Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty one, Enemies Everywhere.
Speaker 2: The silence is the loudest thing. The town used to
be full of angry noise. Smith's beating, iron, tanners scraping hide,
the dogs shouting in the tavern. Now it's dead quiet,
just the wind coming off the river and the creak
of timber that hasn't been maintained. I wake up. The
first thing I notice isn't the cold. It isn't the
smell of rot that is settled into the stones of
the Mayor's hall. It's my boots. I left them by
the door. I always leave them by the door, facing out.
Ready thereby the window, I stare at them. They are
just boots, scuffed leather, mud caked soles. But they moved.
Did I move them? I try to remember. Last night,
I drank the last of the turned cider. I sat
on the throne until my back ached. I came up here.
Did I kick them off? Did I stumble? No? I
am Gidrey, the scum King. I don't stumble. Some One
moved them. I draw my sword before I even get
out of bed. I checked the wardrobe empty, under the
bed empty. The door is bolted from the inside. They
moved A dangerous reality is a buzzing in my teeth.
If someone was in my room, they could have cut
my throat. Why move the boots? A message a mockery.
We can get to you, is the message. I know it.
Checked the north tower empty. I checked the river gate locked.
I checked the main gate, and my heart stops. It's open,
not wide, just a crack, A sliver of gray light
showing between the heavy oak doors, enough for a man
to slip through or a knife.
Speaker 1: I knew it. I whisper.
Speaker 2: I tear the barracks apart. First, Where is the key?
I scream, overturning a cot. Who has the master key?
I rush outside and Gix is leaning against a wall.
He looks more amused than concerned. He shrugs. Someone opened
the gate, gigs someone is trying to let them in.
He shrugs again, useless. I leave him in his annoying crown.
I find Cob in the kitchen. He's boiling water, just water,
because we have nothing to put in it. Did you
go to my room? I demand, grabbing him by his tunic,
But no, Why would I do that. I've been here
trying to make soup from nothing. Show me your hands.
If you're lying to me, Cob, I will boil you
in that pot. I march Jarin out of his house.
I don't knock. I kick the door in. He's sitting
at his table, staring at his hands. The hands my
dogs smashed. They're wrapped in dirty bandages, swollen and useless.
He did this to get back at me, I snarl.
You told one of your apprentices to open it. Daron
looks up. His eyes are dead. Open what the gate?
You want us dead? You opened the door to let
the sea in to reclaim their gold. He holds up
his ruined hands. I can't even wipe my own ass.
His voice is bitter and there is no one left
to listen to my orders. Pull out my sword and
hold the tip to his throat. Tell me who moved
my boots? Your boots? Jarren laughs. It's a dry, hacking sound,
full of pathos and disbelief. You're mad, You've officially gone mad.
I press the blade until a beat of blood wells up.
Dray I spin around. Orso is standing in the doorway.
He isn't holding his crossbow. He looks tired, so incredibly tired.
Let him go. He opened the gate, or So it
was a jar, a traitor. Or So doesn't argue, He
doesn't reason. He walks up to me, grabs my arm
and drags me. Get off me. I try to pull away,
but Orso's grip is iron. He doesn't stop. He drags
me through the mud, past the staring townsfolk, all the
way to the gate. I could stop him, I could
beat him, but I don't. He has something to show me,
and that's more than any of the rest of the
damned town has shut me toward the wood of the gate. Look,
I look at the doors. They are still slightly open.
Someone opened it. I insist someone slipped out. I look
over my shoulder, or slipped in. Or So doesn't say
a word. He climbs up the bracing of the gate.
He grabs the upper hinge, the massive iron knuckle that
holds the door to the stone, the same one that
was crafted recently and broke. He wrenches it. There's a
sickening crunch of metal, and a chunk of iron breaks
off in his hand. He jumps down and throws it
at my feet. It lands in the mud. With a
wet thud. It's broken, Dray, he says, his voice flat.
It's been broken since the casting failed, since we broke
the smith's hands. The door hangs crooked. It doesn't close.
I stare at the metal. No, it was closed yesterday.
Damn it, Dre, What is wrong with you? Nothing will
keep that broken gate closed. Every single day we push
it shut and gravity pulls it open. There is no trader,
there is no key, just a broken door in a
broken town. He turns and walks away. I watch him go.
I look down at the piece of iron. It's cracked, broken, useless.
I walk back to the Mayor's hall. I go to
my room. My boots are by the window. I pick
them up and put them by the door where they belong.
Just because there was nothing this time doesn't mean there
won't be a next time. They are out there. I
know it, and I'll be ready