Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter
twenty one, Silver and Scorn. The inside of the crooked
keg was a pit. The air was thick enough to chew,
a foul stew of cheap pipe smoke, spilled ale, and
unwashed bodies. A dozen tables were crammed into the low
ceilinged room, each one occupied by men with the kind
of hard, empty eyes that have seen everything and value nothing.
They were a gallery of gnarled knuckles, scarred faces, and cheap,
patched up armor. This wasn't a place for cheer. It
was a place for men to wait for their next
bad decision. We pushed our way through the gloom to
the bar, a solid block of stacke zane dark wood
that had soaked up a century of misery. We moved
as a unit, a tight, defensive pack of wolves and
a den of other leaner wolves. For a moment, the
sheer relief of being off the street and under roof,
however squalid, was enough. But relief doesn't fill your belly
or buy you a place in the world. I had
seen the way the men looked at me after our
retreat from the priest, after our long march. They needed
to see their leader take control. They needed to feel
like kings again, not just survivors. I saw the barkeep,
a hulking man with a milky white blind eye and
a web of scars where the other should have been.
He looked at us with the weary indifference of a
man who has seen a thousand crews like ours come
and go. This is how you take a new city.
You walk into its heart, You make your presence known,
and you show them your teeth. In the wilderness, that
meant a sharp back. Here, it meant coin. I reached
into my pouch and pulled out a single, heavy silver salari,
one of the few that Selaine had begrudgingly handed to
me when I demanded them, With a confidence I didn't
entirely feel, I slapped it down on the grimy bar.
The clean, solid clink of real silver on wood cut
through the tavern's low grumble. It did not bring the
respect I expected. It brought silence, a sudden, predatory silence.
The conversations didn't just trail off, they were strangled.
Speaker 2: Every eye in the room turned toward us. They weren't
looking at Stiggins's bulk or gigs's knives. They were looking
at the coin. Their gazes were heavy, speculative, not with awe,
but with a cold, hungry calculation. I had thought the
silver was a shield, a declaration of our power. I
realized in that instant that I had just painted a
target on our backs. I had mistaken a room full
of sharks for a herd of sheep, and waved a
bloody piece of meat in their faces. Before I could
retrieve the coin, a figure detached itself from a dark
corner and moved toward the bar. He was of average size,
dressed in simple worn leather, but he moved with a quiet,
deadly purpose. The other patron shifted subtly, clearing a path
for him without being asked. He had a handsome face
ruined by a lattice work of old burn scars that
crawled up one side of his neck. He stopped beside
me at the bar. He didn't look at me. He
looked down at the silver solari gleaming in the grime.
He calmly placed his hand over mine, his grip surprisingly
gentle but firm as iron. With slow, deliberate pressure, he
pushed my hand and the coin beneath it. Back from
the center of the bar. He finally turned his head
and his sharp, intelligent eyes met mine. That's a beautiful coin,
he said, his voice a soft, dangerous rumble. You should
put it away before someone gets the wrong idea.
Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter
twenty two, The Rules of the House. The scarred man's
hand was warm, his grip gentle, but it held the
finality of a locked cage. He slowly released my hand,
leaving the silver coin looking foolish and obscene on the
grimy wood. Let's talk, he said, simple and direct. He
gestured with his chin toward a rickety table in a
dark corner. It wasn't a request, we moved. Stiggins's hand
was a white knuckled grip on his axe handle. Giggs
had a strange, eager stillness about him, but they followed
my lead. We sat a pack of cornered wolves while
the man who had cornered us settled into the chair
opposite me. He was relaxed, at ease, as if he
were discussing the price of bread.
Speaker 2: His name was Corvin, and he was the first man
I'd met in a long time who I knew instantly,
I could not kill easily. He leaned forward, his elbows
on the sticky table and began our lesson the gutters
have rules. He began, his sharp, intelligent eyes moving from
man to man, dissecting us. He looked at Stiggin. First rule,
we value quiet. You laugh loud, big man, you drink loud.
It draws attention. Attention is expensive here it brings the watch,
and that's bad for business. His gaze slid to Gicks,
who was smiling his unnerving smile. Corvin's expression didn't change.
Second rule, we value predictability. Your friend with the painted
face and the pretty knives, he makes people nervous. Nervous
people are unpredictable. They do stupid things. Silas doesn't like
stupid things. Finally, his eyes settled on me. They were
not angry, they were worse. They were analytical, as if
he were measuring me for a coffin. And you, he said, softly,
you lead them. You came in here and showed your wealth,
thinking it would make you a king in the gutters.
It just makes you a target. You showed your pride,
thinking it would make you fearsome here, it just makes
you a fool. Every word was a perfectly placed blow,
dismantling our entire identity. He saw us not as a threat,
but as a problem to be managed. We were amateurs.
I glanced at my crew. Stiggin was seething, his jaw tight.
Dix's smile had become a rigid, glassy thing. But it
was also who caught my attention. There was no anger
on his scarred face, there was no fear. As I
watched him, I saw a flicker of something I had
never seen from him before, grudging respect. Or So was
seeing his own cold, pragmatic worldview executed by a master.
Corvin wasn't a brawler. He was a tactician. He was
winning this wore without throwing a single punch. And or So,
a fellow predator, recognized that we had just met something
higher up the food chain. Corven leaned back his lesson concluded.
He gave a slight nod to the barkeep, who shuffled
over and placed a tray of dirty cups filled with
water down piss warm ale on our table. Oh, welcome
from Silas, Corvin said, the words, dripping with unspoken mockery,
A gift for our new guests. He stood up, but
he didn't leave. He will want his tax before you leave.
For the noise, for the education, he paused, letting the
finality of its settle in stay put. With that, Corven
and his men didn't leave the tavern. Instead, they moved.
Two took up casual positions by the main door. Another
leaned against the wall near the back exit. They weren't
looking at us, but we could feel their presence, like
a physical weight. They hadn't just beaten us in a
war of words. They had turned the entire tavern into
our prison. The scum Kings.
Speaker 1: Created and written by Mike Daltrey. The Cage.
Speaker 2: The ale sat on the table untouched. It was piss
warm and watery, but even if it had been the
finest wine, no one would have drunk it. It was
a gift from a jailer, and it tasted of the
cage we were in. The Crooked Keg was no longer
a tavern. It was a holding pen. Corven's men stood
by the exits, their postures casual, but their eyes missing nothing.
The other patrons had either slipped out or were huddled
at their own tables, trying to become invisible. The silence
in the room was thick and heavy, broken only by
the drip of a leaky roof timber. I refused to
let the silence win. To be passive was to accept defeat,
to admit he was the master and I was the dog.
I looked across the table at Corvin, who was watching
us with a calm, detached curiosity. So are we prisoners,
I asked, My voice low and even a slow smile
touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. Prisoners. No,
a prisoner's fate is decided. Yours is still under consideration.
He leaned forward slightly. Think of this as an interview,
an interview for what, so asked his voice, like stones
grinding together, to see if you're an asset silas can use,
Corvin replied, his gaze sweeping over us, or just another
pile of trash that needs to be swept out of
his gutter. Beside me, I felt stig in tense. I
didn't have to look to know his hand was a
white knuckled grip on the handle of his axe. The
big Man was a breath away from exploding a storm,
held back by the thinnest of threads. One wrong word
from me, one twitch from him, and this place would
become a slaughterhouse with us laid out on the butcher's block.
We're not for hire, I said, meeting Corvin's gaze. Everyone
in the gutters is for hire, he countered smoothly. They
just don't always get to choose their master or their price.
I glanced around the table, taking the measure of my
own kings in this moment of quiet humiliation. Gix, on
the other hand, was enjoying this. His painted smile was fixed,
his eyes wide with a disturbing fascination. He was watching
a master at work, another kind of artist of cruelty,
and he was taking notes, or so was a stone.
His eyes were locked on Corvin, not with anger, but
with a cold professional curiosity. He was dissecting him, learning
his methods. He knew we were outplayed, and he was
already studying the man who had done it. The silence
stretched again. The verbal sparring was over. We had been measured, weighed,
and found wanting. Corven finally leaned back. The interview concluded.
The assessment is complete, he said, a note of finality
in his voice. He stood up from the table. I'll
be back with the bill. He turned and walked toward
the door. The men he'd posted there did not move.
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the
grimy alley, leaving us in the tense, guarded quiet. I
saw Stiggins's shoulders relax of fraction. The moment of stillness
after Corvin's exit was heavier than any shout. The ale
sat on the table, the sour offering we hadn't touched
my kings were now caged animals, and the zookeeper had
just promised to return. I'm not waiting for him to
come back with a bill. Stiggins's voice was a low,
rumbling growl, barely a whisper. He leaned forward, his massive
knuckles white where he gripped the table's edge. There are
two at the front door, one at the back. We go, now,
we go hard and then what orso? Shot back, his
voice a sharp, cutting hiss. He didn't even look at
stigand his eyes were scanning the room, counting shadows. Fight
our way through every alley in this pit. He'll have
a dozen more men on the street before we've taken
ten steps. Don't be a fool. This isn't a fight,
It's an assessment, and fighting now ends with it not
turning out in our favor. The silver is gone, Selaine added,
her voice, flat and brittle as old parchment. He made
that clear. The only question is whether he intends to
leave us with our lives. I watched them, the three
pillars of my crew, each reacting in their own way.
Stigand all heart and muscle, ready to die fighting rather
than be humiliated, or so, all cold logic, ready to
accept humiliation in order to survive. And Selaine already writing
off the loss and calculating the next. They looked to
me for the decision, the path between a foolish death
and a shameful life. Before I could speak, the tavern
doors swung open again, crashing against the inside wall. Corvin
stood in the doorway, but he was no longer alone.
Flanking him and filing in behind him were a dozen
more hard faced and forcers. They moved with a disciplined purpose,
fanning out to surround our table, their hands resting on
the hilts of swords and cudgels. The small hope that
had flickered in the room was instantly extinguished. This was
no longer an interview. It was a verdict. The time
for talking was over.
Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: The Price of Arrogance. The silence in the crooked Keg
was the silence of the grave. It was a thick,
suffocating thing, broken only by the sound of Corvin's boots
on the grimy floorboards as he took a slow, deliberate
walk from the door to our table. He wasn't a
wolf circling his prey. He was a butcher walking down
a line of hanging meat, deciding where to make the
first cut. My men were statues of coiled tension. Stiggins's
knuckles were white on his axe handle. Brynn was a
phantom of stillness, her eyes darting between the enforcers at
the doors. Even Gikx's manic energy was gone, replaced by
a focused, predatory calm. We were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and utterly trapped.
For the first time since I'd formed this crew, my
will was not the most powerful force in the room.
Corvin stopped before our table, his shadow falling over us.
He didn't look at me. He looked at the small
leather pouch of silver that sat beside Celaine's hand. Silas
has calculated your tax, he said, his voice calm, almost pleasant,
He named a figure. It was nearly everything we had,
all the silver from the pilgrim, save for a few coins.
It was not a tax, it was a stripping.
Speaker 1: It was a.
Speaker 2: Declaration that everything we had, everything we had bled for,
now belonged to another man. I saw the flicker in
Orso's eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
He was telling me to take the deal to live.
His cold logic was clear. We were beaten. The smart
play was to accept the loss and survive, to fight
another day. But the priest's laughter was still echoing in
my ears. The shame of our pathetic victories, the weight
of our failures. It all boiled up inside me. I
had not clawed my way out of the dirt just
to be a dog for a man named Silas. My
pride was a sickness, and it would not let me kneel.
I met Corvin's gaze, a slow, cold fury building in
my chest. I gave him my answer, a single guttural snarl,
go to hell. Corvin didn't flinch, didn't raise his voice.
He just gave a simple, almost imperceptible nod to his men.
The world exploded. A heavy wooden chair splintered against Stiggins's back.
That sound like a cracking bone. He roared, but it
was the roar of a bear caught in a steel trap.
Two men were on him, then a third, their cudgels
rising and falling in a brutal, methodical rhythm. A cudgel
whistled past my ear. I parried the blow with my forearm,
but another man was already behind me. A boot kicked
my legs out from under me, and I hit the
floor hard. Dicks lunged forward, a knife appearing in his hand,
as if by magic. He was a blur of motion,
but he never reached his target. A mailed fist caught
him square on the temple. He went down like a
sack of stones, his painted smile finally wiped from his face.
It was over before it had truly begun. It wasn't
a fight, It was a dismantling. They moved with a brutal,
practiced efficiency that spoke of a hundred such beatdowns. We
were a pack of wild dogs, and we had just
met the quiet, disciplined violence of men. I felt a
sharp pain in my shoulder as my arm was twisted
behind my back. My face was pressed into the sticky,
ale soaked floorboards. The tip of a cold blade rested
against the side of my throat. I looked up and
saw stigand pinned under the weight of three men, still struggling,
roaring in pure impotent fury, Gecks was a limp form
on the floor. The rest of my crew had been
similarly and silently subdued. We were utterly and completely defeated.
We hadn't just lost a fight. We had been proven
to be nothing the scum kings created and written by
Mike Daltrey. The world was the smell of stale, ale
dirt and my own blood. The cold steel at my
throat was the only thing that felt real, a final,
sharp truth in a room full of failure. I could
hear stiggins guttural curses, the sound of his struggle more
like a beast than a man. I could hear cobs
pained whimpers from somewhere across the room. We were broken.
My pride had bought this for us. My refusal to
kneel had led us straight to the butcher's block. Corvin's
man held me fast, my face just inches from the
filthy floorboards. I was the king of nothing, not even
my own body. I watched as Corvin's men moved with
that same terrifying efficiency, neutralizing what little resistance was left.
The fight was over now, it was just a matter
of the price. It was in that moment of absolute
helplessness that I saw a flicker of movement. It was
Kaal in the chaos, he had been overlooked, shoved aside,
and forgotten. Now he was on his feet, his face
a twisted mask of fury and something else, a wild,
desperate ambition. The resentment he'd been nursing for me since
I'd beaten him down, the humiliation of this new defeat,
It had all boiled over into a single, suicidal act
of pride. I saw the glint of a hidden dagger
in his hand. Stay down, you fool, I tried to rasp,
but the blade at my throat kept the words from forming.
He didn't look at me. His eyes were locked on Corvin,
who stood calmly observing the sea, the master of this
little play. With a hoarse, defiant roar, Kale lunged for
the Sku. He never finished the word. He took two steps,
he never made it to a third. One of the
enforcers to Corvin's right moved with a liquid speed I
had never seen before. He didn't even seem to look
at Kayle. It was pure instinct, a pivot of his hips,
a flash of a short, thick blade from its sheath,
A single economical thrust. The blade went between Kayle's ribs
with a sound like a knife punching into a wet
sack of leather. Kayle stopped dead. His defiant roar died
in his throat, replaced by a soft grunt of shocked surprise.
The dagger fell from his nerveless fingers and clattered to
the floor. He looked down at the hilt protruding from
his chest, his eyes wide with a foolish disbelief. Then
he looked up, his gaze, finding mine for a fleeting,
confused second, before his eyes went glassy. He collapsed to
the floor, his protest ending in a pathetic, gurgling sigh.
The silence in the room returned even heavier, now stained
by the fresh blood pooling on the floorboards. Kyle's grand,
defiant gesture had lasted less than a heartbeat. It was pointless.
It was nothing. Corvin hadn't moved. He hadn't flinched. He
didn't even glance down at the body of the man
who had just tried to kill him. Kyle's life and
death were so insignificant they didn't warrant his attention. He
looked at me, his calm, analytical gaze meeting my own.
The blade was still pressed against my throat. There is
a clean up fee, too, he said, calmly,