Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter fourteen, The Baker's Tears.
Speaker 2: I found Cob in the bakery. I expected to find
him hiding under a table, stuffing his face with stolen
bread while looking over his shoulder for the city watch.
That's the Cob I knew, a weeping, shivering appetite and
a soiled apron. But the man standing in the center
of the golden sheaf was not hiding the bakery. It
was the pride of Vance's folly. It was warm, smelling
of yeast and caramelized sugar, with polished wooden counters and
great stone ovens that radiated a gentle, dry heat. The
master Baker, a thick armed man, wore his flour dusted
apron like a badge of office, was standing at his workbench.
He was shaking. Cob was pacing in front of him.
He was still wearing the ill fitting male hauberk that
came down to his knees, making him look like a
metal plated toad. It was covered in mountain filth. But
he wasn't hunching. He was strutting. He held a wooden
rolling pin in his hand like a marshal's baton. Do
you call this laminated? Cob screeched, his voice cracking with
genuine offended rage. He pointed the rolling pin at a
tray of unbaked pastries. Look at the layers, you heavy
handed oath. They're smashed. You've worked the butter until it's
wept into the dough. It's not puff pastry. It's a
grease trap. Stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
I'd come to drag Cob out, maybe kick him toward
the wagon to help unload. But this, this was theater.
A baker was a man who could likely break Cob
in half with one hand. Flinched, he looked, asked Cob
to me the black armored nightmare in the doorway, and
then looked back at the little fat man screaming at him.
He knew the hierarchy. He knew that if he touched
the toad, the lion at the door would eat him.
I I can start again, my lord, the man stammered.
My lord, Cob laughed. It was a cruel high sound.
I am not a lord. Lords eat swill and think
it's ambrosia because it's served on silver. I am a chef,
and you are insulting my eyes. Worse, you are insulting
my palate. He swept the tray of pastries onto the floor. Clatter,
splat again. Cob hissed, and this time, keep the butter cold.
If I see it, shine, I take a finger. I watched,
fascinated for months. Cob had been the punchline of our crew.
He whimpered when it rained, he cried when we ran
out of salt. He cooked squirrel stews that tasted like
despair because that's all he had to work with. I
had assumed he was a fraud, a pantry boy who
got lucky when we hauled him in to feed us.
I was wrong. Cob wasn't a bad cook. He was
a frustrated artist trapped in a hell of hardtack and roadkill.
And now he had a studio. A sponge, Cob barked,
spinning on his heel, Show me the hydration. The man
scrambled to a mixing bowl. Cob stuck a dirty finger
into the batter, tasted it, and spat it onto the
baker's pristine floor. Too much flour, Cob screamed. He slapped
the baker. It wasn't a closed fist. It was a sharp,
stinging backhand to the cheek. Are you baking a cake
or a brick for the wall? I asked for a
ga noise light airy, you've beaten the air out of
the eggs like they owed you money. The man clutched
his cheek, tears welling in his eyes. In the corner
of the room, his wife and two daughters were huddled together,
clutching each other, watching in terrified silence. They watched this small, round,
filthy man dismantle the patriarch of their family, not with
a sword, but with vocabulary folding. Cob mimed the motion
with exaggerated grace. You fold the flour in, you don't
strangle it. Do you even know what development is?
Speaker 1: Do you? By yes? Chef?
Speaker 2: The man's culinary pride was being demolished by a demon
from the tangle. Then why are you trying to kill
me with this rubber? Cob grabbed the bowl and inverted
it over the man's head. The batter slid down the
baker's face in a thick yellow glob. Clean it up,
Cob said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register,
and fetch the vanilla. Beans, the real ones. If you
bring me extract, I will burn this building down with
you inside it. I realized then that Cob was just
just as much of a sadistic asshole as stiggand or
Gix may be worse. Stiggin hurt people because he liked
the fight. Gicks hurt people because he was broken. Cob
Cob hurt people because they weren't perfect. He saw me
watching him. For a second, I thought he'd cower. Instead,
he puffed his chest out bray. He nodded, acknowledging me
as a peer. The local talent is rustic, but I
will beat a passable meal out of him if it
takes all night. As you were a chef, I said, grinning,
I stayed. I watched for an hour under COB's relentless,
abusive tutelage, screaming about oven temperatures, checking the peaks of
the mering with the scrutiny of a jeweler threatening to
skin the man alive if the ganash seized. The chef
produced a masterpiece. It was a hazelnut almond cake layered
with coffee butter cream and topped with spunge sugar that
caught the light like gold. It was delicate, it was precise.
It was the kind of thing you'd see on the
high table of the radiant sea. It didn't belong in
a mud hole like Vance's folly. Bob stared at the cake.
The rage vanished from his face, replaced by a look
of pure, lustful adoration. Finally, he whispered competence. A chef
of Vance's folly stood by the oven, covered in flour
and batter, shaking with exhaustion. He looked at Cob with
the desperate hope of a dog waiting for a scrap
of praise. Cob didn't thank him, He didn't offer him
a slice. He picked up a silver fork. He sat
on a stool in the center of the bakery, and
he began to eat. He didn't eat with dignity. He
attacked the cake. He shoveled large, creamy forkfuls into his mouth,
moaning softly. Cream smeared into his beard, sugar flakes dusted
his dirty mail. He ate with a frantic, starving intensity,
filling the hole inside him that fear had dug. He
ate half the cake in silence, while the baker's hungry
children watched. Then he slowed down. He looked a little green.
The richness of the cream after months of starvation diet,
was hitting his stomach like a hammer. He burped a wet,
heavy sound. He kept eating became disgusting. He was forcing
it down, now sweating, his eyes glazing over. He was
eating it not because he was hungry, but because it
was his, because he could, because for the first time
in his miserable life, he was the one holding the whip.
He finished the last bite. He licked the plate. He
leaned back, clutching his stomach, looking like he might vomit.
He looked at the man who had baked this piece
of art, who was waiting for the verdict. Pob let
out a long, wet belch. He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. A hazel nut was over toasted,
Cob said, his voice flat, beasted, burnt. He stood up,
swaying slightly, and walked to the door. He paused, looking
back at the devastated kitchen and the broken man. Have
a fresh one ready for me tomorrow morning, Cob said,
And Colin, if the buttercream splits again, I'll have the
Northman use your thumbs for kindling. He walked out into
the street, leaving the baker, who was apparently named Colan,
weeping silently into his flower bin. I followed him out.
Cob leaned against the wall of the bakery and vomited
into the gutter. He wiped his mouth, looked up at me,
and gave a weak, sickly smile. The technique was sound,
dre he wheezed. But the service in this town is terrible.
Clapped him on the shoulder. He was a petty tyrant,
a glutton Chapter fifteen, Selaine's Ledger. While Stiggan drowned himself
in Ale and cob tortured a baker with a rolling pin.
Selaine and went to war. Her weapons were not steel.
They were silent and a stick of charcoal. I watched
her from the balcony of the Mayor's manner. She moved
through the chaotic streets like a hawk, diving through a
flock of starlings. She ignored the looting, She ignored the screams.
She walked up to the door of the Ironmonger's Guild,
flanked by two of the terrified town guards she had
pressed ganged into carrying her books. She knocked once, sharp
and authoritative. Door opened, and she stepped inside. She didn't
come out for twenty minutes. When she did, she was
holding a heavy leather bound book, and the Guildmaster was
standing in the doorway, looking like a man who had
just been told the exact date of his own death.
She moved to the next house, the tanner, then the
grain merchant. She was performing an autopsy on a living town.
I turned back to the room, the Mayor's Solar, who
was a ridiculous space filled with velvet drapes and furniture
with spindly gilded legs that looked like they'd snap if
a real man sat on them. I tested this theory
by kicking a chair. It shattered satisfyingly. I picked up
the pieces and threw them out the open window into
the muddy courtyard below. Crash. Another one Dicks cheered from
where he was lounging on a chaise outside the building,
carving his initials into a priceless tapestry. I grabbed a
bottle of the Mayor's vintage, read something from the Southern
Vineyards of the Sea, and knocked the neck off against
the mantle.
Speaker 1: I drank.
Speaker 2: It was rich, oaky and tasted like power. The door opened,
Selaine walked in. She didn't look at the ruin we
were making of the room. She walked straight to the
heavy oak table in the center, swept the collection of
porcelain figurines onto the floor with a sweep of her arm,
and slammed her ledger down. We have a problem, she said,
Her voice was ice water. We have wine, I countered,
offering her the jagged bottle, and we have a town.
I failed to see the problem. She ignored the bottle.
She opened the ledger. It was covered in her precise
spiderweb handwriting. I have audited the primary businesses, she said,
tapping the page. Vance's folly is a lie. The name
is apt. The town is insolvent to backwater Slaine. Of
course it's insolvent. It looks like a backwater because the
mayor kept it that way. This is a trading center
at the intersection of two rivers. It should not be
a backwater. Selaine sighed. But there is no coin dre
she said, looking me in the eye. The mayor has
been skimming the tax revenue for years to buy this.
She gestured vaguely at the velvet drapes garbage. The merchants
operate almost entirely on credit notes from the conquered. There
is no cash in the strong boxes, maybe a few
hundred coppers and some silver spokes. We cannot pay a
salary with this hell. The mayor probably paid bribes to
the concord to keep this place's own backwater kingdom. And
you know what happens if those bribes are no longer paid.
I shrugged. We have the wagon, We have the abbey gold,
which we cannot spend, she reminded me, sharply, we need
liquid assets to run a town, to buy loyalty, to
pay for imports. To flip the page, however, she continued,
her finger tracing a column of numbers. The warehouses are
full iron, cured leather, seasoned timber grain. The raw materials
are here. The value of this town isn't in the chests.
It's in the rivers and the rich lane around it.
She looked up at me, her face intense. That was
when she smiled the widest grin I'd ever seen on
her face. It's a machine dre If we keep the
machine running, if we export the iron and the leather,
we can generate clean, spendable coin. We can wash the
abbey gold through the trade routes. We work the materials
and nurture the trade routes of the rivers. We can
build a legitimate treasury. So do it, I said, taking
another swig of wine. Tell them to get back to work.
I can't, she said, because you broke the machine. She
pointed out the window towards the smoke rising from the
lower district. Stiggand has smashed the brewery. Vats Cob has
traumatized the baker. Your inventory has terrified the workforce. The
smiths are hiding in their cellars. The tanners have fled
to the woods. If they don't work, the iron rush
and the grain rots. We are looting a corpse stray
when we should be working a horse. She took a
step closer. That's what I meant when I said we
have a problem. We are the problem. You need to
recall the crew. You need to stop the looting. We
need to declare martial law, set shifts and guarantee safety.
We need to preserve the asset. I stared at her.
She was talking about shifts, about safety, about work. I
looked at Gicks, who was currently cutting the eyes out
of a portrait of the Mayor's mother. I looked at
the bottle in my hand, Slaine, I said, my voice
heavy with a lazy, dangerous humor. Do I look like
a foreman to you? You are a king, she hissed,
act like one. The king protects his peasants so he
can tax them. I am a scum king, I corrected her.
I walked over to a heavy, gilded cabinet filled with
cris glasses. I put my boot against it and shoved it.
Tipped over with a spectacular deafening crash. Glass sprang across
the floor. Selaine didn't flinch, but her jaw tightened. I
didn't conquer this mud hole to run a tannery, I said,
turning on her. I conquered it to take what I want.
If you break them, they can't produce, she insisted, her
voice rising. We will have nothing left to steal in
a week. Then we steal from someone else. I snapped,
walks back to the table. I looked at her ledger,
at the neat rows of numbers representing iron ingots and
bushels of wheat. It was boring, it was slow. It
was the work of a merchant, not a conqueror. I
reached out and ripped the page from the book, Selaine gasped,
snatching the book away.
Speaker 1: What are you doing.
Speaker 2: I crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it
into the fireplace. It flared up, turning to ash in seconds.
I don't care about their iron, I said, And I
don't care about their safety. I grabbed a heavy velvet
upholstered arm chair. I dragged it to the window. We
have the gold, I said, lifting the chair. We have
the wine. Through the chair, out the window. It smashed
into a rain barrel below. Let the machine break, I said,
turning back to her with a grin. We'll burn the
pieces to stay warm. Delane looked at me for the
first time. I saw something other than calculation in her eyes.
I saw disappointment. She closed her ledger with a snap.
As you say, my lord, she said coldly. She turned
and walked out, clutching her book like a shield. She
knew she was right, Hell, I knew she was right.
She knew I was a fool, But I was the
fool with the sword.
Speaker 1: Sixteen the King's bed.
Speaker 2: The manner smelled of lavender, and I hated it. I
kicked open the double doors of the master suite. They
were mahogany, polished to a shine that I immediately ruined with
the toe of my caked boot. I walked in. It
wasn't a room. It was a soft, expensive womb. The
carpet was thick white wool imported from the southern grazing lands.
I stepped onto it. A clod of black, greasy mountain
mud mixed with horse blood from the trace cutting dropped
from my heel and embedded itself in the pristine fibers.
I took another step, another stain. I walked through the room,
leaving a trail of filth that marked my path like
a diseased snail. I ran a hand over a delicate
silk upholstered chair. My calluses snagged on the fabric. It
was also fragile. A strong wind would tear this room apart.
I found the door to the bathing chamber. I stopped.
I had expected a wooden tub, maybe a metal hip
bath dragged in front of a fire. This was not that.
It was a temple to the body. The floor was heated,
stone coals still glowing at its edges. In the center
sat a claw foot tub made of white porcelain, gleaming
under the light. Of a beeswax chandelier. Copper pipes shining
like new pennies, ran along the wall, leading to brass
taps fitted into the wall above the tub, running water, hot,
running water. I hadn't seen plumbing like this since I
was a child, before the gutter took me. It was
the ultimate luxury. It was civilization. Two house servants, an
older woman and a young girl, were huddled in the corner,
clutching linens, shaking so hard I could hear their teeth rattling.
I pointed a dirty finger at the tub. Fill it,
I said. My voice sounded rough, alien in this echoing,
tiled space. They didn't move. They just stared at me,
this monster covered in layers of rode, grime and violence.
I slapped the door frame. Bang now, I snarled. They scrambled.
They turned the brass taps. Steam began to rise, thick
and white, filling the room with moist heat. The smell
of lavender oil poured from a crystal bottle, cut through
the stench of my own body. Suddenly I decided I
liked the smell of lavender. I didn't wait for them
to leave. I unbuckled my stolen breastplate, and let it
clang onto the stone floor. I peeled off my tunic,
stiff with sweat and dried mud, I kicked off my boots.
I stepped into the water. It was scalding hot. It
burned my skin, a shocking, exquisite pain that made me gasp.
I sank down. The water rose to my chin. The
heat seeped into my bones, melting the tension that had
been coiled in my shoulders since we left the abbey.
I lay there for an hour. I held a bottle
of the ma Best brandy in one hand, taking poles
straight from the neck. With the other hand, I scrubbed.
I used a rough sponge and a bar of soap
that smelled of flowers. I scrubbed layers of the mountain
off me, the gray dust of the high passes, the
black mud of the tangle, the red clay of the valley.
The water turned brown, then black, then a murky gray.
I drained the tub and made the terrified servants fill
it again. When I finally stood up, the water sluicing
off my body, I felt light. My skin was raw,
pink and tingling. There was a tall, silver framed mirror
leaning against the far wall. I walked over to it.
I wiped the condensation off the glass with my forearm.
I looked at myself. I hadn't seen my own face
clearly in six months. I was used to seeing a bandit,
eyes narrowed against the wind, beard matted with dirt, teeth
stained with cheap wine of the dark, built for ambush
and desperate survival. The man in the mirror was clean.
His hair was wet and slicked back, revealing the sharp
bones of his face. His beard was roughly cut, a
nod to my recent past.
Speaker 1: I liked it.
Speaker 2: The scars on his chest and arms, the history of
my violence weren't hidden by grime anymore. They stood out
against the clean skin, like white brands. They didn't look
like wounds. They looked like metals. I took another drink
of the brandy. It tasted smooth, rich, warming. I wasn't
a rat hiding in a hole anymore. I wasn't a
thief running with stolen goods. I looked at the clean
lines of my jaw, the cold, steady light in my eyes.
I was the man who had broken the stern guard.
I was the man who had dragged a mountain of
gold through hell. I was the man who owned this town,
this manner, this tub a lord, I whispered to the reflection,
I smiled. It wasn't the grin of a wolf at
the It was the smile of the man who owned
the house. Chapter seventeen Jix's 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 Gigs 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,
Dix 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?
Speaker 1: Giant?
Speaker 2: Stigan burped. It was a long, resonant sound. I was thirsty,
he rumbled. Bix turned back to the merchant. He pursed
his lips, nodding sagely. He tapped his chin with the
flat of the cleaver. I see, Gicks said softly. You
say he took it?
Speaker 1: Yes?
Speaker 2: Did you stop him? The merchant blinked, stop him. He
he's seven feet tall. He has an axe. So Gis 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 sighed
a sound of profound disappointment. He looked at the crowd
of gathered townsfolk carelessness. Gigs declared criminal negligence. The merchant's
jaw dropped. What you tempted him, Gigs 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 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.
The 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 a merchant let out a breath
of relief. Fine, fine, he can keep the barrel. No, no,
Gicks corrected him, gaily, 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. Nix'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. A knife went through
the meat of the merchant's hand, pinning it to the
oak table. The scream was immediate and ear splitting. The
merchant fell to his knees, but his hand stayed on
the table, nailed down by Dix's blade. Crowd gasped and
surged back, a wave of pure terror rippling through the square.
Leaned in close to the screaming man's ear. Since you
cannot pay with ale, Gik said soothingly, you will pay
with time. You stay there. Think about your carelessness. When
you find another barrel, you may leave. Bicks 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. It 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.
Speaker 1: They are eighteen the iron tribute.
Speaker 2: The water in the porcelain tub was getting cold, the
bubbles setting into a tiny layer that coated the water.
I had a bottle of the Mayor's second best brandy
stiggand had smashed the best, and a silence that I
had bought with Gigs's knife. Then the door banged open,
or so didn't knock. He marched in, bringing the smell
of the mud and the dying town with him. He
looked at me, naked, drinking smelling of lavender, with a
look of undisguised contempt. Get out, he said, I'm bathing,
or so. It's what kings do. Kings inspect their fortifications,
he snapped. He threw a towel at me. It landed
in the water with a heavy plap. Get dressed. You
need to see what we're actually holding beside, drained the
bottle and stood up. The water sluiced off me. I
felt heavy, not with fat, but with the strange lethargic
weight of ownership. Ten minutes later we were standing at
the North palisade. It was worse than I thought. From
the hill it had looked like a wall. Up close,
it was a fence made of kindling. The timbers were
gray with age and rot I kicked a support post
and the wood crumbled under my boot, wet pulp teeming
with wood lice. Rot orso said, kicking the same post.
This town hasn't seen a raid in twenty years. The
mayor may have been corrupt, but he paid someone off
to keep this place untouched. They let the walls die
because they felt safe. We aren't safe, dre. We have
a wagon full of the sea's gold sitting in the square,
and we are guarding it with driftwood. Pointed to the
rusted hinges on the secondary gate. If a heavy horse
hits that, it shears. If a fire arrow hits this wood,
it goes like a torch. We are sitting in a
tinder box. I looked at the rotting wall.
Speaker 1: He was right.
Speaker 2: We had the prize but we had put it in
a paper bag before tofy. I said, reinforce the main
gate with iron plate, shore up the weak points, and
shoe the horses we stole. Agreed, or so said, pulling
out a small ledger Selaine's influence. I've calculated the cost
the ironmongers will need. Stop, I looked at him. Cost, yes,
cost iron, coal, labor. It's expensive, dre Selaine says, if
we dip into some of the remaining town coin, or
perhaps barter with something that hasn't been destroyed. But I laughed.
It was a sharp barking sound, or so I said,
clapping a hand on his shoulder. You're still trying to
buy things we don't buy. Turned on my heel and
walked toward the district where the smoke hung thickest. The
street of Anvils Smithy district was the only part of
Vance's folly that felt alive. It was a place of heat, noise,
and men who worked with their hands. It smelled of
sulfur and hot metal, a scent that cleared the lavender
oil from my nose. I walked into the largest forge.
The master smith was a man named Jaren. He was
built like a keg of nails. Bald with arms as
thick as my thighs. He was hammering a plowshare, sparks
flying in the gloom. He didn't stop when I walked in.
He didn't bow. He finished the sequence, plunged the steel
into the hiss of the quench tank, and then turned
to look at me. He wiped soot from his forehead
with a leather clad arm. Where closed, Jarren rumbled, no
orders until the harvest is done. He peered at me,
Or are you going to destroy your food source too?
The harvest is canceled, I said, stepping into the heat.
Speaker 1: Of the forge.
Speaker 2: I have a new order. I outlined it. Plaiting for
the gates, heavy braces for the palisade, shoes for the horses,
iron spikes for the perimeter, A week's worth of work
for every forge in the district, to be done in
two days. Jaron listened, his face impassive. When I finished,
he crossed his massive arms. You're putting the harvest at risk,
but beyond that, it's a lot of iron, he said,
and a lot of coal. And my men don't work
for air. What's the pay pay, I asked softly. I
walked over to the anvil. I ran a finger along
the cold, hard face of the iron. You see the
smoke rising from the mayor's manner, I asked, you see
the way the baker weeps in the street. You see
the merchant pinned to the table in the square. Darren
didn't blink. He stared at me, his eyes dark under
heavy brows. I see them. He grunted. I didn't burn
your district, I said. I didn't let stigins smash your forge.
I didn't let gigs play games with your apprentices. Leaned
in close. I could smell the sweat and the coal
dust on him. That is your pay, I whispered. I
am letting you keep your shop. I am letting you
keep your hands, and I am letting you live in
my town. The silence in the forge was absolute. The
hiss of the bellows had stopped. The apprentices in the
back were frozen. Hammers raised. Baron stared at me. He
was a strong man. He had a hammer in his
hand that could crush my skull. Before I drew my sword,
I could see the calculation in his eyes. He was
weighing the weight of his hammer. Again, it's the weight
of the reputation. We had built in three days. He
looked at Orso, who was watching with a grim, tight expression.
He looked at my black armor. Slowly, very slowly, Jaron
lowered the hammer to the anvil.
Speaker 1: Clang.
Speaker 2: We'll need more coal, he said. His voice was flat, emotionless.
Bake it from the merchant's warehouse, I said. He won't
be needing it. Baron nodded. He turned his back on
me and shouted at his apprentices. Stoke the fires, strip
the stock. We worked through the night. The forge erupted
into activity. The bellows roared, hammers began to ring, and
walked out into the cool air. Or So at my heels.
You pushed him, or So hissed, glancing back at the
glow of the forge. That man isn't the baker dre
He's dangerous. Did you see his eyes? I saw us,
I said, buckling my sword belt. I saw hate, or
So countered, simmering quiet hate. You didn't buy his loyalty,
You rented his fear, and fear has a shelf life,
I laughed, feeling the vibration of the hammers through the
soles of my boots. He's working, isn't he. He's reinforcing
my walls. I looked back at the forge. The sparks
were flying a shower of gold in the dark. Let
him hate me, I said, As long as the gateholds,
I don't care what he thinks. I walked back toward
the manor, toward my warm bed and my stolen wine.
I felt strong. I felt like a king who had
just levied at tax and received his due. I didn't
know that iron remembers the fire. I didn't know that
by forcing the smiths to build my cage I was
teaching them exactly how to take it apart. I mistook
their silence for submission. It was the biggest mistake of
my life.