EPISODE 5: poor sport

TIMMER:

(Hollowed-out and tired)

This is everything that belongs to me.

One battered resurrectional - it’s a kind of yearningsong accordion, that’s how we try and explain it to foreigners. A wheezing set of bellows that’s supposed to mimic the sound of breath and blow. Even if you can’t carry a tune, even if you can’t hit the right notes, a resurrectional can be an invaluable tool in coaxing dead flesh back to life.

Dogged bought me that, years ago. Now it keeps on breaking. I can hear the wind escaping through the joins whenever I play it.

One black leather case filled with surgeon’s instruments. Saw and scalpel, drill, forceps and probing scissors, trephines, lancets and bone-nippers. This is the terror-bag, my travelling house of pain. Grown men and grizzled veterans sob when they hear me place it down upon the desk.

I keep all of these tools as clean as I can. It isn’t always easy. Fresh water is a merely relative term out here upon the frontier, and soap is a precious commodity that often seems to vanish from the rest of my effects.

An entire trunkful of textbooks. Cadged and liberated from every corner of Old Cyshane. 

Anatomies and medical encyclopedias. Pre-resumption tomes on limb removal, dentistry and horse-wounds; more than a few handy pamphlets on venereal disease, contraception and termination, because our company men are near-uniformly driven to seek pleasure without first administering caution.

And then there are the newer books, the ones that teach you how to sing to lure a finger back to life, how to remind the blood to flow and the tendons to twitch.

I try to keep those stowed away, because you never know when Fader is going to come crashing in.

Dogged found me most of those books, too. She always had an eye for a treasure that I might appreciate, even if she couldn’t understand it.

Then there’s the folding desk, the surgeon’s bench, the artificial lung, three camp-beds, the jars of brine that contain spare hands or wriggling animate flesh, the engraved yearningfrost trunk that’s cold and broad enough to store an entire corpse or two for as long as we need it. Wire-cages for holding mice and rabbits, birds and puppies. The scouts go out and find these for me. Sometimes there’s enough left unburnt for a meal afterwards.

You never know quite how much needs to die to bring something else back up, so the experts advise a generous hand at all times.

Gloves, aprons, and replacement clothes. Tonics and knock-outs, poisons and sleep-aids, mercury and vinegar, bandages and splints, all carefully arranged. A surprising amount of my waking life is packing and unpacking.

It’s a lot. From a certain perspective, it’s a lot, and I know that when the common company soldiers draw lots to haul my considerable luggage up onto the wagon or unload it back into my tent, they glance at me with a touch of resentment and jealous distaste. 

Why, after all, does this feeble creature have the privilege of carrying about an entire estate’s worth of possessions, when I have nothing but the knapsack upon my back? Is all of this shit really necessary, or are we lugging about the luxury and vanity of a pampered child who could get by with less?

Nobody ever thinks of me as truly essential until they’re strapped down to the surgeon’s bench, and after that they’ll do anything to forget how essential I am.

Oh, and of course - there’s the tent itself. The biggest tent in the company - because it has to be, to hold a surgeon and their faltering equipment and who knows how many wounded men besides. Black-dyed canvas, so nobody can see what’s happening inside. 

We’re a separate world in here, a tiny private kingdom.

Dogged used to help me with the tent. Now I’ll have to owe a favour to somebody else.

Suffice it to say, then - I have a great many possessions. I’m lucky to be who I am.

But the very first thing I see, as I step back into my tent that morning, is an absence that makes all of my life’s luxuries entirely irrelevant.

The camp-bed is empty.

​

Dogged’s body has been taken from me.

​

TENT, INT, MORNING

CAPO CELIS is giving a munitions report to TIMMER. FOAL and INKBLOT stand by. This is a hastily-assembled temporary leadership for the company. Everyone is tired and tense.

CAPO CELIS:

So that’s Bo Raddy the quartermaster, dead. Four bodies from yesterday yet to be buried, including Peeve.

Five horses, bolted or stolen. Twelve rifles and seven sacks of powder lost - again, we can’t be sure how much Lively took with her and how much went up with the tent. She burnt what she couldn’t steal.

Victuals were hardest to salvage. Sixteen bags of flour lost, seven bags of oats, a crate of hardtack, all of the salt beef and three barrels of fog. That one might sting the men more than anything else. 

There’s more, but-

FOAL:

We’re fucked for food, is what you’re saying.

A short silence. CAPO tosses down his report.

CAPO CELIS:

Quite fucked, yes.

TIMMER:

How long can we last on what we have?

CAPO CELIS:

On half-rations, we could go a couple of weeks, but the men are pissed off already.

We could go back to the Lick and buy up supplies there, but - those gates might have closed to us.

TIMMER:

And my fader?

Nobody quite wants to say it.

FOAL:

Left a couple hours before dawn, Tim. Riding arsewards, your sister’s body over the saddle.

Silence.

INKBLOT:

(The only one in the tent not keeping up)

I don’t think I understand. Where is he going?

TIMMER:

He wants to bury her somewhere he thinks I can’t get to her.

CAPO CELIS:

The Scorran translator’s already in camp, wanting to bind the cord on behalf of her dead lord. My counsel would be that we should by no means tell her the catigern is missing.

FOAL:

She didn’t seem rattled last night. Her master neither.

CAPO CELIS:

How much disarray do you expect a king to weather?

If we can sign off on the chance, formal-like, with half payment upfront, we don’t need to worry about supplies.

We need to show her that we’re a working, walking company, efficient as corpses, not a bunch of-

He cuts himself off.

TIMMER:

(On board with the plan)

So what do we tell her?

CAPO CELIS:

That Catigern Morel is burying his daughter, and grieving, and has asked that his second child bind the cord in his place. 

INKBLOT:

Well, why not-

CAPO CELIS:

(Anticipating the question)

It can’t be me. Has to be Timmer. Dead kings approve of inheritance.

Timmer stands in as cat. They’ll negotiate on the company’s behalf, and they’ll wear the braid once the chance is taken.

FOAL:

(A warning note in their voice)

Tim’s grieving too, Capo. 

CAPO CELIS:

(Tired and a little guilty)

I know. I’m sorry, Timmer. I’d be a damned fool if I thought this was fair to you.

But today we have to get the company marching again, their bad thoughts against us buried under the weight of dead man’s coin.

Silence. But - not a long one. TIMMER knows exactly what they’re going to do.

TIMMER:

I’ll do it. Send the Scorran in.

CAPO CELIS:

Aye, cat.

​

We hear CELIS salute and then turn and go to the entrance of the tent.

Faintly, we hear,

CAPO CELIS:

(Muffled)

We’re ready for you now, ma’am.

ARKHETARIAS:

(Muffled)

Thank you.

ARKHETARIAS steps into the tent.

TIMMER:

(Rallying to be courteous and professional after a moment’s hesitation)

Good morning, Fann Arkhetarias. I - I think we owe you and your master an apology for last night’s disarray, and a word of thanks for your swift intervention.

Today, as you can see, we’re in better mettle and keen to set off.

ARKHETARIAS:

(Ignoring all of that)

Where’s Catigern Morel?

TIMMER:

(Putting up a good front)

He’s gone to bury my sister in the hills. He asked me to negotiate the chance with you on his behalf.

ARKHETARIAS:

I see. 

(Pause; drily)

It’s perhaps worth emphasising to you, Timmer Morel, that the translator’s art requires one to possess a sharp and disciplined ear.

An embarrassed silence from everyone else present. She’s heard every word; that’s what she’s saying.

TIMMER:

(Sighing)

All right. 

As you heard - he left last night and we don’t know where he’s gone.

FOAL:

(Chiming in)

Arsewards, we think. 

TIMMER:

Please forgive my fader. He loved my sister. He’s grieving terribly.

ARKHETARIAS:

(With pointed sympathy)

As are you, no doubt. I hope that even amidst such disarray, you can be allowed the time you need to mourn your sister.

(Getting to the point)

Alas, it is my duty today to be the sting of the poker and not the warmth of the flame. The Long King requires the cord bound between us without delay, and for us to begin our long march headwards today in pursuit of Catalfac.

From what I heard of your conversation, these are terms that will be amenable to you as well.

He will be pleased to hear that the catigern’s child has been deputised to finalise our agreement, and that your fader has left instructions expressing his intent to catch up with the column tomorrow once your sister is buried.

TIMMER:

Thank you.

ARKHETARIAS:

(Smoothly shrugging off the gratitude)

Given that you’re not lying to me about your fader, there’s really no need for you to thank me.

(Brightly)

Well, shall we come to terms?

FIELDS, EXT, DAY

We hear MOREL riding out through the fields, DOGGED’s body on the back of his saddle.

We can hear the now familiar sound of DIMBOXES at work - ‘turn the wheel', 'walk in time', 'turn the wheel', 'walk in time.'

He comes to a halt - ‘whoa, whoa’ - and stares contemptuously out over the fields, listening to the sound.

MOREL:

(Calling out)

Are there any living men to be found amongst this dead rabble?

Silence. And then A FIELD-STEWARD sticks his head out of the crops, some distance away.

FIELD-STEWARD:

(Calling back)

Ahoy there! Lost, are you?

MOREL:

(Calling out)

Who does this land belong to?

The FIELD-STEWARD approaches, still calling as he goes.

FIELD-STEWARD:

Three hundred years past!

MOREL:

What’s that?

FIELD-STEWARD:

(Arriving out onto the path with a grunt of exertion)

We’ve got six landlords, all resumed from the Givehide line. Out here is the Givehides from the Livid Pastor’s Century, when you hit the stone marker it’s the Givehydels from the Scoundrel’s Century. 

This tract belongs to three hundred years past.

​

MOREL:

(Roughly)

Looking for a place to bury my daughter where she can’t be reclaimed - by any dead landlord, or any dead century.

Sun-crown for you if you can point me the right way.

FIELD-STEWARD:

(Staring at DOGGED’s body)

Body’s all torn up, poor thing. What happened to her?

MOREL:

(Ignoring him)

What about the bogland to the steerward side of the hills?

FIELD-STEWARD:

The marshes aren’t beloved, but they are owned nonetheless, and her ladyship’s working to reclaim the soil out there - make it fertile again. Year or two from now, anything buried in the mire’s going to find itself up and walking again.

You could sell the body back in the Lick. Better a few belts for it today than raised up and repossessed for free tomorrow.

This, predictably, enrages MOREL.

MOREL:

(Snapping back)

Did I ask for directions, or for the advice of a clown shepherding corpses?

FIELD-STEWARD:

(Calmly)

No call for that.

MOREL:

(Unmollified)

I ask again.

The FIELD-STEWARD considers for a moment - and then turns and points.

FIELD-STEWARD:

See out there? The white peak belongs to no-one, and no-one sets foot there. 

That’s the loneliest place I can give you.

MOREL sniffs, then ‘yahs’ his horse and rides rapidly onwards without saying another word.

The FIELD-STEWARD watches him go.

FIELD-STEWARD:

(Muttering under his breath)

Of course, there’s a very good reason for that, but then again, you were never going to give me that crown, were you, you grave-stunk fuck…

MOUNTAINSIDE, EXT, NIGHT

Silence. We’re out on the mountainside at night. The horse softly whinnies nearby.

We hear the scrape of a shovel.

MOREL is digging a grave for DOGGED.

He’s exhausted, and breathless, his speech punctuated by occasional grunts as he digs and heaves

MOREL:

(Exhausted)

Harder work than I remember.

But I won’t rest, Dogged, not until you’re down and I know you’ll stay.

He takes a breath and gazes out over the darkening landscape.

MOREL:

My gonefader told me once - on a clear day in the Crook you used to be able to look out over the hills, and not see rooftops or chimneys. 

Nothing but the empty. 

You won’t have that now. None of us will. That world’s fled.

It’s a ruined body we’re walking, and the spoil spreads from its flesh to ours.

(Exerting himself again)

They’ll not bring you back, though. I can give you that much.

I’ll bury you good and deep, weigh you down heavy. They can sing a thousand songs of yearning and it won’t be enough to lure you home.

You’d tell me not to blame Timmer for trying to bring you back. And I don’t, love. I promise you, I don’t.

You don’t blame a dog for stealing scraps. You have to kick it all the same, so it learns. That’s the way I learnt.

I knew Timmer was rotten. Second I laid eyes on that child, I knew. I’ve always been able to tell who’s steel and who’s frailty. Weak limbless thing, pale and whimpering, dead weight and pure liability.

But you loved Timmer, and I never could refuse you.

You’d have let yourself be used, Dogged. I know you would. Out of love, you’d have given yourself over. Your eyes would have been shining out of the face of some new conscript, and every part of you would have become someone else’s.

I can’t live with that. Shouldn’t have to live with that.

He drops the shovel and collapses down next to it, breathing hard.

MOREL:

(Softly)

You all think I’m too hard. Too angry. Wild and mad, raging at nothing. I’ve heard it all before. Everyone gives me a speech before they leave me.

(Chuckling a little)

You should’ve met my fader. Born before any of this horror, surrounded by love and contentment all his lifelong days, and yet he raged.

I lived through worse than he did.

You hold half a soldier in your arms as she dies. You watch the life go out of her, begging, sobbing, bargaining for a few moments more.

And then five years later you see her hauling a sedan chair out in the marketplace, her top half sewn to someone else’s legs, so the things that killed her can ride about in the accustomed comfort. They never tire of being carried, and nor will she tire of hauling them. 

How could you live through that, and surrender to the way of things? How can it be the…the sane response to bow your head and labour on beneath insanity’s clouds?

Why should I smile at the world they’ve made? 

It’s all mad now, all of it. I look down at your face and I can’t believe you’re truly gone. 

I hope to Man you are, because everything else keeps on crawling back.

A long silence. And then, in the distance, we hear a voice.

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Tauntingly calling out in falsetto)

Ooh, but I’m still with you, sweet fader. I’ll always be with you - in your loving heart, and in your memories.

SNIVEL SECOND:

(More quietly, to SNIVEL FIRST)

Stop it.

MOREL:

(Snapping out)

Who’s there?

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Calling from off, as if delivering a limerick)

Fader, loving fader dear,

Can you hear my lonesome cry?

I’m down in the soil

Past pain and toil,

With worms eating out my eye.

​

SNIVEL SECOND:

(To SNIVEL FIRST, angrily)

You’re ruining the surprise!

MOREL draws his pistol.

MOREL:

(Barking out)

Show yourself! I won’t tell you again!

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Continuing, more sneeringly)

Fader, loving fader dear,

Can you hear my yearning gasp? 

I’m surrounded by sailors,

Soldiers and tailors,

As they eat me out my-

MOREL fires. A high-pitched scream of pain from off in the undergrowth.

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Whining)

Shit! He fucking shot us! Ahh, man walking, he fucking shot us-

​

SNIVEL SECOND:

Ah, we're bleeding out-

From the undergrowth on the other side, a cod-aristocratic voice yells out,

YOUR GRACE:

(A little deranged)

Warrant officers! Sound the alarum! Ch…charge!

(The hauteur dropping)

Fucking get him, I said!

A chorus of shouts from the treeline as several different people rush out of the undergrowth and attempt to tackle MOREL all at once.

YOUR GRACE:

(Still in the undergrowth, completely ignored)

Trespasser, you are ordered - hereby ordered, by royal warrant - to lower your shovel and submit to arrest! Trespasser, this is your final warning!

MOREL grabs the shovel, hefts it, and swings it - CLUNK - into someone’s face. He roars with defiance, deflects a sword blow, and swings again. CLUNK.

​

YOUR GRACE loses some more of their aristocratic accent and begins to snap more urgently.

YOUR GRACE:

(Yelling out)

Just…get the fucking shovel off him! Marasmic, get the damn shovel! Snivel Second, stop whining, I can’t hear myself think!

​

Neth and damnation, he’s just one man! Kick him in the head!

Something hits MOREL in the head and he falls unconscious with a grunt. In the background, SNIVEL continues to mewl.

NETH

MOREL breathes hard and frightened as he dreams.

​

We can hear the voice of a DEAD GIRL, clapping as she plays a child's game;

​

DEAD GIRL:

At the siege of Catalfac, weeks from defeat
We were running out of shoes to eat
And my best friend was smelling like meat
I smiled at him, he smiled at me
He’s smiling at the sky while I cook his knee.
One, two, pick off the skin.
Three, four, boil up his shin,
Five, six, snap a few ribs,
Seven, eight, peel off the lips,
Nine, ten-

-and as MOREL gasps in horror, her flesh peels away-
 

YOUNG WOMAN:

-so long, best friend.

 

CAVES (CELL), INT, NIGHT

-and we wake.

We’re somewhere underground, deep in the side of the mountain. 

MOREL rolls over. He groans, softly; his head aches, and in this scene he talks with an uncertainty that strongly suggests he’s concussed. We can hear the clank of chains upon his wrists.

From behind him in the darkness, someone else stirs.

The VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN sounds hoarse, and strange - but gentle.

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

(Gently)

Easy, friend. Don’t move unless you have to.

Concussion, most likely, but you’re still amongst the living for now.

MOREL sits up with a grunt.

MOREL:

Who…who are you?

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

Likewise imprisoned.

MOREL takes a moment to recover himself.

MOREL:

Hm. 

(Referring to their captors)

And…who are they?

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

(Calmly)

Trivial horrors. Crooked things.

Their leader claims to be some headward Cyshanic aristocrat, displaced by a dead ancestor in the Duchy of Carn. 

Tells the rabble that when the time is right, they’ll raise an army together, reclaim Cyshane for the living and then hand out titles and pardons to all and sundry.

In the meantime, Your Grace reigns over the Peak of White Pus, robs and murders anyone who comes by, then condemns the bodies as trespassers and lawbreakers.

The bodies are played with. The bones are burnt and dumped into the heart of the mountain.

No one is spared and no one escapes.

MOREL:

(Quietly appalled)

Man walking.

(A little delirious)

I think I saw…Did one of them have two faces?

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

That was Snivel. Crooked thing, as we said. Two mouths, four eyes, and half a brain between them. One’s maudlin, the other’s cruel.

MOREL:

(Chuckling)

I shot him in the leg.

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

(Chuckling too)

Should’ve aimed higher.

MOREL:

(Under his breath, with a slight chuckle)

Corpsefucker in the fields said it was empty out this way.

Sent me up here to die.

(Wincing)

My head’s drowned and floating.

I can’t see you, friend. I can’t see anything.

Are you shackled?

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

(Not quite answering the question)

Only too weak to walk.

It’s a small comfort, to be no longer viewed as any kind of threat.

MOREL is hatching a plan. 

MOREL:

My name is Sore Morel. I’m a - a soldier. A fighter. 

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

(Gently but pointedly)

You look like you were a fighter.

MOREL is a little shaken by this - given that, yes, they already successfully overpowered him once.

MOREL:

(Hesitantly)

I’ve been in worse spots than this, is what I’m trying to say. There’s still strength in me - and courage. Courage can matter more, in the right moment.

(Desperately)

A distraction’s all I need. Enough time to get my hands on their keys, free myself.

The VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN does not reply.

MOREL:

There has to be something. What about her men? Can they be turned? 

Are they as mad as she is?

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

Not mad. Perhaps broken. 

To abandon the pretence would be to accept what they’ve become.

(Pointedly)

Hope is a gift, even when it’s absurd.

You should go on hoping, Sore Morel, for as long as you can.

MOREL:

(Darkly)

It’s not in me to give up. Don’t tell me it’s hopeless, not until the last draw. 

We can hear a door banging distantly. SNIVEL calls out.

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Calling out singsong)

Fader dear, oh, fader-

We’re ready for you now!

​

VOICE IN THE MOUNTAIN:

They’re coming for you now.

Endure the indignity of the trial, if you can. Make for poor sport and they’ll end things quicker.

MOREL:

(Ignoring that)

I’ll be back soon, and living, too. Think about what I’ve said.

(Trying to rally)

Just watch. I’ll put on a show for them.

(Yelling through the bars, putting on a performance of anger)

Hey! Let me out, you apes, you brutes! I said let me out!

YOUR GRACE’S CHAMBERS, INT, NIGHT

​

We’re in a large cave, piled high with stolen goods and weapons. A large campfire. RUFFIANS and LACKEYs are gathered around. One of them, RANCID, sings and plays a rough, bassy drunkard's song.

​​

RANCID:

If my body should falter, stagger and fall

And I can’t work another day

If they string me up

For thieving too much,

Life only turns out one way.

They’ll lay me in the ground

In a white silk gown

And I’ll fall down, down, down 

To that beautiful Kingdom of Worms.

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll understand life’s secrets

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll never wear a frown

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll drink and dance until morning

In the Kingdom of Worms, we’ll shatter every throne and crown.

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll fuck your forebears

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll break some heads

In the Kingdom of Worms, I’ll seize every fortune

And life will begin, once I’m down and dead.

​

Cheers and applause.

Above him, YOUR GRACE is holding court upon a makeshift throne - playing court, we might say. DOGGED’s body lies before her feet.

​

SORE MOREL is dragged in, and forced to his knees.

The entire situation feels deranged. SNIVEL steps forward with a scroll. He does indeed have two faces - SNIVEL SECOND, we might assume, is more of a growth, and more high-pitched.

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Acting as an announcer)

Beloved courtiers. My lords and ladies. Faithful subjects. 

(With faint disapproval)

Prisoner in the dock.

We are honoured to present the Nameless Grace, Rightful Duke and Duchess of Near Carn, Peror ‘n’ Press and all else besides. Living and Indisputable Heir to the throne of Cyshane. 

(Quickly going on)

The Lord of Land and Landed Flesh, the High Justice of the Imperial Authority-

SNIVEL SECOND:

(Whining, overlapping)

-it’s my turn! You always steal my turn! It’s my turn from Lord of Land and Landed Flesh-

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Snapping back)

You weren’t fast enough! Addlepate!

SNIVEL SECOND:

You’re the one who got us shot! Cur!

SNIVEL FIRST:

Death’s head on a mopstick!

YOUR GRACE:

(Coldly, overlapping)

Snivel First, Snivel Second. 

(They’re not stopping their bickering; abruptly)

Snivels!

Silence falls.

YOUR GRACE:

(Sighing)

This is…embarrassing, truly. You’ve entirely ruined my introduction. 

SNIVEL FIRST / TWO:

(Simultaneously)

It was his fault.

YOUR GRACE:

I quite agree. Slap him in the face, please.

Two cries of pain at once as both SNIVELs slap each other in the face. Both whinge.

YOUR GRACE:

Now that decorum has been restored to the court, let us proceed with the trial apace.

Who is the prisoner who has been summoned before us? Does it have a name?

MOREL, quietly, is trying to think of a way to get out of this situation.

SORE MOREL:

My name is Sore Morel. I’m a soldier.

I, I’d like to-

MARASMIC:

(Amusedly)

Point of order. The prisoner is editorialising. We asked him who he was, not what he was.

YOUR GRACE:

Very good, Marasmic. The court will strike that last comment from the record. The prisoner’s occupation was not in question.

Now. The list of charges. Snivel First?

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Clearing his throat)

Trespass, reckless endangerment, grievous bodily harm, improper disposal of diseased meat, discharge of a pistol upon private lands-

MOREL:

(Hoarsely)

I was told this land belonged to no-one.

YOUR GRACE:

What you were told is irrelevant. A nation’s laws are not dictated by its lawbreakers, nor are boundary lines drawn by trespassers.

(More sympathetically, sermonising)

But this court wishes to recognise a wider issue; that since the War Against History, obedience has become a difficult prospect for our citizenry - at times, a near-impossibility.

The so-called Dead Reclamation - amongst its many grave injustices - has made an unnavigable mockery of civil and criminal law. 

Whose time and customs are we beholden to now? Who are our masters? How can we own anything if every tract and inheritance has been already claimed?

The court intends to take this context into consideration. Note that down, clerk.

Both SNIVELs attempt to take a note at once in the background.

SNIVEL FIRST:

(Softly hissing)

I’m already writing it!

SNIVEL SECOND:

It’s my pen!

YOUR GRACE:

(Sharply, annoyed)

Either one of you, it doesn’t matter! 

MOREL takes advantage of this moment. He rises to his feet.

MOREL:

Your Grace. I wish to say a few words in my defence. If I may be so bold.

YOUR GRACE:

I am here in my capacity as chief justice, not as Your Grace. You must pay proper attention to the protocols of state.

(Pause)

You may, however, proceed.

MOREL:

(Gamely playing along)

Of course. Your…Honour.

I am Catigern Sore Morel, of the Company of our Lady Far-And-A-Wailing. 

I fought in the War Against History.

When the cold lords rose to steal our nation, I defied them. I defy them still today.

I spit upon the carrion-kings who hold court in our cities and I curse their so-called miraculous art.

If I truly stand before the heir to the throne, and if I have erred against you - then I can only kneel, as your obedient servant and your loyal friend, and accept whatever punishment you have for me.

YOUR GRACE:

(A little mollified)

Your words are immaterial. 

…but they are noted.

MOREL:

(Pressing on)

Perhaps, if you’ll forgive me, not entirely immaterial.

Should you already be gathering your forces to reclaim the throne in Emmensar-

(Gesturing to the LACKEYs)

-with the help of these brave and noble knights I see gathered before you - then you might be advised to make use of me.

Use me, I beg you.

I’ve trained men. I can drill your people, I can make crack shots out of faint-eyed failures. I can gather you rifles, if you need ‘em. 

I can give you an army, Your Honour.

YOUR GRACE:

An army?

MOREL:

All I ask is for a night away to bury my daughter Dogged, before the great work begins.

(Gesturing to DOGGED’s body)

There she lies, murdered herself by the loveless servants of the dead. I sought to grieve her somewhere empty and unseen - and it was in my grief, Your Honour, the madness of my grief, that I trespassed upon your ancestral estates. 

For which I humbly beg your forgiveness and accept my fault.

Silence. YOUR GRACE is weighing up the arguments...or pretending to.

YOUR GRACE:

You speak well in your own defence, catigern. The court is not without sympathy.

(Pointedly)

Make a note of that, please, Snivel First.

Our forces are, of course, already well-trained and well-supplied. We have endless thousands at our disposal gathering beyond the mountains, so I hear, and our assault upon Emmensar is only a matter of time.

All of that said - your additional experience in the field might make you a welcome addition to our ranks.

The court is merciful as well as just. Let all present remember that.

(Pause; sharply)

On the other hand. 

Our nascent empire, our kingdom restored, cannot be founded upon venality and laxity. That would be setting entirely the wrong example. The world is watching.

​

We may be able to display clemency towards the act of trespass - but at the very least, our prisoner must answer for his shot fired against our Court Clerk, Misters Snivel.

(As if making an exciting announcement)

As soon as he has served his sentence, he will be free to begin his duties as the new Catigern-General of our armies.

(Warmly applauding)

Bravo.

(Sharply, encouraging the others to applaud)

Applause!

Some of the LACKEYS applaud as well.

MOREL:

(A little off-guard)

Thank you. 

How…must I answer?

YOUR GRACE:

Oh, it’s perfectly simple.

(Enjoying the answer)

Remove the finger that fired the shot.

(Snapping their fingers)

Marasmic, give the catigern your shears.

A pair of metal scissors is tossed across the room. They fall with a clatter at MOREL’s feet. He reacts.

MOREL:

Ah. 

(Licking his lips)

Perhaps, your Honour, we might instead-

YOUR GRACE:

(Grandly, reassuringly)

This is the court’s binding judgement. 

If the prisoner surrenders his finger as recompense for his crimes, he will be forgiven in full for his trespasses, and we will return his daughter’s body to him for a proper burial.

All here are present as witnesses to the court’s decision. 

MOREL remains silent and unmoving.

YOUR GRACE:

(Almost wheedling)

A single finger, catigern. For your king, and for your daughter. 

You love her very much, I’m certain of that. 

MOREL:

..of course I do.

YOUR GRACE:

You’d do anything for her.

MOREL:

I would. But-

YOUR GRACE:

(Needling)

-but here she lies, mangled and broken. And here you stand, living and whole. That tells a tale, does it not?

Did you let her die, catigern?

MOREL:

(With rising anger)

You don’t know what you’re talking about.

YOUR GRACE:

(Shrugging)

Perhaps you’re only a coward. A weak man who let his daughter die so he could live. A man who talks, and only that.

MOREL:

You’ve never met a man like me.

YOUR GRACE:

Then stop flapping your tongue - and show us steel.

MOREL hesitates. He’s too proud to back down, and too stung by the words.

He picks up the scissors, keeping eye contact with YOUR GRACE.

MOREL:

I have your word that you’ll let me leave with her.

YOUR GRACE:

(Watching him evenly)

And I have yours that you will return.

​