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. 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 stiggand 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.
Corven'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.
Speaker 2: 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 DICKX. His
smile had become a rigid, glassy thing. But it was
Orso 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. Orso was seeing his own cold,
pragmatic worldview executed by a master. Corvin wasn't a brawler.
He was a tactician. He was winning this war without
throwing a single punch. And Orso, 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 pisswarm 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. He will want his
tax before you leave, for the noise, for the education,
he paused, letting the finality of it 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.