Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey. The Cage.
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 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, or 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 stigging, 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. Were 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. GX, 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. Corvin 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 tents guarded quiet. I
saw Stiggin's shoulders relax of fraction. The moment of stillness
after Korvin'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. Stiggin'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? Ors shot back, his
voice as 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, Seline 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.
Stiggant 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 Celaine 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
door 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.