Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, episode
thirty nine, The Fallout. The next morning, the gutters woke
to blood. The body of the Merchant's guards still lay
in the market square where the Red Hands had left him.
A bloody public statement, but it was joined by more bodies.
While we slept, Silas wreeked some element of revenge, and
the Red Hands responded. The usual morning chaos of shouting
vendors and jostling crowds was gone, replaced by the commerce
of violence. Doors were barred, stalls were shuddered. The air
was a powder keg, and we were the ones who
had lit the fuse. We walked through the silent streets,
a tour of our own handiwork. It was a heady feeling,
more potent than any ale, to be the ghost in
the machine, the unseen hand pushing the giant pieces of
this city into conflict. This was a power greater than
a strong axe arm. We were not just reacting anymore.
We were shaping our world. I saw the effects everywhere.
Silas's enforcers walked in larger groups, their chests puffed out
with their new arrogance, believing the Red Hands were now
reacting to them, And in the shadows of the alleys
we saw them, the red hands gathered in tight, angry
knots of men, the glint of whetstones on steel flashing
in the gloom. They were sharpening their blades, their faces
grim with the promise of more blood to come. Dicks
was in his element. He walked with a light, dancing step,
his smile wider and more unsettling than ever. He was
practically vibrating with joy. Look at them, he whispered to me,
his voice giddy as he gestured toward a group of
terrified mrch and bolting their doors. They're all holding their breath.
It's wonderful. It's like the moment right before you tell
a really, really good joke. He was feeding on the paranoia,
drinking the fear in the air like fine wine. In
the chaos we had created, he was the only one
who felt truly at home. We ended up back at
the Crooked Keg. We were no longer unwelcome. Our presence
was now tolerated, a known, if unpleasant part of the scenery.
We had just ordered a round of ale, paid for
with Stigans winnings. When Corvin walked in. He didn't have
his army of enforcers this time. He came alone, moving
with the same quiet confidence as before. He walked directly
to our table and sat down. Uninvited this business with
the Red Hands, he said, his voice a low murmur.
It stirred the nest, made the rats show their faces,
you seem, I replied, still not understanding Corvin's goal in
approaching us. Indeed, we knew they were not to be trusted,
and this reveals it. Selain broke in, playing her role perfectly.
How are they not to be trusted? Word is that
Silas stole their shipment. Corvin turned to her, his eyes dark.
The word is wrong. The Red Hands staged this theft
to shift the power of sentiment against us, but what
they really did was reveal the depth of their treachery.
He looked at me, his eyes sharp and appraising, which
brings me to you. Silas is pleased. He sees potential
in your crew. You're direct, brutal. He has a use
for that. He slid a small folded piece of parchment
across the table. The Red Hands are panicking. Their leaders
are arguing amongst themselves. One of them, a lieutenant named
Phelon is smart enough to bring the order. That's a
problem for us. Silas wants that problem solved. I picked
up the parchment. It wasn't a request, it was an order,
an assassination contract. Make it look like a street robbery
gone wrong, Corvin said, standing up, behave, don't bring any
more chaos to my doorstep than is necessary. He turned
and left. I looked down at the name on the parchment.
Corvin thought he was giving us a command, promoting us
to the role of his trusted assassins. He had no idea.
He was just reading from a script that Orso had written.
He was handing us a knife and pointing us at
the throat of his enemy, believing he controlled the hand
that held it. We had just been given a license
to escalate the war we had started, and we were
going to be paid for it. Wou