
low and certain. The informant was clear. The twigs, she said, pointing,
are the red hands. They are the old Guard, pure
stupid violence, all rage, just as you said, and that
is why they are losing. She then pointed to the smooth,
dark stones. That is Silas. He is the new way.
He's not a thug, He's a businessman, the informant said.
His crew is disciplined, orderly and professional. That is why
he is so much more dangerous. He doesn't just rule
the gutter, he manages it. A slow, thin smile spread
across Orso's scarred face. He was not insulted, he was impressed.
He looked at Silin with a newfound respect. With a
single deliberate motion, he swept the pieces from the map
and placed them again, this time correctly, the dark, orderly
stones of Silas's crew in the center, and the chaotic
pile of red hand twigs on the periphery. Better, or
So said his voice, holding a new, colder, cunning, much better.
Brutes are predictable, but business men. Business Men have assets,
they have supply lines, They have more to lose. I
watched him, and I understood. He didn't just see gangs
any more. He saw an ecosystem, and with Silene's intelligence,
he now had the key to its collapse. He picked
up a handful of smooth, dark stones from his pouch
and placed them deliberately in the center of the map. This,
he said, his voice a low, intense whisper, is Silas orderly, disciplined,
hard to break. Then he scattered a handful of splintered,
sharp edged twigs on the eastern side of the map.
And this this is the red hands, the old guard,
a chaotic pile of sharp edges, no discipline, all rage.
I watched him, and I understood. Or So didn't see
men or gangs. He saw pieces on a board. He
saw weaknesses and probabilities. To us, the gutters were chaos
to or So. They were a machine, and he was
about to show us how to break it. Silas is
the new way, he explained, his eyes gleaming with a cold,
predatory light. He controls the gutters through business, through control.
The Red Hands are the old way, pure stupid violence.
They hate each other, but they are in a stalemate,
a cold war. They watch each other, they test each other,
but no one makes the first real move. So we
make it for them, I asked, exactly, Orso said. We
can't fight Silas head on. We saw what happened, and
we can't join the Red Hands. They're just as likely
to slit our throats as thank us for our help.
So we don't become a player in their game, he paused,
looking around at our faces. We become the board itself,
We create the moves. We become a ghost that whispers
in both their ears and makes them tear each other
to pieces. Stigand grunted the complex scheming, clearly making his headache.
Why not just kill them all? Because we are eight
men uocks, not an army, or So shot back, without
looking up. We use our heads, not just our fists.
We will use their strength against each other, and when
they are both bleeding and broken. We will be there
to pick over the bones. His logic was cold, brutal,
and perfect. It was the first time since we'd arrived
in this pit that I felt a flicker of real hope.
This was a path to revenge. Or So leaned back
over his map, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He used
the tip of his dagger to point to a small,
insignificant looking square near the river, at the edge of
the Red Hands territory. It was the abandoned tannery our
informant had mentioned. He looked directly at me, his voice
dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, a serpent offering a poisoned apple.
We don't attack Silas, he said, the corner of his
mouth twitching into a thin, cruel smile. And we don't
attack the Red Hands. He tapped the tannery on the map.
We make them attack each other. The war starts here.