Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter 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
stigand 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.
Speaker 1: He threw a.
Speaker 2: Towel at me. It landed in the water with a
heavy plap. Get dressed. You need to see what we're
actually holding. I sighed, 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, brot 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 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 up 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 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. We're closed, Jaron 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 of
the forge. 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. Darren 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 p hey, hey,
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 stig and
smash your forge. I didn't let gigs play games with
your apprentices. Leaned in close. I could smell the sweat
and the cold 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
against 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. Clang,
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 forage erupted
into activity. The bellows roared, hammers began to ring. I
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 respect,
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 a 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.