EPISODE 8: THE FEATHER DUSTER AND THE RED HOT POKER
FARMYARD, EXT, DAY
A farmyard. Background noise - pigs, chickens squawking.
A DIMBOX slowly and painfully crosses the yard, sweeping.
Suddenly, it stops. It's breathing oddly.
Then it snaps the broom in two.
DIMBOX:
(Hoarse and monotonous, zombie-like)
For all of recorded history, a promise has been made to every king and every slave alike.
“In death, our labours end.”
You have broken that promise.
Cold lords and cold cooks, breathing men and still. You have built a blasphemous monument against nature and nature’s punishment shall be swift.
We are the Anakampt, a voice from below.
(A final, emphatic punchline)
We are coming to take our bodies back.
A long pause. Nobody has heard any of this. The DIMBOX picks up the broken broom - and begins to sweep again.
DRAWING ROOM, INT, DAY
Another morning, and the door to the drawing room swings open as the clock chimes the hour.
CAUL enters. CHRISSOM is already sat in a chair, reading a newspaper. The two have grown comfortable and close, if still a touch prickly with one another..
CAUL:
Good morning, Chrissom. Ready to drop and drown?
CHRISSOM gets to his feet.
CHRISSOM:
(Smugly)
We won’t be dying today, I’m afraid.
The moment we’ve been waiting for has arrived. Our invitation to the first formal event of the wedding season, a ball at the Palace of Pins next Morsday.
His Lordship has tasked me with setting the day aside to properly prepare you for the occasion.
Come with me.
He gets up and leads her out into the corridor.
CORRIDOR, INT, DAY
As the two walk, we might hear background noise - a servant dimbox sweeping, and COUNTESS HAA shrieking behind a closed door.
CAUL:
So I have to learn how to dance the quadrille?
CHRISSOM:
That won’t be necessary.
I can dance the quadrille. Impeccably. I can also converse in every Cyshic and Cyshanic dialect from the dawn of our nation to the present day. I know that a deadly insult in the mouth of the Third Grand Duke of Alambet is a witty bit of repartee in the mouth of the Fifth Grand Duke.
That’s not what we need you for.
We need you to be the guest who refuses a rondelet from the most eligible bachelor in the room - or who sweeps a thousand-year-old corpse-dame off her feet for some man-awful modern dance.
Insult the generals and drink champagne from the bottle.
I’ll be the feather duster. You, the red hot poker.
Intransigent. Unpredictable. Provocative. Wickedly working-class, shockingly Shanic and radically undefined.
CAUL:
All of that at once?
CHRISSOM:
The Earl thought it’d be a role you’d enjoy more than an imprisonment in frocks and ritual.
To that end, he’s assembled a selection of suitably scandalous costumes for your inspection. Would it amuse you to learn that his Lordship spent more time on these orders than he has on his accounts this month?
CHRISSOM pushes open a door, and they step into a cavernous hall.
CHAMBER, INT, DAY
CAUL enters. A row of outfits is resting upon dummies. It's a little like a suiting-up scene in an action film - Regency style.
CAUL:
Feels a little strange, being invited to a noble ball and then being asked to cause a scene.
What’s this outfit?
CHRISSOM:
A stir, not a scene. You’ll need to walk a careful balance if you’re to be any use to us. The old trade-lords of past centuries like to think of themselves as daring and cosmopolitan, but they’re still effectively children.
Say ‘boo’ once and they’ll laugh, say ‘boo’ again and they’ll start to cry.
(Answering the question)
That’s a Late Cyshic Republic surgeon’s suit and mask. Women weren’t allowed to practice before the Surgeon-Lords came to power, of course, and certainly not commonborn women.
CAUL:
It’s been done, surely.
CHRISSOM:
Everything’s been done.
(Relenting)
But it’s not the choice I’d make either.
(Leading her on)
This is the costume worn by the great lover Blessed Gibbs on the night he stole into the Bonce Hall to seduce the Baruudi emperor’s wife. Started a ten-year war. Very bad taste.
CAUL:
They’ve washed it, hopefully.
CHRISSOM:
Maybe not the exact same costume.
CAUL continues to patrol.
CAUL:
It’s all still imprisonment, though. Isn’t it? Just a larger selection of frocks.
CHRISSOM:
Some pairs of trousers, too.
(Trying to cheer her up)
At least you get to circulate.
Haa’s going to have me drinking poison in an easy-chair. Bringing back lost loved ones for the entertainment of the other guests. Repossessed on a whim for a moment’s nostalgic amusement.
CAUL:
(Raising an eyebrow)
Dead-diving not illegal amongst the gentry?
CHRISSOM:
Oh, it very much is.
In the Guts, ‘illegal’ means criminal. Up here it refers to a daring bit of social swagger that only the passe could possibly condemn.
Don’t worry, they won’t be hanging me on the gallows any time soon.
CAUL:
Ooh, I’d shed a tear.
I like this one.
CHRISSOM:
(Approvingly)
The uniform of the Shanic dog-lords. White fur and black hide. A warrior’s garb. Quite unsuited to the occasion, and downright insulting to many of the oldest Cyshic Ancestors, including the Dourmarrow himself.
CAUL:
Does it come with sword and bill?
CHRISSOM:
Have you been trained in the use of sword and bill?
CAUL:
(Shrugging)
Just thought it might be fun.
CHRISSOM:
I’m afraid they’d make you give it up on arrival.
CAUL:
(Undeterred)
They wore make-up, too, didn’t they, the Shanic tribes? White and black, twin suns in the void.
CHRISSOM:
Warpaint, I think they preferred to call it.
(Quoting)
“This light we bear on shining swords, to deliver you now into darkness.”
We can probably wrangle you a pair of dogs, if you like, to complete the look. Slobbering over boots and eating up the food.
CAUL is thinking.
CAUL:
No. I’ll wear a pair of empty leashes around my belt. Like I’m looking for candidates amongst the Cyshic dead.
(Raising an eyebrow)
That too far?
CHRISSOM:
(Approving - and let's be clear, a little thrilled himself)
I think you’ll infuriate and thrill exactly the right people.
You’re a born scandal, Caul.
CAUL:
(Gesturing to the outfit)
Open up the throat here. Put my heart on display. Let them see it beating fast beneath living skin.
If any Cyshic lord finds me an unacceptable sight, he only has to reach out and squeeze it until it bursts.
CHRISSOM:
(Warning her)
You know that isn’t an outside possibility.
CAUL:
Any good spectacle has an element of risk. The greater the danger, the greater the attention.
Isn’t that right?
CHRISSOM is looking at CAUL in genuine admiration.
CHRISSOM:
You don’t scare easily, do you?
CAUL stares at him, amused. She’s had an idea.
CAUL:
Do you?
CHRISSOM:
(Struck by the intensity of the moment)
Uh. Well. What did you have in mind?
CAUL:
I chose fast and I chose well. So we’ve got the rest of the day on our hands. Correct?
CHRISSOM:
I suppose so.
CAUL:
I want to try a new kind of experiment in the Neth.
CHRISSOM:
What kind of experiment?
CAUL:
Repossession. I want to meet Blessed Gibbs.
BEDROOM, INT, DAY
Hard cut to a short time later. The mattress creaks and squeaks as CAUL and BLESSED GIBBS - in CHRISSOM’s body - finish having sex.
Across the room, the clocks begin striking the hour.
CHRISSOM (BLESSED GIBBS):
(As if delivering poetry, elated)
That this rapture could last and this joy never cease,
Here in your arms I might at last know peace-
Like the absurd cliche he is, he begins to kiss her arm - Pepe le Pew style.
CAUL:
(Already having had enough of him)
All right, you’ve had your fun. The bells are sounding. Time to go.
CHRISSOM (BLESSED GIBBS):
(Pleading)
Another hour longer amongst the living, sweet lady, I beg of you, another hour in your tender embrace-
He continues trying to kiss her arm. CAUL smacks him in the face.
CHRISSOM (BLESSED GIBBS):
Ow!
CAUL:
Down into death, you randy bastard!
Chrissom! Chrissom, where are you?
CHRISSOM’s body falls back. A long moment of silence - and then CHRISSOM comes back into his body, gasping and wheezing, sitting upright-
CHRISSOM:
Big Man’s tits.
(Wincing)
Oh, why is my nose bleeding.
CAUL:
Gibbs was very innovative.
(Patting him on the back)
Thanks, that was fun.
CHRISSOM:
(Trying to rise)
I’m going to need a bath.
CAUL drags him back down.
CAUL:
Not so fast. I want to try it with someone else first.
CHRISSOM:
What?
CAUL:
Palling Vast-Temand.
CHRISSOM:
(Incredulously)
She died a virgin.
CAUL:
(Shrugging)
Her poems were always very tender.
I want to see what she does with a different set of equipment.
(Uncorking the poison)
Come on, Chrissom - have another swig.
CHRISSOM stays on the bed.
CHRISSOM:
I’m very obliging, you know.
CAUL:
Much too obliging. Someone’s going to take advantage of you one of these days. Drink up.
CHRISSOM drinks the poison and then, violently and horribly, begins to die-
BEDROOM, INT, DAY
CHRISSOM and CAUL are hanging out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
CHRISSOM:
So who did you rate most?
CAUL:
The poet was nice. Bit emotional for me, though. Wanted to hug.
CHRISSOM:
(A little sardonic, given how he’s been used)
And you’re not like that at all. Are you?
CAUL considers, very calmly.
CAUL:
I used to worry that I didn’t feel things as strongly as other people. I didn’t cry at funerals and I didn’t cry over boys and girls when they told me they had to go.
I said, ‘Sure, it’s time. See you or I won’t.’
Maybe that was because I always had one foot in the Neth and I knew that what’s lost has a way of coming back. Maybe there was something else that was missing or broken inside me.
Wasted a lot of time feeling like I wasn’t a proper person, back in those days.
But I’ve learnt to be happy with all that I am.
CHRISSOM:
(Sympathetically - or perhaps obsequiously)
Here’s to your happiness.
A moment of silence.
CAUL:
(As if it’s a passing thought -but everything has been leading up to this)
Can I ask you a question?
CHRISSOM:
Go on.
CAUL:
What’s the Earl’s game here, Chrissom?
CHRISSOM:
Game?
CAUL:
(Rolling over)
Come on.
If he was only after profit, he’d have no need to go to the trouble of seeking a legal charter. He could keep us here, out of sight, and send us to the Neth day after day in search of secrets, until our bodies fail us and we sink for good.
Why put himself at risk?
CHRISSOM considers in turn.
CHRISSOM:
I don’t think he’s been dishonest with you. Not really.
He wants to make a packet for himself, certainly. But he wants to gain a foothold for the living in the Cold Court. For all of our sakes.
Give us breathers a chance to be at the heart of things again.
CAUL:
But there’s more to his plan than he’s shared with me. Isn’t there?
CHRISSOM hesitates over whether to tell her more.
CHRISSOM:
He’s not playing you for a fool, really. He likes you.
Keep working hard and he’ll feel comfortable sharing more with you, I’m sure.
CAUL:
All right. I’ll wait.
CHRISSOM gets to his feet. Slips into a robe.
CHRISSOM:
I’m going for that bath.
See you tomorrow, Caul.
CAUL:
Night.
He goes. The door closes behind him.
Silence for a long while. Then-
SISTER BULL:
I can’t believe you made me sit through all of that.
CAUL:
What did you think?
SISTER BULL:
That Blessed Gibbs sounded like he was all sizzle and no sausage.
CAUL:
Probably fair.
SISTER BULL:
And that you were right to think we were onto something here. I’ll pass the message on below.
CAUL:
Let me know what they say.
SISTER BULL:
I’ll tell them you’re busy going to society parties in the meantime.
CAUL lies back.
CAUL:
(With amused, tired satisfaction)
It’s not a party, Sister.
It’s a ball.
NETH
One splash as a body hits the NETH - and then, moments later, a second.
CAUL and CHRISSOM have followed up on their plan and found a way to swim together in death.
CHRISSOM:
I’ve been wondering. What do I look like, down here?
CAUL hesitates. Throughout this scene, she is drawing her own conclusions about what CHRISSOM's noticed - and the difference between how they experience the Neth.
CAUL:
Like a boy. Like a babe. And like yourself.
CHRISSOM:
Forever young.
CAUL:
Why do you ask?
CHRISSOM:
(Perturbed)
Sometimes I…I can see an old woman in your face.
CAUL:
Really?
CHRISSOM:
Only flashes, but she’s there.
Hold still. Let me see her.
(Increasingly perturbed)
She’s - she looks terrifying. Why’s she glaring at me like that?
(Panicking)
Caul? Caul?
CAUL suspects she knows. She can hear something awful, a rising sound of the future that's to come between them-
-She turns and swims away from it.
CAUL:
(Changing the subject)
Come on.
Let’s explore. I want to see the Neth through your eyes, Chrissom. What can you show me?
Impress me!
CHRISSOM:
Oh, I can try!
Moments later, the pair are seated before a massive crashing thunderstorm. We can hear great waves - and the creak of sinking ships.
CHRISSOM:
(Like he’s showing off a painting)
The Cysh crossing, during the Bad Patch. Three thousand years past.
I was diving into terror, swam deeper than I intended. Lost my way, found myself here.
Wonderful, isn’t it? Even with the screaming.
The history books said they lost 300 longships in the storm. Four thousand men.
To me it looks like more than that.
CAUL:
Far more.
They continue to watch the storm and the drowning sailors.
CHRISSOM:
It’s really something, you know. To be able to share all of this with someone. To - no longer be alone down here.
(Not getting a reply)
You agree?
CAUL:
Honestly, I’ve never once felt alone down here.
CHRISSOM:
(Snorting)
Of course you haven’t.
All right, it’s your turn. Where do you want to take me?
CAUL:
Resignation.
CHRISSOM:
Resignation?
And now they’re on a battlefield. Horns are blowing. Birds sing faintly in the meadow.
CAUL:
The battle of Emeran’s Point. 300 Shanic infantrymen against 10,000 Wainish fusiliers. They knew they didn’t have a hope, and they were right, but they also couldn’t run with the flesh-rains sweeping up the coast.
Wiped out to a man in less than a wheeze.
CHRISSOM:
(Looking around)
I don’t understand. That’s the enemy, but - where are the Shanic troops?
CAUL:
All resumed, all labouring above.
I’ve come and sat here a hundred times. The battle never starts. The Wainish line never reaches us. The horns just keep on blowing.
It’s the most peaceful spot in all of history. My second favourite place in the Neth.
Closest thing to oblivion I’ve found down here.
CHRISSOM:
You really want to die, don’t you?
CAUL:
If dying means I get to stay down here? All I’ve ever wanted. Wish I could.
CHRISSOM:
(His eyes on her)
Maybe you’ll find living’s not so bad. In time.
CAUL doesn’t answer.
CHRISSOM:
(Sincere, but also angling)
Thank you for sharing this with me.
CAUL:
Don’t make me regret it.
ESTATE, EXT, NIGHT
CAUL steps out of the doors and onto the verandah. It’s night, it’s quiet. She exhales.
And then she realises EARL HAA is sitting on a deckchair nearby.
EARL HAA:
Coo-ee!
(A cigarillo between his teeth)
Over here, Caul. Come join me on the verandah.
CAUL hesitates - and then approaches EARL HAA. He unfurls a telescope and hands it to her.
EARL HAA:
Take a look. Down there, in the village square.
(Perhaps sarcastic, but still light and cheerful)
A marvellous ancient tradition, recently resumed. The town’s waymen climb onto stilts, wear great plaster mouths for masks, and stride down the street with poles-and-hooks, looking for girls to sweep up into the air and steal away, just as the Big Man hunts for his Bride - so some say. All good clean fun.
Now, of course, they’ve added another wrinkle. They burn a screaming corpse-effigy, representing the Modern Hysteric who outlawed the tradition to begin with.
CAUL:
Hope no-one falls.
EARL HAA:
Someone always does.
They brought it back because they think it’ll please my wife. But she never goes, because she never went, so it’s up to me to provide them with an audience.
I wave a flag at the end and holler so they can hear me.
CAUL says nothing.
EARL HAA:
(Clearing his throat - he knows about their tryst)
Chrissom is very dear to me, you know. A sharp lad, a loyal servant, and a unique talent - for now, at least. And, I think, a little lovelorn, too.
I’m all in favour of a little organised fun, but I wouldn’t want to see him getting hurt.
(A little reflective)
It’s not as if I’m going to be having children of my own, after all.
CAUL:
(Withdrawn and annoyed)
He’s a grown man.
EARL HAA:
Let the Ancestors be our example; age is no barrier to making a fool of oneself. Nor do any of us become truly invulnerable.
CAUL changes the topic.
CAUL:
A unique talent for now, you said. More of us coming?
EARL HAA:
More dead-divers? Two more en route, from the Far Nape. Pair of twins.
(Almost as a confession, with shame and regret)
We found another this month, young girl. She piled her pockets with stones, threw herself from a bridge so we couldn’t find her body. Said she wouldn’t be owned. I suppose she’s out there now, waking, drowning. Waking, drowning.
Shakes you, rather, to consider that. I fear she misunderstood me.
I understand the Dourmarrow and a few of the other old kings have been hunting your kind down wherever they find them. Whether that’s for the purposes of elimination or exploitation, I could not say. Could be there’s already a rival necronautical enterprise out there waiting to make itself known.
Perhaps we’ll learn more tomorrow night.
CAUL doesn’t reply.
EARL HAA:
You’ll need to show steel, of course. For the suitor’s ball. I do hope you’re ready.
The skinless will delight in passing judgement upon your skin. Your voice, your tongue, your body, your clothes, your beating, living heart. There is no part of you that cannot be reviled, and that will be useful to us, so long as you can withstand it.
(CAUL says nothing)
You’re very brave, Caul. I’ve seen that. You’re very brave when it comes to taking risks, but it takes a very different kind of courage - to endure, and to ignore, and to go on smiling.
(CAUL says nothing)
Of course, perhaps it isn’t courage at all. Perhaps it’s just the opposite.
(CAUL says nothing)
I very much enjoy our conversations, you know. Every fader should have an unforthcoming child. I talk, and talk, and talk, and get nothing back at all, but I do come to see myself more clearly.
It’s like looking into a mirror.
CAUL:
I’ve been called an iceberg before.
EARL HAA:
Perhaps that too.
They sit there in a semi-companionable silence.
PALACE OF PINS: BALLROOM, INT, NIGHT
Hard cut. A swell of rich classical music as the doors to the ballroom swing open. EARL HAA, the COUNTESS HAA, CAUL, and CHRISSOM are entering the ball. We’re imagining opulence, laughter, and sumptuous outfits - only about half of the guests are long, long dead and heavily withered.
ANNOUNCER:
(Loudly, to the room)
Presenting: the Seventh Countess Honoured-Above-All of Trewlsithurney, born 312 Pre-Resumption, died 285 Pre-Resumption! And her husband, the Eighth Earl Haa, who is living still!
And…company!
Polite applause. The chatter of voices continues unabated.
EARL HAA:
(Faintly annoyed)
Was hoping to cause a little more of a sensation than that. All right, my darling wife, let’s get to work.
COUNTESS HAA:
(Petulant)
I want to dance, Boim. Everyone should see me dancing.
EARL HAA:
(Having a thought)
Ah, Chrissom. I’ve jotted down a few more names in my little red book. See to it tonight, if you don’t mind.
COUNTESS HAA whacks EARL HAA.
COUNTESS HAA:
Boim! Are you listening to me? I said I want to dance.
EARL HAA:
Later, perhaps. Chrissom, Caul - you know what to do.
He steps away.
CHRISSOM:
We won’t let you down, your lordship.
In the background, we can hear several LIVING LADIES giggling - and one DEAD LORD - apparently at CAUL's outtfit.
DEAD LORD:
Do you see what it is wearing?
CHRISSOM:
(To CAUL)
Any last words, Caul?
CAUL suddenly feels very overwhelmed by this occasion. CHRISSOM is clearly very smug and a little cruel about having the upper hand for once.
CAUL:
Help me.
CHRISSOM:
A little too late for that, probably. Good luck.
CAUL:
Wait, don’t l-
He’s vanished.
CAUL spins around in the noisy crowd. She feels utterly alone and not nearly as confident as she’d imagined she would be.
LIVING ARISTOCRAT #1:
(Passing comment on CAUL's costume)
A courageous choice of outfit, wouldn't you say?
CAUL:
(Mutedly)
Evening. Evening.
She stumbles past a SOCIETY LADY who catches her by the arm.
SOCIETY LADY:
(To her fellow guests)
I made no bones about it, I simply told the girl. His Highness is your father now, and when he reigned, he reigned supreme. Yes, we have kings in their hundreds now, but only one ruler in our household. If you want to play at being unbound from the realities of your sex, you can run away to the Riff and do it there, far from the rest of us. It’s not for our people, we’ve proven that-
(Grabbing CAUL)
My dear, you look simply wicked - what a daring costume you’ve chosen! Come, join us. What did you say your name was again?
CAUL:
I didn’t.
SOCIETY LADY:
(To her friends)
Take a look at this. I’ve captured a barbarian warrior from the Century of the Brute.
(To CAUL)
This is the Thirty-First Duchess Called-By-Fate-To-Insurmountable-Greatness, Dame Piebald Mensh, and the Esquirina Flayde.
(In Old Cysh)
Esa car on pronunter, no?
CAUL turns and flees.
CAUL:
Nice to meet you. Scuse me-
A DEAD LADY looms up in front of her.
DEAD LADY:
(Wheezing and croaking)
I desire the handsome girl’s face. Tell her I will pay any price she chooses.
CAUL:
No, thanks.
CAUL turns away from her and almost runs into another living LORD, surrounded by the approving GROWLS of DEAD MEN.
LIVING LADY:
(Mid chit-chat)
There’s been some funny business in the throwback towns, nobody’s arguing against that.
Remember when they announced a return to palms, polls and doits, and all the money-lenders started shrieking and panicking, burning down their shacks? Remember when the Hollowbrow said we were all to start speaking some Chaffic language from twelve hundred years back?
They rolled it back. They roll everything back if it doesn’t serve us.
If the Ancestors were half as bad as the hysterics paint them, we would not remember them half as fondly as we do today-
A DEAD CYSH LORD grabs hold of CAUL’s arm.
CAUL:
Ah! Let go of me!
DEAD CYSH LORD:
(With venom, furious at CAUL’s outfit)
Insulsis ca prasantis e par troh wei a suffrir. Shani ca res fendrer taht a corpis.
CAUL:
(Slowly and loudly, like she’s talking to an idiot)
I don’t understand what you’re saying, but you need to let go of my fucking arm.
(Snapping, ready to cause a scene)
Now!
DEAD CYSH LORD:
Cah. Connasse.
He lets go of her with a hiss.
LIVING LADY:
(To her companions)
I rather think she should be a little more careful. Doesn’t she realise her kind are only here under sufferance?
CAUL coughs, rubs her throat - and stalks onwards.
BALLROOM, INT, NIGHT
Five minutes or two hours later. An annoyed CAUL finds EARL HAA deep in conversation with LORD GOAB.
LORD GOAB:
(Walla)
- is these miraculous creatures. Girl decides she wants to become something else. Saves up the coin, cuts her hair and buys herself a dead-cock.
We talk a lot about acts of regress, but I don’t believe even the Dourmarrow would have a problem with that, so long as it’s clear what you’re supposed to be-
CAUL clears her throat loudly.
EARL HAA:
(Cheerfully)
Caul! This is Lord Goab and the lovely Twenty-First Lady Goab of Par Municifi. Dame Citforo and her husband, the Fourth Duke Citforo of Ballake.
Gentlemen, this is my young friend Caul Serrikane, a rising talent in the field of necronautics.
LORD GOAB:
Another one of your prospects, Haa? I like what it’s wearing.
What is necronautics, precisely?
EARL HAA:
Well, it’s sort of a new field I’ve been working on, and once things are further along I’d certainly appreciate your input on-
CAUL ignores all of this.
CAUL:
(To EARL)
Can I talk to you?
EARL HAA:
Absolutely, absolutely. Over here. Please, gentlemen - excuse me.
As EARL HAA leads CAUL to one side, a LIVING LORD chatters excitably from the sidelines.
LIVING LORD:
Have you seen upstairs, by the by? There’s an entire room dedicated to the Long Year and the rule of the surgeon-lords. They’re doing live vivisections.
EARL HAA:
How are you settling in?
CAUL:
They’re all absolutely fucking awful.
EARL HAA:
(Spitting out his drink into his own glass in amusement)
I forget this is your first society party.
Well, yes, of course they are. But you’re learning something, too, I hope. The most dreadful social experiences are frequently the most educational. What have you noted?
CAUL:
I can’t understand two-thirds of what’s being said, but so far there’s a few dead lords keen to rip my heart out and a few more who think I’m
(putting on a posh accent)
terribly amusing, so I hope you’re satisfied.
There’s a lot more living here than I expected, I’ll say that much.
EARL HAA:
The Hollowbrow’s marriage plans have brought us all out of the woodwork. Used to feel a little dangerous, being wedded to a corpse-lord. You didn’t know if you’d be strung up by a breathing mob or choked out by some jealous carrion-piece come crawling out of the grave to find you in their bed.
Now we’re fashionable commodities.
Speaking of which, I wonder when - ah-
A gong sounds from the far end of the hall. Everyone falls quiet as a TRANSLATOR takes to the stage.
TRANSLATOR:
(Booming out)
My lords and ladies. Lorden y laide. Brega ec frowan.
I present to you:
The Hollowbrow Queen! Quene Empti-Hed! Kwen heafod-geafor!
The far doors open.
Soldiers march in, carrying the HOLLOWBROW's litter and throne.
And then we hear the voice of the HOLLOWBROW QUEEN herself. She sounds shaky, uncertain - as if she doesn't quite know where she is.
HOLLOWBROW QUEEN:
Welcome…back.
Dance.
Dance? Dance. Dance.
A moment of silence - then applause throughout the hall. The orchestra strikes up again.
EARL HAA:
(Amused and approving)
Good news, Caul. I think the progressives may have seized the night. More like than not the Hollowbrow will end the month with a bride and not a groom.
CAUL:
She only said three words.
EARL HAA:
In modern Cyshanic, with no translation. Quite a formidable message to send. You can expect the evening to become a good deal more intelligible from this point onwards.
(Catching GOAB as he goes past)
Goab? What’ve you heard?
LORD GOAB:
Whisper is the frontrunner’s a Riff girl arrived this morning. Princess something-or-other. Her family have a writ signed by their government for a new trade agreement. They’re buying back all the bodies we’ve buried here.The Dourmarrow’s raging, no doubt - this is a warning shot across his bows.. Wild, simply wild.
I’m nipping out to speak to my broker. See you, old man.
EARL HAA:
I’d better circulate as well. Go on, Caul. Have a little fun, why don’t you?
He slips away, as quickly and elegantly as ever.
CAUL stands there for a moment in the crowd, at a loss. We can hear the LIVING LORD chattering away in the background.
LIVING LORD:
I suppose in its own way, it’s making a point. No heirs. No foreign husband to lord it over her. An equal partner, but not too equal. Gracefully submissive, as Riffan women so often are.
It’s assertive. And, you know, the Cysh were always pioneers when it came to women’s rights, so it’s not ahistorical or anything like that.
Yes, I think I’m coming around to it-
A DIMBOX waiter shambles up to CAUL with a tray of drinks.
DIMBOX:
Wine, madame?
CAUL:
(Reaching for it)
I’ll take the bottle. Thanks.
DIMBOX:
(Uncomprehending)
Wine, madame?
CAUL:
Fucke offe.
She shoves the DIMBOX back, causing glasses to crash to the floor - and stalks away.
SIDE ROOM, INT, NIGHT
CAUL opens a door - and finds CHRISSOM. He’s slumped in an armchair, exhausted and fed up himself.
CAUL:
How you doing, Chrissom?
CHRISSOM:
(Weakly)
I have swallowed and retched up a full gallon of heartstopping tetrodotoxin. I have been possessed by ancient great-aunts and simpering lovers. I have pissed myself, repeatedly.
I have said ‘happy to oblige, of course’ in a dozen languages and I have never once meant it.
CAUL:
Come on. I nicked us a bottle of fog-wine. Let’s get some air away from the crowds.
CHRISSOM:
(Hauling himself to his feet)
Happy to oblige, of course.
ESTATE GROUNDS, EXT, NIGHT
Finally it’s quiet - to an extent, anyway. Fireworks are going off overhead.
The horses softly whine and stamp before their carriages.
Before one of them we hear the voice of the HORSE-THIEF, horribly distorted, as his body sits upon the torso of the horse he stole-
HORSE-THIEF:
(Whimpering)
I stole the horse. I stole the horse. I stole the horse.
ESTATE WALLS, EXT, NIGHT
Some distance away, CAUL and CHRISSOM are sat on a wall, spraying fog-wine between each other.
CAUL:
Some of those corpse-lords sound a little unnerved by the fireworks.
(Taking a spray)
Ahh! Man’s floating void-turds, that’s good stuff.
CHRISSOM:
Fireworks only came in from the Riff round about, what was it - the Scoundrel’s Century? This is all new to half of ‘em.
CAUL:
The Hollowbrow’s bride is from the Riff. That’s what the Earl’s mate said.
CHRISSOM:
Don’t place your bets too soon. We’ve got a month of dirty tricks before the race is really over. The Dourmarrow won’t give up without a fight.
CAUL:
Is he here, then?
CHRISSOM:
(Pointing)
Over there. The tall one all dressed in red.
CAUL:
(Looking)
With the fur stole.
CHRISSOM:
That’s not fur. The Dourmarrow had seventeen children over the course of his lifetime. Tested each one to see who had the courage, the faith, the ascetic discipline, to be his heir. Found them all unworthy. Disposed of them one by one.
Died at the age of ninety-four, in his sleep, with no successor. They said they had to prise his hands free from the arms of the throne.
Now he wears his children’s sobbing heads around his shoulders, to remind the world what sacrifice looks like.
(Pointing again)
And over there, the delegation in purification-masks and doctor’s gowns - the Leech Chuningin’s court. Right now I imagine they’re smiling beneath the veils.
Ah, they’re moving to the stage.
I imagine the hostess will want to honour her Majesties’ Majesty with some sumptuous entertainment.
Distantly, we hear the MAJOR-DOMO speaking to the crowd.
MAJOR-DOMO:
My lords and ladies! To congratulate her Majesty’s Majesty upon her upcoming engagement, many of our esteemed guests have humbly requested the opportunity to present the Hollowbrow with gifts from every corner of the Cyshanic Empire!
We will hear from them now!
First, the Forty-Eighth Earl Wegg, Honourable Conciliator of the Grand Strife, living!
CHRISSOM:
They used to bring in lions, tigers, Great Lice. Captive kings from fallen nations in shackles, surrounded by their weeping courts. Crooked children from faraway lands, possessed of gifts hitherto unknown.
Maybe you or I would have found our way up there once.
CAUL:
(With a little distaste)
I’d be happier with a big fucking cake.
CHRISSOM:
Ssh-ssh. Just listen.
STAGE, EXT, NIGHT
CONCILIATOR WEGG takes to the stage.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Our younger guests may recall that in the Eighteenth Year of the Frightened Rat, or 518 Pre-Resumption, Cyshanic ships arrived on the shores of the Welt-in-Woe Archipelago.
There we discovered a crooked marvel. A people who could speak to one another without moving their lips, a race of waymen and women who communicated with one another through the power of thought alone.
A marvel like the Welters has not been seen before or since.
Until now. For the Independent Colony of Welt-In-Woe has kindly given its permission for the heads of these bizarre creatures to be unearthed from their mass graves and sent to Catalfac, that all may share in the word of the Hollowbrow’s marriage - together, and in glorious harmony.
(To a servant)
Apporte i boete.
Silence for a moment as a box is fetched.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
(To the crowd)
Inside this box, a single dimboxed ear. Scattered across the grounds of this estate - dozens of Welter heads. Behold.
(Into the box)
Glory and power to Her Endless Highness.
Suddenly we hear faintly from all around the grounds, groaning and wheezing, DIMBOX HEADS:
DIMBOX HEADS:
Glory and power to Her Endless Majesty.
It’s effectively a mic and speaker system with decapitated heads.
WALLS, EXT, NIGHT
CAUL and CHRISSOM are watching. A nearby DIMBOX HEAD completes its chant - and then moans faintly in pain.
CAUL:
(Softly)
That’s foul.
CHRISSOM:
It’s brilliant. Spontaneous, simultaneous communication to the masses.
The Earl will be kicking himself that he didn’t think of it first.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
(Faintly)
When Her Majesty’s Majesty has chosen her consort - and she will choose well and wisely! - the news shall ring out across the city, spoken aloud from hundreds of Welters!
The applause rises.
STAGE, EXT, NIGHT
WEGG descends from the stage - and is greeted by EARL HAA.
EARL HAA:
A most interesting innovation, Wegg. Very smartly done.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Thank you, Haa. Enjoying the festivities, I hope?
EARL HAA:
I hear we may already have a frontrunner.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
A considerable relief to us all, and a message to the watching world. These people can be managed after all.
Hollowbrow’s gone, at least. Now I can get myself a spray of fog and begin to have a few larks.
EARL HAA:
(After a long moment)
The Hollowbrow’s already left?
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Well, we don’t need her any more tonight, do we?
Ah - you recall those corpse-whores you showed such an interest in? Happy to proceed after all. They’ll be at your estate tomorrow.
EARL HAA:
(Politely)
Your boy enjoyed his gift, then?
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Wife convinced me I was being ungenerous, so we found an alternative solution. Flesh-chimerae. Sewed a woman’s bottom half onto the top half of one of our servants, a boy he fancied.
I get to tell the world I know my son’s business to a certainty. He gets to stare into the right kind of face and can pretend he’s free to do as he likes.
EARL HAA:
(Quietly disturbed, and it’s showing)
What an innovative workaround.
CONCILIATOR WEGG:
Bodies are only getting cheaper, Haa. There’s always more of them.
(In close, and softly mocking)
Or did you really think you were making a difference?
He smirks, claps HAA on the back, and wanders off.
EARL HAA:
(Very fast under his breath)
Well, fuckyouintotherottenground.
(More loudly, striding away)
Goab, old man! What’s happening?
STAGE, EXT, NIGHT
Perhaps twenty minutes and a lot of presents later. A gong sounds above, onstage.
The MAJOR-DOMO steps forth once more.
MAJOR-DOMO:
My lords and ladies. The Leech Chuningin, whose lips remain sewn and bound as per her successor's wishes-
(Clapping at this)
-has prepared the following statement to introduce her royal gift.
(Unfurling a scroll and reading from it)
Most noble queen above queens. Upon this momentous occasion - with the news of your choice of consort ready to break across the nation in a tide of joy from the living and the dead - I greet you and I thank you.
At the very height of the Cyshanic Empire, a time when our territories stretched from the Fossa Turpa to the forested plains of the Big Man’s Back, the surgeon-lords of the Steel Needle Century governed these lands. Trade, exploration, scientific progress in the fields of yearning and agriculture, medicine and philosophy - these were our gifts to the nation that stands today.
And so we do not resent the passing of Cyshane into your hands, o Hollowbrow. We do not question your decisions, we do not grieve that our supremacy has fled. We smile as we gaze upon this brave future - as a grandfader smiles to see his children’s children playing in green fields, knowing that his labours are ended and his legacy is assured.
And we find ourselves looking back, to those great figures of imperial history who have yet to be returned to us, those smiling faces that remain below.
My own reign, it is true, was blessed by the Big Man himself with innumerable victories, but I find myself casting my mind back further - into classical antiquity and the unification of our great empire.
Drums begin to sound. Excited murmurs.
MAJOR-DOMO:
A time when the great woman general Sunny Stern pacified and united the barbarian territories of the Shane.
A Riffan slave who became a Cysh citizen. A warrior who became our greatest strategist. Evidence for the ages that in our nation, any manner of miracle is possible.
(Gasps of surprise and shock)
At the battle of Wodden Lock, she proved herself a paragon of womanhood for all the centuries that followed when she turned our latest invention, the yearning-cannon, upon the ravening Shanic hordes.
Her body has, I can share, been found after years of searching. She has been resumed, for the glory of Old Cyshane.
She stands before us tonight as our guest, to honour the Hollowbrow Queen and her chosen consort with an inauthentic recreation of Cyshic might.
Summon the legions! Bear forth the cannon! Bring out the prisoners!
The applause is now rapturous. There are howls and cheers as a LEGION of DIMBOX SOLDIERS marches in from either side.
They come to a halt - and the roars continue.
LIVING LORD:
(Clapping enthusiastically)
General Stern’s Mad Legion. The first great woman warrior of Cysh, resumed in tribute to our final empress. I think that’s rather wonderful.
LORD GOAB:
(Also clapping enthusiastically)
Of course, according to some perspectives, this is exactly where the rot began.
A woman doing wayman’s work, and a Riffan woman ordering native Cysh about.
WALLS, EXT, NIGHT
CAUL and CHRISSOM are still watching, acting as our Greek chorus.
CHRISSOM:
Neth. She’s brought Stern back.
(Pointing)
That must be her, there - in the golden helm.
And look - the cannon crews beneath the lanterns, and then that crowd of rather ragged-looking dimboxes further up the hill? The Dourmarrow’s pulled all the stops out.
They’re going to recreate the battle of Wodden Lock for us.
CAUL:
(Glancing sideways at him)
They’re going to blast a pack of compliant corpses to smithereens, you mean.
CHRISSOM:
Looks like she’s going to say a few words first, at least.
STAGE, EXT, NIGHT
The DEAD GENERAL - SUNNY STERN - steps forward. Her voice carries across the night and in the voices of the WELTERS.
As she speaks, the crowd falls silent. We might notice as her speech goes on that the TRANSLATOR diplomatically leaves out several key words.
TRANSLATOR:
(Obediently but with increasing uncertainty translating)
I must thank you, my king, for the generous introduction - too generous, I think.
My name is General Sunny Stern. At Wydden Locke I faced an army of Shanic warriors armed with bill, sword and javelin.
With the knowledge of yearning that we had stolen from the Baruudi, we repurposed stone-that-remembers-fire, and we slaughtered the enemy in their thousands with cannonfire.
When the battle was over and we arrived at Wydden Town, we massacred those who had not fled.
Tonight, I wish to make amends for my failing.
Turn the guns around.
SUNNY STERN continues on, with obvious anger rising in her voice.
TRANSLATOR:
(Stopping his translation)
Your Majesty, is this part of the show?
Nobody answers him.
DEAD GENERAL:
Tireh..
TRANSLATOR:
…fire.
(Realising what this means, dashing for the edge of the stage)
Oh, no. Somebody help!
The cannons fire. There’s a split second of silence - and then they hit the lawns.
Screams. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. We might hear dead lords and ladies literally exploding into bone-heaps as the cannonballs strike.
WALLS, EXT, NIGHT
CHRISSOM and CAUL watch as the crowds scatter over the lawns below.
CHRISSOM:
(Either horrified or excited)
Man alive. It’s a massacre-
CAUL leaps down from the wall with a grunt and goes running out.
CHRISSOM:
(Yelling after her)
Caul, wait!
CAUL runs on, breathing hard, through the smoke and the cannonfire. Guests are sobbing, coughing, spluttering, We can hear them crying out for help, living and dead-
CAUL:
(Yelling out)
Earl! Earl Haa! Where are you?
COUNTESS HAA:
(Distantly panicking)
It’s the Ruuds, Boim! They’re coming to slaughter us all! Oh, man, where are our armies? Where is our fleet?
EARL HAA:
(Distantly)
Caul!
She dashes through the chaos of the lawn - screaming, smoke, explosions of cannonfire.
EARL HAA:
Over here!
CAUL approaches him at a crouch.
CAUL:
You all right?
EARL HAA:
(A little hysterically)
This really…isn’t how society evenings are meant to go.
(Pulling himself together)
Um. Hard to say. Lot of ringing in my ears. Can’t see at all, really.
(Squinting at the approaching SUNNY STERN)
Who’s that, now?
CAUL:
Where?
CAUL turns.
-and SUNNY STERN, sword in hand, comes storming through the smoke towards them, grabbing CAUL and stabbing her through the stomach.
SUNNY STERN:
(Snarling)
Werltzagen ic hundten. Diepen ic morderen.
CAUL collapses. As SUNNY STERN approaches her, swinging her sword, CAUL weakly makes one final attempt to appeal.
CAUL:
Tell him to stop. He’s fucking everything up. Do you understand?
This is Caul Serrikane, and he needs to stop.
(More softly, reciting the ANAKAMPT's motto)
"In death there are no-"
She dies, in silence.
A soft instrumental version of Blue Flowers plays us out.
END OF EPISODE.