Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty three, the first Stone.
Speaker 2: I am the King. I say it to myself as
I walk the market. I am the King. It's hard
to remember. Sometimes my armor hangs loose on my frame.
Now I've punched three new holes in my belt. The
gold leaf on my pauldrons is flaking, exposing the dull
steel underneath. But the town, the town is still mine.
I walk to my pile of gold. It's still there, untouched,
as if it's worthless, and even the poor townfolk consider
it part of the background, like an unused alley or
a tree. There you never notice it, but if someone
reminds you of its existence, you finally see it. I
see it, and it's mine. I walk through the square.
It feels different today, heavier. Usually when I walk, the
crowd parts like water. People scramble to get out of
my way. They flatten themselves against walls, they dive into alleys.
The silence they leave behind is the silence of respect
or fear. It doesn't matter. It's the silence of power.
Today the water doesn't part, It flows around me. Man
carrying a basket of turnips. Doesn't dive into the mud.
He just steps aside, barely enough for me to pass.
He doesn't look down, he looks at my chest, at
the flaking gold stop. I turned to glare at him
to remind him. He's already gone, disappeared into the crowd.
I keep walking. The thought of spies is back. Why
aren't they running? Do they know something? Do they know
Stigand is chained? Do they know or so? Won't talk
to me. I reach the communal trough. Three women are
washing clothes, beating gray tunics against the stone. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
I wait for them to stop, to bow, to scurry away.
It don't. One of them, a heavy woman with red arms,
wrings out a shirt. She looks up, not at my face,
through me, like I'm a post, like I'm weather, like
I'm the pile of gold. But she does notice me.
I know this because she spits on the ground. It
lands an inch from my boot. The sound of the
washing stops. The square goes quiet. But it's not the
fearful quiet I'm used to. It's a waiting quiet. I say.
My voice sounds thin in the open air. The woman
picks up another shirt thwack, I said, respect, I draw
my sword. Steel screeches. That sound usually sends them screaming.
The woman doesn't scream. She stops washing, She wipes her
hands on her apron. She looks me in the eye.
Respect what she asks. It's the first time a commoner
has spoken to me without permission in months. I am
your king, the king of what she says flatly. File
rises in my throat. I step forward, raising the blade.
I will cut your tongue out. I will clang. Something
hits my breastplate hard. I stumble back, shocked. I look
down a stone, a river stone, smooth and gray, lying
in the mud. I look up up a boy, maybe
ten years old, skinny, dirty, standing by the trough, holding
another stone. He's shaking, but he's not running. Get away
from her, he says. His voice cracks. I stare at him.
I stare at the stone in his hand. I'm dre
I'm the man who burned the abbey, I survived the tangle.
I'm the scum king of Vance's folly. And a ten
year old boy just threw a rock at me, a lunge.
It's instinct, the animal reaction to pain. I raise the sword,
ready to split him like kindling. The woman steps in
front of him. She doesn't raise her hands, she doesn't
beg she just stands there and I stop. I'm standing
in the market square, fully armored, holding a sword that
has tasted the blood of knights, poised to butcher a
washerwoman and a child. I catch my reflection in a puddle.
I look ridiculous. I look small. I lower the sword.
I look around the square. The crowd hasn't run, They've gathered.
They're watching, scores of them. Men with hammers, women with baskets,
old men with canes. They aren't looking at a king.
They aren't even looking at a monster. They're looking at
something worthless, something beneath their attention, A pile of gold
that's simply something. They walk around, go home. I don't
know who I'm saying it to them or myself. Sheathe
the sword. It feels heavy, clumsy. I turn my back
on them. It's the most dangerous thing a soldier can do,
to turn your back on a mob. But I do
it because I know they aren't going to kill me,
not today. Telling me would imply I'm worth the effort.
I walk back to the Mayor's hall. I don't look back,
but I can hear them. They're silent, and that is
louder than any warhorn.