Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter five, The women are in charge.
Speaker 2: The sun hasn't even set, and the mood on the
river demon has curdled like milk in the heat. Stigging
is below, groaning every now and then as the salt
water in the air stings his cut. But the real
problem is above deck. BRIT's crew isn't working. They're huddled
near the bow, sharpening knives and whispering. It's not a
secret meeting on a boat this size, there are no secrets.
Speaker 1: He sleeps.
Speaker 2: One of them, a redhead with a broken nose, mutters,
just slip in throat, slit done. Yes, another adds, problem
solved and justice done. The whole group nods their heads
and mutters agreement. I'm sitting near the stern with Orso
and Gicks. We hear every word they want us to hear.
They're going to do it, Orso says quietly. Tonight, they'll
drift down there and stick him like a pig. My
hand tightens on the rail. If they try, I kill them,
and then they kill you. Or So counters, and then
I get tossed overboard or killed two, and Gigs they'll
definitely kill him. Orso glances at Gicks, who straightens his
crown and seems to think that Orso just complimented him.
It's a bad end to a bad day. Before I
can answer, Selaine stands up. She hasn't said a word
all day. She walks toward the group of women. She
moves differently than they do. They walk like sailors, braced
for the roll. She walks like she's entering a tavern,
confident going in but not quite sure how the exit
will go. He stops just outside their circle. They go quiet,
glaring at her. You can't kill him, she says. Her
voice is soft, almost a whisper. But we can hear.
Of course we can hear. Botch us accountant. The redhead sneers.
Selaine leans in closer. She whispers something I can't catch.
The women frown. Then she whispers something else. Some heads nod,
others don't. Ben shouts, enraged at whatever Selaine said. He
must die, kill them all. Another says again, loud enough
for us to hear. Pick the gold and sink the rest.
I reach for my knife. I'm not sure what Selaine
was thinking, but this feels like it's going to get
real ugly, real fast. Then Selaine speaks up, loudly, clearly,
meant from my ears just as much as theirs. Fine,
She says, you want blood, take it from all of
us us, put us all in chains. Three days, no food,
no water. That will teach us. Women mutter looking at
each other. Brynn, who had been observing the entire time,
walks over from the helm. She looks tired. She looks
at Selaine, then at her crew, then at us. That
is a fair punishment. She turns to me. You heard
the lady, all of you below. Now you're joking, I say,
standing up. We didn't touch her. Stigand is already in
the hole. Who watches the watcher? Brynn asks her, hand
resting on her sword hilt. How do I know you
won't release him? By the gods, Bryn, you know me.
We've been through worse than this together. I won't free him.
She stares at me. Yes, Gidre, I know you. She
uses my birth name, the one I hate. She's one
of the few that knows it, and I have the
urge to walk over and slap the word out of
her mouth. But there are a dozen of them and
one of me. And if I've learned anything from Vance's folly,
it's that I can no longer trust myself. Still, there
is the truth, and there is leadership. This is ridiculous.
I snap. You can't just lock us up like cargo.
Brin smiles. It's not a nice smile, Dedre. You should
have learned by now you are cargo, and you should
be thankful for it. She turns and yells out, lock
them up. The first gigs chirps. Hopping off his barrel,
he runs over to the Redhead, holding out his wrists.
Do the tight ones, the ones that bruise. The crew laughs,
but I'm not sure if it's out of horror or amusement.
Probably both. We are marched to the hatch one by one.
It's my turn. The Redhead grabs my wrists. She has
calloused hands and smells of tar and sweat. She pulls
my hands together in front of me, wrapping the rough
hemp rope tight. She yanks the knot, forcing my knuckles
to grind together. Then she leans in close. Need to
make sure you don't have a hidden weapon, she whispers.
Her hand slides down my chest, down my stomach and
then grabs my crotch. Her hand lingers as she stares
me in the eyes. Her breath is hot in my ear.
It appears you do, she says. She pulls back and
winks it's a joke, a taunt. But my skin crawls,
heat flushes up my neck. Not anger, shame. I've done this.
I've grabbed women in taverns. I've pulled them onto my
lap and enjoyed the soft touch of a bosom. I've
grabbed an ass as woman walked by. I never thought
twice about it at the time. I considered it good fun.
It's clear to me now, in chains and a woman
doing it, to me that it is more about power.
It was just the strong taking what they wanted from
the weak, and with my hands tied, and a woman
wielding that power over me. I don't like it. It
feels like she just stripped me naked in front of
my own men. I feel small, I feel emasculated. Move,
she says, shoving me toward the ladder. I stumbled down
into the dark, old smells of bilge, water and old fish.
Stiggind is slumped in the corner, snoring. Gigx is already
sitting cross legged, humming a tune that sounds like a
nursery rhyme played backward. I sit down next to Orso.
The rope bites into my wrists. I close my eyes
and lean my head back against the damp hull. Fix's
humming gets louder above us. Heavy footsteps thud on the deck.
The hatch I am shut. Darkness swallows us. We are
kings of nothing but the dark m