Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter four, The Mark of the Sun found a hollow
deep in the gut of the tangle, a natural bowl
shielded by a thicket of thorns that would stop a
bore let alone a patrol horse. It was the first
time in two days we felt safe enough to breathe,
safe enough to count. Delaane had demanded it. I cannot
manage what I do not know, She'd hissed, her hands shaking.
So we unhitched the exhausted horses, lit a covered lantern,
and we opened the wagon. It was a religious service.
Slaine was the priestess, and the ledger was her scripture.
We laid the canvas on the damp moss and began
to load the horde, stack by stack, chest by chest.
The sheer volume of it was sickening. It was enough
wealth to make a man vomit. There were bars of
bullions stacked like firewood, chests of heavy silver, solari, leather
sacks bursting with gemstones that caught the lantern light like
cat eyes. For an hour, the only sound was the
clink of metal and the scratch of Selaine's charcoal on
parchment orso stood watch his back to us, but I
saw his shoulders tense with every scratch. He was doing
the math in his head, calculating the risk against the reward. Finally,
Selaine sat back on her heels. She looked at the
total she'd scrawled at the bottom of the page. Her
face was pale, drained of blood. Well stig and grunted,
leaning on his axe. Are we rich or are we gods?
It's a dutchy, Selaine whispered, it's a fleet of ships.
It's Drey. We could hire the Concord's entire Southern Mercenary
army for a year and still have enough to pave
a road in silver, Its giggled, tossing his crown in
the air and catching it. I'll buy a zoo with
only dangerous animals. I felt a surge of heat in
my chest. This was it, the proof we had won.
But Selaine wasn't smiling. She picked up a heavy gold ingot.
She held it up to the lantern light, turning it slowly.
But we can't spend it, she said. Her voice was
flat dead, A hollow went silent. What are you babbling about?
I snapped, stepping forward. Gold is gold, it spends everywhere.
Not this gold, she said. She shoved the ingot into
my chest. Look at it, Dray, look at the stamp.
Looked pressed deep into the soft yellow metal was a seal.
It wasn't the generic sunburst of the Sea's treasury. It
was a face, severe, judgmental, the heavy brow, the downturned mouth,
a stern visage. I dropped the ingot and picked up
a chalice stamped on the base. I grabbed a handful
of coins from a chest stamped. Every single piece of
gold in the wagon bore the face of the god
we had robbed. It's a mint mark, Selaine said, her
voice rising in panic, A specific, restricted mint mark. This
isn't currency, dre It's consecrated treasury gold. It's never meant
to circulate. It sits in vaults to back the Sea's currency.
Or So turned around his face grim he had known,
or he had guessed. It's poison, or So said, walking
into the circle of light. If you walk in to
a tavern and slap one of those coins on the bar,
you aren't buying ale. You're signing a confession. Every merchant,
every fence, every banker from here to the coast knows
that mark. It screams, I raided the abbey. He kicked
a pile of coins. They scattered with a mocking jingle.
It's worthless or so spat unless we melt it down.
And to melt two tons of gold, we need a foundry,
We need smiths, we need months of work in a
secure location. We have none of that. We are hauling
dead weight that will get us hanged. Stigan looked at
the gold, then at his axe, confused and angry. Gold
is gold. If a man won't take it, I'll split
his head. And then the watch comes or so countered,
and then the sea's inquisitors. We can't fence this dre
not in this quantity, not with these marks. We're carrying
the world's heaviest suicide note. Selene nodded, tears of frustration
welling in her eyes.
Speaker 1: He's right.
Speaker 2: We have to bury it, hide it. Take small amounts,
melt them down in campfires over years. It's the only
way they looked at me, the practical ones, the smart ones.
They saw a problem. They saw a wall. I looked
at the gold. I saw the face of the stern
visage staring up at me from a thousand coins, judging me,
and I smiled. You're thinking like merchants, I said, my
voice low. I picked up an ingot. It was heavy, cold, solid.
You're thinking about how to buy things, I said, how
to trade this for bread, or horses or safety. You
are thinking about spending it. I tossed the ingot back
onto the pile. It ended with a heavy thud. I
don't intend to spend it, or so, stared at me, exasperated.
Then what is the point of it, dre It's metal.
You can't eat it. We don't spend the foundation of
a house, I growled, You build on it. I walked
around the pile, looking at my crew. If I take
one of these coins to a shop, I'm a thief,
I said. But if I pile all of this in
the center of a room, if I sit on top
of it, I'm not a customer. I'm a bank I'm
a power. I pointed at the wagon. We don't need
to melt it down to hide who we are. We
use it to show them exactly who we are. We
don't trade this gold. We use it as leverage. We
use it to buy loyalty, not with payment. But with
the promise of payment, we use it to prove we
have the capital to rule. Rule what, Selaine asked, her
voice trembling. We're in the woods, not for long, I said.
I looked east, toward the edge of the forest. We
find a place, a stronghold. We put this gold in
the middle of it, and we dare the world to
come and take it. We don't hide the mark, Slaine.
We let them see it, let them know we broke
a god's nose and took his teeth or so rubbed
his face with his hands. This is arrogance, stray, pure
suicidal arrogance. It's a kingdom, I said. And kingdoms are
built on gold that stays in the vault. I kicked
the canvas back over the pile.
Speaker 1: Pack it up.
Speaker 2: We're not melting a single ounce.