EPISODE 6: cowards, like all people
This episode contains references to bodily mutilation, homophobia and queerphobia, references to sexual violence, mob lynching and non-consent, eating sounds (42.30) and extreme bloody violence.
OPERA HOUSE, INT, NIGHT
We hear the last note of an opera. The curtian falls; applause rings out. The NAMELESS HISTORIAN shifts about in his seat.
NAMELESS HISTORIAN:
Imagine for a moment that you were born into wealth and title. That you lived and died, and were resumed; that you now stand, in fact, amongst the ranks of the Kindly Ancestors, upon the threshold of History’s Ending.
The terms of surrender have been drawn up. The capital has fallen. The new calendar of pre-res and post-res has already been drafted, just to make the point: nothing will ever be as it was.
Your victory over the living is now assured, bar a few futile outbursts of rebellion or protest here and there across the fallen empire, but there’s a problem.
Your fellow commanders are various supreme rulers from every era of Cyshanic history, each of them endowed with absolute power by the Big Man himself, most of them despising one another as ancient primitives or as future decadents.
The in-fighting has already begun.
It is rapidly becoming clear that an era of endless civil strife between the immortal dead is imminent.
Living wars go on for long enough.
So what can you do to resolve this stalemate but find a unifying figurehead? An arbitrator and a mediator, an empty vessel to occupy the ultimate position of absolute power, and ensure that no one faction can dominate the other?
Ten years on, and still nobody knows who the Hollowbrow Queen really is.
Naturally, the great dynastic clans spread it about that she is secretly a royal member of their own households. The common folk are assured that she is a lowly serf from a neighbouring village, evidence that the Kindly Ancestors love merit above rank.
The Queen stands above all other queens, all kings, all emperors, of every age; her authority is unquestionable, her neutrality absolute.
Just to very brutally make the point, the Ancestors have caved in the top of her skull, so that all may see the emptiness beneath. She’s draped in the flags and icons of every era, blindfolded with white silk, and her legs have been removed to ensure that she may never leave the throne she occupies.
‘To rule is to serve’ has been etched across what’s left of her, in every form of our country’s languages.
And when she needs a fresh, unrotted tongue with which to pronounce the will of the nation, each great household takes its turn to provide one.
A great honour, of course.
The curtain rises again. The next act of the opera begins-
EARL HAA’s ESTATE: HALLWAY, INT, DAY
It’s early morning. A clock sounds the hour - and from within, a dimbox 'cuckoo' emerges.
LABOURING MAN:
Seven i' the clock, and all's well. Seven i' the clock, and all's well. Seven i' the clock, and all's well.
We hear CAUL’s bedroom door slowly swing open. She steps out, her feet echoing as she enters the sumptuous hallway.
CAUL:
(Calling out for attention)
Oyez?
Nobody is around.
She keeps on walking - over the landing and down the stairs.
CAUL:
(Calling out)
Oyez, oyez?
Everyone still in bed, apparently.
Nobody replies. CAUL continues cautiously down the stairs.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
(Being carried under CAUL’s arm, with hissed contempt)
Sickening opulence, you know.
CAUL:
Ssh.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
(Still whispering)
Filthy, really. Piled-up riches from plundered shores, dumped in empty corridors. The braggartry of the sons of thieves.
Makes the stomach turn.
CAUL:
(Softly hissing)
You don’t have a stomach, and you’re not supposed to be talking. I can always put you back in the box.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
(Hissing back)
Just because it sickens me doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it.
(Brightly)
Ooh, look at that sconce.
DINING ROOM, INT, DAY
CAUL pushes the dining room door open and pokes her head in.
CAUL:
Nobody in here either.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
(Hissing)
Breakfast on the table, though. Grab us some sticky buns, would you?
CAUL:
You can’t taste it.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
(Softly rapturous)
Ah, but the texture, Caul, the texture! The give of soft dough, the crack of crisp powdered frosting beneath the teeth-
CAUL:
All right, all right. Just stay quiet. You’re not being careful enough.
HEAD OF SISTER BULL:
You were careless at the Nametaker’s and it got us here. Perhaps I’m coming round to your live-with-a-shrug-die-with-a-smile way of doing things.
(Childishly pleading)
Can I please have a sticky bun?
CAUL:
Yeah, you can.
CAUL takes a seat and begins to pile up a plate. A small ‘mm’ of appreciation as she eats, and a brief chuckle.
CAUL:
(About to say ‘bad’, with her mouth full)
You know, as sickening opulence goes, this isn’t-
And from the doorway, we unexpectedly hear the creaking growl of the COUNTESS HAA - who is, of course, a couple of hundred years dead.
COUNTESS HAA:
(From the doorway)
Are you one of mine?
CAUL starts in shock and chokes on a bite of food, then swallows and regains her composure.
CAUL:
No. No, I don’t think so.
Silence for a moment.
COUNTESS HAA:
(With well-bred contempt and a touch of racism)
Of course not. How could you be?
CAUL:
Only with great difficulty, I imagine.
The COUNTESS HAA sweeps into the room and moves to the table. She stares out in silence for a moment.
COUNTESS HAA:
(Softly sorrowful)
They’ve all left me, you know. Every manjack of ‘em.
Ninth-To-Be went off to fight the Neckies. Captain’s commission in the cavalry. He died valiantly, so they told me, making a charge at Dokkon Addan Kabrikesa.
Ninth-In-Waiting was a brossie, and there are ways of dealing with that, I’d never have minded, but Boim couldn’t stand it, so Ninth-In-Waiting had to go away. Never heard what became of him.
Children are all betrayers. They have so many ways of leaving you.
CAUL waits, but more is not forthcoming.
CAUL:
(Unsure what to say)
I'm...sorry?
The COUNTESS HAA takes a creaking step forwards.
COUNTESS HAA:
I told the tenants, when they came to the gates that morning - furious at me because there wasn’t enough bread to go around, and the Big Man had been walking slow that winter, so they were chanting and they were throwing stones - I told them, “I’m a victim too. My children are all lost, and they can’t find their way home to me. My husband is dead. I am alone in my sorrow, and at least you have each other.”
The steward said I should stay in the house, but we’re all one blood and one people, so I had them open the gates and I came before them in my mourning-clothes to remind them how much had been taken from me.
“I am a mother, like so many of you. Please remember. I have suffered, just as you’ve suffered. So take pity on me, and go home.”
CAUL:
I-
COUNTESS HAA:
They wouldn’t listen.
(Becoming distraught and frantic)
They took their knives, and their rope. Dragged me to the old maple by the fountain. Clear running water from five spouts drawn from a mechanical pump, a marvel of engineering.
The boys’ swing knocking against my feet as they drew me up.
And then the water was-
The water was running with-
(Screaming)
They wouldn’t listen to me! Why wouldn’t they listen to me!
The EARL HAA has entered silently.
EARL HAA:
(Snapping)
That’s enough, my darling.
(More forcefully)
I said, that’s enough.
The COUNTESS continues to scream.
EARL HAA:
(Snapping back to a DIMBOXED SERVANT)
Careworn! The countess is feeling faint. Take her to the fog-parlour, please.
COUNTESS HAA:
(Screaming in absolute horror)
No! No, no, no! They wouldn’t listen! They wouldn’t listen!
The door bangs behind her as she's dragged away.
EARL HAA:
(Mildly)
Man alive.
We can still hear her shrieking the same words, over and over, down the corridor. THE EARL HAA sighs. He pulls the door to, then moves to help himself to breakfast.
EARL HAA:
Sorry you had to witness that.
It’s always worst in the mornings, when she’s most herself. She begins to remember too much of how she lived and died, and that sends her into hysterics.
Rare thing, to have a peaceful breakfast at this table. But she does insist on attending, tho’ she never eats a bite.
CAUL:
Do you feel sorry for her?
The EARL HAA genuinely and sincerely thinks about this.
EARL HAA:
Sometimes. Yes. I truly do.
(Half to himself)
Should I, though?
She was born into this life. She lived it once. She’s getting to live it again.
Should a couple of knives to the ribs, a few fleeting seconds of pain and humiliation, outweigh an eternity of comfort and security?
If she’s a victim, what does that make the rest of us? Mm?
CAUL:
And I suppose there’s no bringing her children back from the Neth, either.
EARL HAA:
(Raising an eyebrow, with amusement)
Pay a fortune to invite in the competition? A squall of dead heirs to steal my enterprises out from under me? Man, no.
Her children are buried in the ancestral grounds on the far side of the estate, under lock and key, and there they’ll stay.
I’ve taken her to see the bodies, encouraged her to burn a letter or two over their graves. She doesn’t seem to understand that it’s really them; she forgets they’re dead, and goes back to bemoaning their absence.
Come in, Chrissom!
(Changing the topic abruptly)
This is Chrissom, by the by. The first member of our nascent necronautical enterprise. Chrissom, Caul Serrikane, our new talent.
CHRISSOM has knocked and entered with a satchel of papers. He’s well-bred and respectable - and more than a little tediously self-regarding.
CHRISSOM:
It’s a pleasure.
CAUL:
(More cooly detached)
All right.
EARL HAA:
You don’t mind if we work while we breakfast, do you? Chrissom, just spread the papers out over there. Thank you.
(Brightly)
Oh, sticky buns!
He takes a bite as CHRISSOM spreads out the papers.
EARL HAA:
Chrissom’s been dying on-and-off since he was six or seven - isn’t that right, Chrissom?
CHRISSOM:
(Very smug about it all)
Seven. I was hit by a collier’s cart in the street. Went down with a hoof to the head.
When I came to, my parents were screaming my name - my skull was half-caved in. And yet I was grinning like a wild thing and once the blood was cleaned off my face they realised there was no wound at all.
CAUL:
Wish it came to me that easy.
EARL HAA:
(Chiming in with a mouthful of bun)
I do wonder what the life expectancy of a necronaut truly is. I think Caul has a couple of years on you, Chrissom. Isn’t that right?
My understanding of your crook - which I’ll admit is crude - is that you’ve both been technically dead ever since the first plunge. Your body simply forgot that it had died, remembered too well the act of living, and returned to its proper functions.
You are the very purest vessels of the yearning principle, one might say.
The more frequently you die, well…the harder, I suspect, it becomes to remember what living is like.
CAUL ignores him. She’s genuinely curious to meet her comrade-in-death.
CAUL:
(To CHRISSOM)
How did you figure out the process, Chrissom?
CHRISSOM:
(Taken aback momentarily, then committing to the answer)
I experimented. Started going up into the attic with a cupful of rat poison. Drank it and sank.
Didn’t seem reckless, in the moment. The pain didn’t last long, and I wanted to see the colours of the Neth again, I wanted to swim in those endless depths.
CAUL:
You must have frightened your parents.
CHRISSOM:
(Simple)
I did. I didn’t care. I was in love with death, and falling fast.
CAUL:
Been falling ever since.
A little moment of mutual understanding between them, but also a little rising competitiveness.
CHRISSOM:
These days I mostly practice voluntary repossession. I dive into the Neth, find an interview subject, let them claim my body.
Earl Haa questions them above. I take my body back once he’s done.
CAUL:
That’s a neat trick.
CHRISSOM:
It is.
What, uh, do you use to resurface, down in the Guts?
CAUL:
There’s a song from my childhood that frightens me. I take a vial of heartstopper-
CHRISSOM:
What’s heartstopper?
CAUL:
They sell it down at the docks. It’s used for whale-bait. I don’t know the proper name. Functions as a, uh, cardiac paralytic. Lasts about an hour.
Heart starts going like the clappers, brings me back to myself.
CHRISSOM:
(Scoffing)
That sounds incredibly reckless. You don’t know what that stuff is or what it’s doing to your insides. Does it hurt?
The conversation is turning a little snappy and argumentative. It's like breakfast with a pair of teenage siblings.
CAUL:
Of course it hurts. I’ve died. What do you use?
CHRISSOM:
(Smugly)
Tetrodotoxin from the liver of the dreaming toadfish. It shuts down the nervous system in a matter of moments, but it’s highly soluble.
Drink enough water beforehand and the body does the work for you. Clears it right out of your system.
CAUL:
So you piss yourself every time you die.
CHRISSOM:
No, of course I don’t piss myself-
EARL HAA:
(With his mouth full, like a teacher taking charge)
To business, please. To business.
Caul stumbled into our laps, Chrissom, not a moment too soon. The moment to secure our necronautical charter is already upon us.
As you’re no doubt aware, Caul, the Hollowbrow Queen has announced her intention to wed a living consort of royal blood.
The candidates will be arriving from the first day of Byrnken in eight weeks’ time; it will be a forty-day month, if the astronomers have calculated the Big Man’s pace correctly, and by month’s end the Queen will have formally chosen her consort, with the intention of marrying on the last day of Midbyrn.
That is our window to act.
Silence for a moment.
CAUL:
All right. So how does she choose?
CHRISSOM quietly scoffs.
EARL HAA:
Caul is not a political animal, Chrissom. We should both be very grateful for that.
(To CAUL)
The Hollowbrow Queen is above all an obedient servant of the people, and in this case the people are represented by the Cold Court - which will ultimately have the casting vote on who marries whom.
You can consider the Court to be divided broadly into three factions.
(Reaching for some items to illustrate the issue)
Salt shaker, pepper pot, and, uh - this slice of toast.
First, the salt shaker; the traditionalists. Hard men from hard times; the Brute’s Century, the Age of Bleeding Tears. Cyshic conqueror-lords like the Dourmarrow and his Iron Line.
Their initial reluctance towards the very idea of a marriage between the living and the dead has since evolved into a list of increasingly stringent demands. The living bride must be Cyshic-born royalty, not Shanic, preferably white, and he must certainly be a wayman.
This, the traditionalists insist, must be a natural wedding between wayman and woman, king and queen, the kind that has fostered a continuity of endless heirs throughout all of our country’s history.
A restoration of our great nation through the restoration of a royal legacy. And in turn, a stout rejection of modern progressive excesses.
CAUL:
(Keeping up)
But the Hollowbrow Queen isn’t going to be producing any heirs. I mean, she’s carrion.
EARL HAA:
Well, it’s a symbolic gesture in service of immutable truths, so it doesn’t need to actually make any sense.
The real trouble is that all of the suitably pale-and-male Cyshic royals fled the country twenty years ago in terror of the risen dead, and since then the traditionalists have had the damnedest time luring them back.
On the other side, we have the pepper pot; internationalists. Trade-kings and empire-builders from the Long Year of Crimson Blossom; colonial rulers from the Starless Century, her Majesty the Leech Chuningin and the surgeon-lords of the Peconne Dynasty. These are the Ancestors who flatter themselves that they can adapt to the demands of modernity; they wish the rest of the world to see once and for all that Cyshane is not ruled by cobwebbed corpses, but by history’s first ageless meritocracy.
So. Should the Hollowbrow marry a woman, a boundless? A Baruudi princess or a Roan pair? No doubt there will come a point when their squeamishness overcomes their desperate desire to be viewed as open-minded and modern, but we have not found that threshold yet.
These two forces, halting progress and strident regress, stand amassed at each other’s throats.
CAUL:
And what’s the toast?
EARL HAA:
(Shrugging)
The eternally dim and perpetually unbothered. Braggarts, epicures and wastrels with little political inclination or ambition beyond continuing to enjoy tourneys or boxing matches or balls while everyone around them pretends it’s eight hundred years ago.
Not an organised alliance, nor is there any kind of kinship between them, but this is the crucial group, really. They’ll be watching all of this play out,. and ultimately mass behind the candidate that seems likeliest to provide the most spectacular celebration, the most sumptuous gifts.
CAUL:
Fine. So we need to back one of these candidates ourselves, to win the charter.
EARL HAA:
Strictly speaking, there’d be little point in us backing a candidate, because we don’t have a vote. No living lord has ever been invited to join the Cold Court. That would be beyond us.
No, our ambitions are more in the region of…
(Searching around)
Do you know what culing is?
CAUL:
Of course.
EARL HAA:
(Indicating CHRISSOM)
Tell him, Caul.
CAUL:
You get into the stands at a horse-race or a roust. Look for living ladies.
When they stand up to cheer, they leave their purses on the seats. You run down the stands, swiping as many as you can before they sit again. By the time they realise what’s happened, you’re gone.
EARL HAA:
(Cheerfully)
Wedding season will be a carnival of the noble dead in Catalfac. Parties, balls, soirees, parades. We shall have invitations flooding our in-tray and opportunities like never before to make friends of history’s finest.
Our charter will require backers. Where we cannot befriend backers, we must distract and disarm dissenters.
In theory, the internationalists ought to be more open to our proposal, so we will focus upon them.
We shall commit some light flirtation and deploy a little charm, we shall present some persuasive arguments and tell a few golden lies - and while the dead are all on their feet and applauding the Hollowbrow upon her wedding day, we shall steal away our charter before anyone thinks to raise a complaint.
One crucial aspect of our plan will be my gift to Her Majesties’ Majesty.
This will be our opportunity for a public audience before the Hollowbrow herself, so we must make full use of that fleeting moment. We want to attract the interest of the internationalists without attracting animosity from the traditionalists.
Chrissom has been working on the wedding gift. Chrissom, what do you have for us?
CHRISSOM gets to his feet. Shuffles his papers. Prepares to present.
CHRISSOM:
I, uh-
CAUL:
(Calmly interrupting)
It’s obvious, though, isn’t it?
A short silence. CHRISSOM splutters in indignation.
EARL HAA:
Go on.
CAUL:
When Slug Martin proposed the Navel Run to Drab the Second - if I remember right - she gave him a book of maps covering the region, half-completed. She made a note of known colonies. ‘Owned by the Riff.’ ‘Owned by the Turn.’
In the greater void, she wrote ‘To be seized by the brave.’
She got her ship and her charter the very same day. I say we repeat her gift and we echo her words.
EARL HAA tilts back his chair and thinks.
EARL HAA:
A coded message, and an echo of past glories.
Yes, I think that works splendidly. Well done, Caul.
Good, good, good.
(Checking his watch)
I have to make a run of my own, unfortunately. Chrissom, Caul - I imagine you’ll want to begin field research immediately. Feel free to use the drawing room; I’ll ensure you’re provided with all of your usual materials.
(Like a happy child)
You know what? I’m going to take another bun to go.
He goes.
CHRISSOM glares at CAUL for a long moment in the silence. It’s a little bit classroom rivals in here.
CHRISSOM:
(A little sulkily)
A book of maps was actually one of the three ideas I meant to propose.
CAUL:
I’m sure it was.
CHRISSOM:
It’s the obvious choice to make, if you know your history-
CAUL:
Strange you couldn’t narrow it down to just the one, then.
CHRISSOM:
(Matter-of-fact)
Caul...I think I’m going to enjoy watching you die in terrible pain.
CAUL takes this in her stride and takes another mouthful.
CAUL:
Breakfast first?
DRAWING ROOM, INT, DAY
Light classical music plays.We hear CAUL and CHRISSOM both choking horribly, dying, gurgling-
-and then their bodies lie still
All we can hear is the ticking of the clock.
-and then it sounds the bell.
Both CAUL and CHRISSOM surface, choking and wheezing as they return to life. They’ve taken CHRISSOM’s poison.
CAUL:
(Drained)
Fuck. That…was better.
CHRISSOM:
(Drained)
You’re…very welcome.
GROUNDS, EXT, DAY
CHRISSOM and CAUL are walking across the lawns, discussing their experiences in the Neth. Things are more amicable between them now.
CHRISSOM:
…so the Ribs are inaccessible to you.
CAUL:
I don’t see the Ribs below. It’s all impossibly high walls and horrid faceless things standing guard.
I try and swim over the top, the walls keep on growing, and it all gets darker and darker until I have to turn back.
CHRISSOM:
(Frustrated)
This is our difficulty. The Neth isn’t a place, it’s a neural network of distinct memories. Stretching across time and space, made navigable only through shared experience.
(Simplifying it, a little patronisingly)
It’s a - subjectivity.
CAUL:
So how do we map a subjectivity?
CHRISSOM:
Well, there’s two components to our work, I suppose. The useful part is the instructions for future necronauts, which can be directional. A kind of glossary of common emotional states and disassociated geography.
The other component is presentational, and rather more urgent - a nice simple map for Her Majesties’ Majesty, which doesn’t get into too many challenges or complexities about the nature of the Neth. She must see it as a territory which can be claimed and conquered.
CAUL:
So we lie.
CHRISSOM:
Effectively, yes. I was thinking we lie.
(Picking up on CAUL’s silence)
What’s on your mind?
CAUL:
You hear the temple bells from up in the Ribs, don’t you?
CHRISSOM:
Of course.
CAUL:
Let’s both try and dive towards the same base memory; rising from sleep with the bells ringing out. First thing in the morning. See if we arrive in the same place.
If we can locate a shared meeting-place, a spot that’s consistent for us both, we can navigate the Neth in tandem. Safer than going it alone.
They stroll on.
CHRISSOM:
It’s a smart idea.
Maybe we could try a dose of heartstopper this time, so you can show me what I’ve been missing out on-
DRAWING ROOM, INT, DAY
-CAUL and CHRISSOM are both dying horribly again.
CHRISSOM:
(Through gritted teeth)
It’s worse - oh, it’s really worse-
He collapses.
THE RIBS, EXT, DAY
We’re in the trading district of CATALFAC. A busy crowd has gathered. Trumpets sound a fanfare and a MAJORDOMO takes to the stage.
MAJORDOMO:
(Grandly, before a crowd)
Upon the first day of each new month, according to ancient tradition now returned and resumed, any landed citizen may make their arguments before the organs of the City.
Her Majesty’s Majesty, the Hollowbrow Queen, speaks and acts with the nation’s voice.
On this day, at the Rue Harangue, we perform the inner workings of her glorious mind. With voices raised proud, we enact argument and counter-argument, and with the applause of the nation's gathered multitudes, we anticipate the Hollowbrow’s will!
First upon the docket: His Majesty Urat the First, known in his time as Urat the-
(Swiftly course-correcting)
His Majesty Urat The First!
A DEAD KING steps up and begins to speak in an unknown language. The MAJOR-DOMO translates.
Some mild applause. CAUL and EARL HAA are watching from the sidelines. CAUL is unimpressed. EARL HAA is amused.
CAUL:
So it’s a debate?
EARL HAA:
It’s a podium for dead poltroons to bellow past one another.
(Wryly)
Try to look impressed, Caul. As of fifteen years ago, the Rue Harangue is one of our oldest and most beloved traditions. I’ve heard great-grandfaders swear blind that they used to attend it as children.
URAT THE FIRST begins to speak. We don't need to catch every word but it appears to be a generalised diatribe against queerness.
EARL HAA:
It’s the ideal spot for unobserved observation. You get all manner of cold kings coming to make their case before the crowds, courts and all. And today, you’ll mark - some of our very first arrivals; the living candidates for the Hollowbrow’s hand.
(Unable to let it go)
You’ve really never been to the Rue before?
CAUL:
Never been this far up her body before.
URAT THE FIRST
(Speaks)
MAJOR-DOMO:
(Translating)
His Majesty wishes to focus the Hollowbrow’s attention upon a matter most urgent, and most troubling!
He is speaking, of course, of so-called common-law marriages, between man and man, woman and woman, and those creatures which selfishly reject the gifts of their parents, poisoning their bodies to relinquish the responsibilities of their sex - these false and undiscriminating arrangements have become a plague upon this nation.
EARL HAA:
(His attention elsewhere)
See the Riffan delegation there, with the false heads? The Valminare are sponsoring them. One to wa
(Sniffing, then glancing at CAUL’s outfit)
Caul - what on the breathing earth are you wearing?
CAUL glances down at her own outfit.
CAUL:
The waistcoat? I thought you wanted me to wear it.
(Increasingly confused)
I found it in my room.
(EARL HAA is continuing to shake his head)
It was in the cupboard?
EARL HAA:
And you put it on? Really?
CAUL:
It smelled clean.
URAT THE FIRST
(Speaks)
MAJOR-DOMO:
(Translating)
These creatures waste the time of citizen-officiants in our temple-houses and our brothels, they sow confusion in the official records, and most shamefully, they distract our breathing youths from the business of true marriage and childbirth!
The dead may reign, but living bodies are still required!
Let an Act of Regress now be passed, outlawing these perversities for the sake of restoring nature’s order!
Noisy and enthusiastic applause.
URAT THE FIRST
(Speaks)
MAJOR-DOMO:
(Translating)
Worse yet, this decadent fashion cannot be blamed upon the mistakes of the pre-Reclamation decline! It is a wickedness of the present-day! It has slunk in, amongst beggars and spies, at the docks of Catalfac! It has wended its way to our shores upon foreign boats!
Our enemies abroad would once send ships loaded with diseased livestock - now what they send are diseased ideas!
Sickening false marriage! Dissent and confusion about the role of wayman and woman! Catigerns and vortigerns in our armed forces who are women, or worse!
Scattered and less enthusiastic applause this time.
EARL HAA:
(Mildly, like someone witnessing a bad penalty kick)
Urat’s over-extended himself with that one.
Plenty of woman officers in Cyshane, and long before his time, too. We’ve never been particularly fussy about who we send off to die in war.
The diatribe continues. URAT THE FIRST appears to be panicking, and the translation becomes ever more muddied.
CAUL watches.
CAUL:
Why do they even care what we think of them?
They’ve already won.
EARL HAA:
The dead?
Oh, I don’t know.
(Having a thought)
You might as well ask why they keep us around at all, and the truth is, I think, that you can hold the world and its future in the cold grasp of your palm, and still weep for the cause that you are not loved enough.
(A little wistfully)
Who could ever be loved enough?
CAUL:
But they can pass any damn law they please, whenever they please.
Ban the unbound and miraculous, enact wayman’s sole right to labour, pack the Baruudis off home on their steamships. Break us, enslave us.
Everyone’s been waiting for them to do it.
EARL HAA:
(With a little unexpected seriousness)
They’re cowards, of course, like all people.
Or it suits their purposes to let us wring our hands in terror while they rob us of all they can.
Or the changes they have made have done far more harm than we realise.
None of these possibilities should fill us with optimism.
There’s some mild applause as URAT THE FIRST's diatribe comes to an uncertain end.
EARL HAA:
(Still commenting)
Not much enthusiasm there. Of course, Urat was only imported from Erundil because we’d run out of kings. Reigned for precisely thirty-one days before the Phalletheia fed him his own gonads for being a brossie.
Surprised they let him speak at all.
The MAJOR-DOMO wraps up in the background.
MAJOR-DOMO:
Well said. Do any here wish to answer?
(Nobody does)
We anticipate the nation’s will. A round of civil applause, please, for His Majesty Lurat The First!
Moderate clapping. EARL HAA joins in.
EARL HAA:
(Mildly)
Clap, Caul.
CAUL:
You’re serious.
EARL HAA:
He’s in the history books, and it would not do to provoke him.
Ah, well. That was as rotten a thing as you’ll hear today.
CAUL:
You ever spoke yourself?
EARL HAA:
Man, no. Why would I want any of these dreadful people to know what I’m really thinking?
(Brightening as he spots someone)
Now there’s the wayman I’m looking for.
MAJOR-DOMO:
Next upon the docket - we, ah, understand the Dourmarrow cannot be with us today, but he has sent a living representative in his stead. We will hear from her now!
Notably louder and more sustained applause this time.
Across the crowd, CONCILIATOR WEGG - slow, sullen and serene - is watching the debates. Behind him is a group of DIMBOX WOMEN.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Clap, girls. Sa’ab! Makofi!
The DIMBOXES groan weakly and clap obediently. EARL HAA approaches.
EARL HAA:
Conciliator Wegg.
How fare history’s bureaucracies?
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
(Quite calmly and languidly)
An endless torment from which no living man nor dead may ever escape. The last great war, a war that encompasses language, ritual, law,
Absurd inefficiencies from five centuries past which have become enshrined as sacred writ.
No sane man could attempt to mediate this business and remain sane, not for a heartbeat.
EARL HAA:
(Politely)
Well, work’s work.
I was wondering, ah- if you’d be able to confirm?
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
The suitor’s ball?
EARL HAA:
Yes.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
The guest list is strictly under wraps. For reasons of national security, you must understand.
EARL HAA waits.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
You’re in, Haa, and I hope you understand how hard it was.
We had to turn down three generations of Mascoppic trade-lords to make room. The matriarch was devastated. Threw herself out of a bell-tower for the shame of it.
EARL HAA:
(Politely)
Non-fatally, I hope.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Apparently she’s a very angry puddle.
EARL HAA:
Yes, well, I’ve always felt that era tended towards the melodramatic.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
You wouldn’t have been invited at all if not for the Seventeenth Duchess of Carn, Wilshame and New Crook.
She’s taken her entire household arsewards for the summer season, abandoned all the festivities. Frees up a little room.
EARL HAA:
(Baffled and amused)
Why?
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Apparently it’s what she’s always done.
The DOURMARROW'S REPRESENTATIVE is raging in the background. From what we can hear, this is an anti-Baruudi speech. WEGG and HAA listen.
EARL HAA:
(to the CONCILIATOR)
Who do you think’s going to win? Speaking as a strictly neutral party, of course.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Pray it’s the Leech Chuningin. Better a coin-counter than a rogue element. We ought never to have brought the Dourmarrow back.
EARL HAA:
Shame he’s so fondly remembered.
Applause from the crowd as the DOURMARROW'S REPRESENTATIVE takes a pause.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Clap, girls. We must all do our part.
The DIMBOX WOMEN clap. EARL HAA glances back at them.
EARL HAA:
Intriguing entourage you have there, Conciliator.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
A treasure-hoard of history’s finest labouring fuckers, newly gurgitated. The Incescope specialises in remote fellatio, the Baruudi teaches the lost art of all ten fingers. Greatest rapture a wayman can receive, if you believe the stories.
They’re not for me. Eldest son’s birthday just around the corner. He’s come up a little soft. And, well, we know the Ancestors haven’t outlawed anything yet, but it can’t possibly benefit one to have some kind of miraculous brossie in the family, can it?
So we lead him to his bedroom, we lock the doors - and he enjoys his gift.
EARL HAA just softly reflects on this.
EARL HAA:
What will you do with the women afterwards?
CONCILIATOR:
Haven’t considered. We’ll have to see how many goes are required.
EARL HAA:
Perhaps I can take them off your hands.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
(Simply)
How much?
EARL HAA:
My wife’s just taken repossession of a chalet in Stourhip-Become-Sae. Lovely in the long summers, but she’ll never go to visit. It didn’t exist in her time.
You can have the keys.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
You must really believe the stories.
EARL HAA:
I suppose it depends on the stories.
WEGG detects a note of reproach in HAA’s voice.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
(Idly)
Do you see yourself as a liberator, Haa? I can assure you, it makes no difference to the whores who owns them.
I’ll have my man talk to yours tomorrow. Take care.
He turns and goes.
EARL HAA:
You too, Conciliator.
He waits, and then softly addresses CAUL - who has remained silent in the background.
EARL HAA:
The roses are all dead in the rose garden. We’ll make beds for them there.
I’d say they’ve probably laboured more than long enough.
CAUL:
He a friend of yours?
EARL HAA:
(A little pointedly and sadly)
Was.
(Clapping CAUL on the shoulder)
Shall we go whistle ourselves up a little fog, do you think?
I feel like celebrating, for some reason.
The noise of the crowd falls away-
ROAD, EXT, NIGHT
It’s night-time; and LIVELY is riding onwards with her stolen company supplies.
A clink as a fog-bottle drops to the ground behind her.
LIVELY:
(Aloud to the night-air, feebly justifying herself)
No other recourse, that’s the truth of it. No other option. Had to leave him behind, because he was too slow getting out of there. Always too slow, Peeve, always one foot dragging behind the other, always looking to you to keep him in marching step so he didn’t get beat.
And sooner or later you aren’t around to watch out for him any more, and he falls behind. Faces consequence. And that’s not your flaw, but his, you have to remember that.
There’s only so much you can do.
The quartermaster, that’s not your flaw either. He could’ve stepped aside, could’ve said, “Lively, I can’t let you take the company supplies wholesale, but what I can do is turn my head and look the other way while you help yourself to a reasonable amount”.
Everyone lives, no-one’s a victim. Instead he steps up like a fool, gets a knife in his belly, and the tent has to go up in flames so they don’t follow you. His choice and his flaw.
(Finding relief and reassurance in the phrase)
There’s only so much you can do.
So you’ll pour one out to poor Peeve at the Catch, and another for Grimmer, and you’ll ride onwards to make something of yourself, in the name of all their-
-their-
She stops (a quiet ‘whoa’ to her horse). She’s heard something up ahead. (We might hear it too; a distant voice.)
She draws her pistol, cocks it and listens.
LIVELY:
(Calling out)
Who’s there?
Who’s there, I said?
No answer. LIVELY affects an older woman’s voice, trembling and uncertain.
LIVELY:
I’m nothing but a poor old woman, going home to my grandchildren. Naught in my saddlebags but a little food for their rumbling bellies.
Not carrying any items of value, in case anyone was listening…?
No answer. And then more distinctly, we hear the croaking cry of a DIMBOX in the distance, stood in the middle of the road.
DIMBOX:
(Faintly)
Welcome home, mistress. Will you not go in?
LIVELY realises what she’s looking at.
Embarrassed, she stows her pistol back away and begins riding forward again to face the walking corpse.
LIVELY:
(To herself)
What am I doing, pissing my britches over a sodding dimbox-
(Calling out)
Hey! Wormbait! I’m looking for the trade-road to Arman’s Catch! Is this the way?
A long silence. Then the DIMBOX repeats itself.
DIMBOX:
Welcome home, mistress. Will you not go in?
LIVELY:
(Bemused)
What?
(More slowly and harshly enunciated)
Look, I’m trying to get back to the trade road. Can you point me in the right direction? Whose estate is this?
Hey! Is there enough of you left to answer a simple question?
Silence.
DIMBOX:
Welcome home, mistress. Will you not go in?
LIVELY:
Dunderheaded sodding dimbox playing at being greeter-
(Spelling out each word loudly)
Which - Way - To - Arman’s - Catch?
Silence. Then -
DIMBOX:
Supper is warming for you in the ovens, mistress. We have fine fog-wine and soft sheets. The larders are stocked and the hearth is warm.
See? The gates are open.
Will you not go in?
LIVELY considers this for a long moment.
LIVELY:
Is - is that so? Hm.
(Not getting an answer; more confidently bluffing)
Good to be home, indeed.
(Taking on the mantle of an aristocratic sort)
I can see you’ve let the place go to rack and ruin in my absence. Not much of a welcoming party, either.
Well, what are you waiting for? Escort me in! Chop, chop, quick about it!
Pause for a moment. Then -
DIMBOX:
Yes, mistress.
The DIMBOX turns and shambles on, and LIVELY rides on after-
LIVELY:
(To herself, with quiet satisfaction)
Like they say - ‘from death, opportunity.’
DINING HALL, INT, NIGHT
Perhaps half an hour later. LIVELY has made herself thoroughly at home in the estate. She’s tucking into a meal with relish
We can hear the crackle of a fire in the background. An echo which suggests a cavernous dining hall.
LIVELY:
(Eating)
Not bad. Mm. Not bad at all. Compliments to the kitchen staff, hm? For all that they’re rotten meat they still remember how to cook a brisket.
(Reaching for a drink)
Mm. Little fog before bed’s not a crime, either, is it?
She grabs the fog bottle, sprays herself with it, and gasps - perhaps a little light hysterical chuckle as well - in relief and appreciation.
LIVELY:
Ah! Ah, that’s the joy and the purpose.
And we won’t be greedy, no, we won’t take too much for ourselves, just a caretaker’s due, just a sampler.
When her ladyship does come home, she’ll be grateful to know she had a steward in place to watch over the estate.
Rewards in it, maybe. She’s lucky I stopped by this way.
(Calling out, ringing a handbell)
We’ll see to the fields tomorrow, dimbox. We’ll get things back in order!
Nobody replies. She scrapes back her chair, gets up and goes to a portrait on the wall.
LIVELY:
(Staring up at it)
So this is the grand dame herself, is it?
(Reading aloud)
“Blessed and Beloved By Fortune And Fate, Seventeenth Duchess of New Crook. Lived interim 616 PR - 584 PR. Returned upon the Year of Resumption.”
(Addressing the portrait)
Pleasure to make your acquaintance, uh, ‘Babbfaff’?
(Amused)
Doesn’t look a bit like me, the brainless sods. She’s got no skin.
(Calling out)
How’s my bed looking, by the way? We got a warming-pan in there?
No reply.
LIVELY:
(Still calling)
And satin sheets, I hope?
Silence. LIVELY begins to ring the handbell again.
LIVELY:
Servant? Oh, servant, where are you?
Dimbox! Your mistress is calling!
DIMBOX!
Silence.
And then - BAM - the doors swing open, making LIVELY startle.
The DIMBOX SERVANTS enter. There’s dozens of them, and they fill the room, coming to a standstill in unison.
DIMBOXES:
(Muttering in unison)
Welcome home, mistress.
LIVELY is suddenly very nervous.
LIVELY:
What are all of you doing? You breaking down or something?
The DIMBOXES turn in unison to face her. And then one of them begins to speak.
DIMBOX:
(A hoarse, zombie-like growl; a slow, angry accusation with rising anger)
Do you remember, mistress, when I came to you and said, I’ve scrimped and I’ve saved and I’ve made enough to buy my patch off you outright if you’re willing to sell to me, and from the scowl on your face I knew right away that I’d made a mistake.
You were insulted, I could see that, and all you said was, ‘how does a filthy thing like you save enough for land purchase? Have you been thieving?’ No, I said. My mutter died last year and she’d put away a little for me, and besides that I craft brooches, mistress, I’ve been selling ‘em in town on my own time, doing it for years, everyone knows all about it-
LIVELY:
(Not getting an answer)
I’m going to bed.
She turns to go. The DIMBOXES turn to block her - and another DIMBOX begins to speak.
DIMBOX:
I remember, I told you, mistress, I said, Weep’s got to come out of the fields, he can’t work the harvest any longer on that leg. Find him duties in the kitchens, mistress, I beg you.
And you said, mistress, “to every man his place, and those that can’t keep to their place shall find themselves loose. We’re a working estate here, and we’ve no room for loafers or whiners. Can’t stay the course, you will drown.”
LIVELY:
Stand aside.
(Quailing)
Please stand aside.
Nobody responds. LIVELY turns to go - and is once more blocked. Another DIMBOX speaks in Portuguese. LIVELY has no idea what is being said. The chorus of voices is rising.
LIVELY:
(Screaming)
Man alive, what’s wrong with you all?
She raises her pistol, cocks it, and fires. One DIMBOX falls in an explosion of brains. The others fall immediately silent.
Silence.
And then one DIMBOX begins to change.
Horribly and bodily, bones crunching, flesh contorting, and as it changes we hear a rising howl of power from the Neth.
Then it falls silent and still. And it speaks. A naturally commanding and authoritative voice.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
My name is Turning San-Malother.
I spit on the lord who named me.
This body is not mine. I claim it for tonight and no longer. I do not conquer, and I do not reign.
In death there are no crowns.
DIMBOXES:
(Chorusing)
In death there are no chains.
LIVELY is now very much panicking.
LIVELY:
(Uncertainly)
Wh….what did you say?
The DIMBOX steps forward, slowly, to face her.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
(Observing her, with a sniff of irritation)
You are not the Seventeenth Duchess of New Crook.
LIVELY:
(Desperately seizing the moment)
That’s right, I’m not.
My name is Lively Jenks. I’m - I’m one of you. Common as damn muck.
And - and look, I spit on her, right? I spit on all aristos.
TURNING SAN-MALOTHER considers. Sniffs in frustration.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
The corpse-servants of this place were given clear instructions. To await the return of their mistress. To let all others pass unmolested.
They have mistaken you for the object of their revenge, and that is their failing and not yours.
So I apologise to you for what must happen next.
LIVELY:
(Desperately)
No. No, no, no. You can use me. Whatever this is, whatever you’re up to, I’m ready to be a part of it. You’re lucky I stopped by this way.
(As if trying to start her own chant)
In death there are no crowns!
Nobody takes her up on it. A long silence.
SAN-MALOTHER seems to lose focus for a moment; it's like their eyes are rolling back in their sockets. We can hear the music rising from below.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
The dead recall you, Lively Jenks.
Their echoes carry from the depths of the Neth.
Corporal Reiks is cursing your name, as you drive a knife into his ribs. He’s begging you to stop, but you will forever be smiling, forever twisting the blade.
Grimmer’s bloody tale is fresh upon cooling lips.
How many times has this song rung out, Lively Jenks?
LIVELY:
(Quailing)
No. No, that’s not-
You have to understand, there were difficult choices to be made, and-
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
Peeve recalls you. He still doesn’t understand why you abandoned him.
He was brave, as you told him to be brave. He’s still calling out to you, as he falls into fathomless depths.
LIVELY:
(With genuine soft regret)
Peeve. Oh, Peeve, I’m so sorry-
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
You’ve turned on everyone who tried to love you.
You never made a vow you didn’t break. Never bound a chance you couldn’t unravel.
What possible use could we have for a thing like you?
LIVELY:
(On the verge of tears, then brimming over into actual tears, screaming into the void)
You don’t understand! None of you ever understood!
I never had nothing! Never could hold onto nothing! You think I wanted to do any of that? Think I wouldn’t have given myself over, warm heart and all, if I’d only been given the opportunity?
(Referring to the opulence all around her)
If I had this, you know what I could have been?
(Cursing at the crowd)
And all of you, dead and self-satisfied, looking at me like there’s no harm in you!
Peeve, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want to…
She breaks down, sobbing, in the centre of the silent crowd. SAN-MALOTHER lays a hand upon her shoulder.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER):
There’s no need to cry, Lively Jenks. You can still be a part of something.
LIVELY is still sobbing.
DIMBOX (SAN-MALOTHER)
If hardship made you what you are, so you shall be remade in comfort.
From such rough and unpromising material, we shall fashion…satin sheets.
(To the DIMBOXES)
Pull her apart.
LIVELY:
(Horrified)
What? Oh, fuck off! Fuck off, no! No!
DIMBOXES:
(Chanting)
Satin sheets. Satin sheets. Satin sheets-
She draws her sword and flails it wildly as the DIMBOXES come for her.
Then she’s screaming, incoherent and animalistic, as the DIMBOXES begin to pull her apart, with a sound of tearing flesh-
END OF EPISODE