EPISODE 4: A DAMNED SHAME AND A DAMNED WASTE

CATALFAC COURTROOM, INT, DAY

 

An inactive courtroom. We can hear faint chatter and the occasional sound of background sobbing.

​

The NAMELESS HISTORIAN is sitting in the stands. He lowers his newspaper as we approach.

 

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

In the final years before History’s Ending, the courts of Catalfac had begun making some halting movements towards social representation upon the judges’ bench. Based on a hypothesis imported from abroad, mind you, that since women were being sentenced for crimes, perhaps it would be fairer to have women also doing some of the sentencing.

 

The problem was that this opened us up to all manner of confusing problems in turn, because if waymen judges could not be trusted to pass sentence over women prisoners, perhaps Cyshic white men could not be trusted with the lives of the Baruudi immigrants, or the Tarronadic wanderers, or the young adventurers who had begun to visibly break down the immutable laws of sex before our eyes.

 

An architecture of impossibly complicated and terrifying self-doubt had begun to open up beneath our feet, where once we had good solid stone.

(Perhaps wryly ironic, but not giving away too much)

After the war, everything became a good deal clearer. We had indulged in an excess of progress, to our own downfall.

 

And in our fashionable pursuit of social equality, we had foolishly created the greatest inequality of all - for was it not the case that for the entirety of recorded history up to the near-present day, white Cyshanic waymen had been given the sole responsibility of passing judgement over the rest of us? Were we not displaying a low and nasty prejudice towards eighteen centuries of proud imperial history, in favour of a brief and passing moment of hapless modernity? 

​

Were things not better, in those days of empire? And if so, then why should we abandon the winning formula?

 

Now the judges’ bench is packed with dead representatives from every century.What greater diversity can there possibly be than the diversity of history, and furthermore - could we even still fairly call all these dead judges white or male, since time has robbed them of both skin and prick? 

(Now definitely being ironic)

Death is without colour; death is even-handed and universal. Death is founded in common sense, the Cyshanic common sense that we as a nation had come so recklessly close to abandoning entirely.

 

Thank the Man we have come to our senses at last.

 

Speaking of which: ten days after her fateful meeting with the Nametaker, the young citizen known as Caul Serrikane was about to experience Cyshanic common sense first-hand, having been caught by the authorities illegally dead-diving in the Guts of Catalfac…

The NAMELESS HISTORIAN lifts his newspaper again as a COURT CLERK comes to the front of the chamber, rapping a gravel for attention.

​

COURT CLERK:

This morning’s trials will be conducted according to the laws of the Scoundrel’s Century, reign of Emperor Drab the Second. 656-599 PR.

 

All women barristers must proceed to the gallery; only waymen will be heard this morning. Additional licence may be demonstrated towards those capable of arguing their case in Late-Middle Cysh.

 

Regi omni regnum est.

 

In the dock, a nervous HORSE THIEF is trying to get CAUL’s attention.

 

HORSE THIEF:

Hey. Hey. Psst.

(Leaning over, his chains clanking)

Psst.

(Pause)

Hey.

 

CAUL:

(Still looking dead ahead)

What d’you need.

 

PRISONER:

(Needily)

I’m in the dock right after you. Good luck.

(Not getting a response)

The judges out here, they don’t suffer fools. That’s my one piece of advice for you. They won’t tolerate anyone with an attitude. You’ve got to show the old graces, bow low or curtsy and tell them, “M’lud, even if you should find me guilty before Man and Lopers, I respect your wisdom and I respect your decision.” That’ll show ‘em you know what’s what.

 

CAUL:

(Neutrally)

Appreciate the tip.

 

HORSE THIEF:

They were holding you in the Crush, weren’t they? Hear it’s rough out there. Waymen and women crammed in together. ‘S not natural.

 

CAUL doesn’t reply.

 

HORSE THIEF:

(Still desperately angling for conversation)

Name’s Sweat, by the way. It was a hot night when the duke came to name me, but I’ve been sweating ever since, so he must’ve known what’s what, too.

 

They took me in for horse-thieving, but it wasn’t me. It’s mistaken identity. That’s what I’ll be telling his honour.

 

If you’re fool enough to go and steal a horse from the gentry, they’re entitled to post-fatal restitution now. Everyone knows that. They’ll cut you in half, take the top half, sew it onto the horse’s neck, to make a point out of you. Horrible, isn’t it? The things they can do?

(Not getting a response)

So, so, my argument is - knowing that, knowing what they’d do to me if they caught me, why would I go and steal a horse from some dead lord?? Why would I take the risk, even drunk as I was? It doesn’t make sense.

 

CAUL:

Does seem short-sighted. 

 

HORSE THIEF:

(Gratefully)

It is. It is short-sighted. He’s going to see it.

 

What did they bring you in for? 

 

CAUL:

Suicide.

 

The PRISONER gives a startled and confused bark of laughter.

 

CAUL:

(Chuckling)

Funny thing is, I’m guilty.

 

Across the court, we can hear CAUL’S LAWYER - fussy, well-to-do and clearly unprepared - hurrying towards the row of prisoners.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Calling and searching)

Ahm. Ahm. Caul Serrikane? Oyez, oyez? Is there a Caul Serrikane here?

 

CAUL:

(Calling back)

Over here.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER hurries over.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

Ah! Worried I’d lost you for a moment there.

 

CAUL:

Are you my lawyer?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Busy looking at their papers)

I’m a lawyer, yes. Jove Reamer. How d’you do. 

 

So, listen - no sense dragging this out, a good surgeon doesn’t linger over the hammer-blows and so on. You’ve been rather unlucky. We’ve drawn Turgid Blamenose this morning.

 

HORSE THIEF:

(Listening in)

Oh, shite!

 

CAUL:

Why is that unlucky?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

Oh, you don’t know him?

(Enjoying delivering the history lesson a little too much)

Well, he was Royal High Mischief in 601 pre-res. It was a time of substantial judicial overreach, you understand. Uh, street crime was rampant, Emperor Drab the Second instituted emergency powers - well, we all know how that one turned out.

 

HORSE THIEF:

(Chiming in)

Turge the Terror. That’s what they called him. 

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Unhelpfully clarifying)

Yes. Judge Blamenose, that is, not the Emperor.

 

Blamenose always had a disposition towards impatience. He set a national record for the most capital sentences passed in a single morning, then twenty years later he broke it again. No word on whether he’ll make a third attempt now that he’s back, but-

 

CAUL leans forward.

 

CAUL:

(Like she’s talking to an idiot, and perhaps she is)

If everyone knows he’s so terrible, who in Man’s name brought him back from the Neth to start passing sentences again?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Brightly)

Oh, it was a public vote. He was hated in his time, but he’s become quite popular in ours, which is interesting, really. I suppose if I asked you to name a liberal-minded court judge from 600 years ago, you might rather struggle. The exceedingly brutal are at least easy to recall.

 

CAUL has little interest in this insight.

 

CAUL:

So what are we supposed to do?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(A little helplessly)

I don’t suppose you have any friends in high places.

 

CAUL:

(Answering honestly)

I don’t think I have friends in any places.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Making himself a little sad just at the thought)

Well, that’s rather sad, you know. We all need friends.

(Getting back on track)

Ah, now - necronautic trespass is a new crime, certainly, but at present under law it’s considered a very serious crime. The papers have taken note of your arrest. I should be prepared for Blamenose to, ah, throw the book at you. 

 

CAUL:

(Curiously)

I’m in the papers?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

Yes - a short paragraph in the Phalanx yesterday. Hardly Turning San-Malother, but certainly you’re notorious enough to cause a stir in the coffee-houses on a weekday morn.

 

If we can channel that public interest into a defence of your character - if you should possess any ancestral connection to the great families, if you’re sworn to any of the dynasties of the Cold Court-

 

HORSE-THIEF:

(Excitedly)

Wait. Wait, wait. You’re a dead-diver, friend?

 

CAUL:

Allegedly. 

(To the LAWYER)

I’m not sworn to anything.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

Well, who owns your lodgings?

 

CAUL:

We’re renting a place in the Guts from the House of Gland.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

But you never took an oath of fealty or-

 

HORSE-THIEF:

(Still interrupting)

Could you give someone a message for me, dead-diver?

 

CAUL:

(Talking over him)

We just paid them the minimum rate.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Tutting)

Well, that was not particularly farsighted of you. I tell all of my clients, if you can afford it, you need to consider an oath of fealty. Even if it means learning a few new words and dressing up in a funny outfit every once in a while - it’s worth the additional fee.

(Making a recommendation)

Now, the Storenian Pyre, they’re very tolerant of difference, very modern by Ancestral standards, they’d have been a sound choice-

 

HORSE-THIEF:

The Pyre’s got no holdings in the Guts, though.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Annoyed)

I know, I’m just saying, they’d have been a good choice-

 

CAUL has had enough of all this. She rgabs the LAWYER's sleeve.

 

CAUL:

Listen, they took me in with a dimbox head. A dead woman, who sings. Do you know what they’ve done with her?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

You’d have to speak to the court stewards about that. 

(Chuckling)

If I were you, I’d be rather more concerned with my own welfare than my material possessions-

 

CAUL:

(To the LAWYER)

I need that head kept safe and taken care of. I can’t pay you, but if you can help me-

 

The chatter is interrupted by a yell from the COURT CLERK.

 

COURT CLERK:

(Yelling out from the other side of the court)

Prisoner to the dock!

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

That’s our cue to take the stage. I’m afraid the dead officers of the court can be rather rough when they’re escorting you. Don’t, of course, resist. 

 

CAUL yells out as a COURT DIMBOX grabs her by the scruff and drags her bodily across the courtroom, tossing her into the dock.

​

COURT CLERK:

(Yelling out)

All rise! All rise for the Most Honourable Turgid Blamenose!

 

Everyone rises to their feet. We hear BLAMENOSE - dead and revived, softly and horribly wheezing as he very slowly shuffles to the judge’s podium. 

 

BLAMENOSE:

Setten.

 

BLAMENOSE’S TRANSLATOR:

Be seated.

 

Everyone sits, except for CAUL. A moment of silence.

 

BLAMENOSE:

Gettern.

 

BLAMENOSE’S TRANSLATOR:

Proceed.

 

COURT CLERK:

(Calling out)

Are you Caul Serrikane of 59 The Spill?

 

CAUL:

I am.

 

COURT CLERK:

(Calling out)

So formally named at the Rapturous Worldwomb Birthing Hospital in the Guts of Catalfac, 15 AR, by A Wonder And Glory To Behold, Fourteenth Earl of Chuck, in absentia, on the basis of - 

(Reading)

“A minor anatomical marvel, a stretch of faint gauze-like skin over the breast, allowing the vague display of the heart, lungs, and ribs beneath. Child is not expected to last the night.”

 

CAUL:

(A little softly)

Yeah.

 

COURT CLERK:

(To BLAMENOSE)

The prisoner stands accused of collaboration with the agents of organised crime, obstruction of an officer of the law in pursuit of their duty, assault of an officer of the law, property damage, and illegal necronautical activities, to whit, ‘dead-diving.’

 

BLAMENOSE:

(Stirring faintly; in modern English)

“Dead…diving?”

 

COURT CLERK:

A new invention, m’lud, a blasphemous exploitation of the Neth for individual gain. A most heinous crime.

 

BLAMENOSE:

(Repeating approvingly in modern English)

“A most heinous crime.”

(Stirring)

Wesser litten.

 

BLAMENOSE’S TRANSLATOR:

We have witnesses?

 

COURT CLERK:

Two breathing and fourteen dead, m’lud.

 

BLAMENOSE growls approvingly.

 

Sensing a likely guilty verdict is at hand, CAUL’s LAWYER stirs to his feet.

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(Hurrying to his feet)

Uh. Point of order! My lord! 

 

Justice, as the Dourmarrow himself once said, cannot be blind, else it would be blind to merit and to context, to heritage and character, and what is life with these stripped away?

 

My lord, if I may, I should like to say a few brief words as to the prisoner’s character-

 

BLAMENOSE begins to speak at length. His TRANSLATOR struggles to keep up.

 

BLAMENOSE’S TRANSLATOR:

The dead are not dishonest. They speak with history’s voice.

 

A most heinous crime has been committed and confirmed. The prisoner is to be sentenced first to death by hanging, second to a period of post-fatal restitution. 

 

Seventeen years of hard labour in body and in partial spirit, after which time, owing to her youth, the prisoner may be released back into the Neth.

(Banging his gavel)

Prisoner to the cells. Bring on the next case.

 

Silence for a moment - and then everyone gets to their feet. 

 

CAUL:

(Stunned)

Wait, that was it? That was it?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

(With a helpless shrug)

I said I was sorry. 

 

CAUL:

Is that justice?

 

CAUL’S LAWYER:

It was back then. So it is again.

(Brightly)

If you have a chance to do any reading around the subject, ah - a fascinating time period-

​

CAUL:

Well, do I get an appeal?

​

We can hear the COURT DIMBOX approaching from behind her - she cries out again as it grabs her by the scruff to haul her away.

​

A jail door slams shut.

 

CELL, INT, NIGHT

 

The answer, we can take it, is a decisive no. We’re somewhere dripping and silent.

​

CAUL is in a cell, ineffectually trying to cut through the bars with a dinner knife. She cuts herself, gives up, and drops the knife.

 

From the next cell across, we can hear the HORSE THIEF, still whining:

 

HORSE THIEF:

(Muffled, whining)

None of it’s logical. None of it’s logical at all, and they’ll regret it. Someone, somewhere, will be looking through the papers and they’ll say, “why in Man’s name would this loyal wayman, even with a few drinks in him, which he can handle better than most, go and steal a gentleman’s horse-”

 

A pair of GAOLER’s footsteps approaches. He bangs the bars of the HORSE THIEF’S cell.

 

GAOLER:

Shut up about that fucking horse!

​

The GAOLER approaches CAUL's cell.

 

GAOLER:

You’ve got a Pest Knight to see you, dead-diver. Said they read about you in the papers.

 

CAUL reacts with quiet bemusement to this.

 

CAUL:

You serious? 

 

GAOLER:

(Equally amused)

A real live one. Ripe and ready to turn.

 

Look, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not keep ‘em in my office. I hadn’t finished my supper.

 

CAUL:

All right. Um - show ‘em in.

 

The GAOLER sniffs, turns and goes.

​

Silence for a moment.

 

And then a second, ominous pair of clanking armoured footsteps in the distance, accompanied by the rising swarming of flies. The PEST KNIGHT is covered in them.

 

As she passes the HORSE-THIEF’s cell, we hear:

 

HORSE-THIEF:

(Pleading)

Ma’am! Ma’am! Madam knight? 

 

Listen to me, if you please I need to get the word out - I’ve been falsely accused of a crime I didn’t commit. I’ve been, I’ve been slandered and misunderstood-

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Coldly and calmly)

The flies say they saw you steal that horse.

 

They say you did the Myrtle Street job, too, and the blinders never found out about that one.

 

HORSE-THIEF:

(Not having an answer to that)

How-

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Face death with dignity.

 

The PEST KNIGHT stops before CAUL's cell door and stares in. She’s a forbidding figure; deadly serious, an arbiter of justice in old-fashioned armour - and she’s dying, slowly, carrying a note of chronic pain in her voice. The flies swarm constantly around her.

 

CAUL is a little impressed, unnerved - and fascinated.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

You’re the dead-diver. Caul Serrikane?.

 

CAUL:

(Stretching)

For now, yeah. “Was the dead-diver” is a condition that’s approaching fast.

 

And you’re the Pest Knight.

 

What can I do for you?

 

The PEST KNIGHT hesitates for a moment.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Calmly, without rancour)

The flies want me to begin by telling you just how much they hate you. 

 

But honestly, I don’t think I have the words to express it.

 

They loathe all dead-divers, the cruelty of your deception. 

 

They’ve smelled the prophecy of your death upon their trembling sensilla, time and time again - only to be denied the gift of your flesh through the awful miracle of your resumption.

 

They are glad to hear that you will finally die, and they can be rid of you.

 

CAUL:

(Softly astonished and amused)

Bullshit.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Did you think you lived your life unseen?

 

The flies sing tragic epics about a day when they thought you’d perished. A hidden place beneath the quays, the low tide washing up around your ankles.

 

Putrefaction was growing sweet and swirling in the air, the twin scents of cadaverine and putrescine ringing out like clarions to declare death’s final victory over you-

 

-and then all at once, you stumbled up to your feet, shook the flies from your shoulders, and staggered away into the sewers to carry on living.

 

It takes a moment for CAUL to take this in.

 

CAUL:

(With soft wonder)

Yeah, I remember the quays. I was eleven. Didn’t have a handle on it yet. Stayed under much too long. 

(Almost, but not quite poking fun)

Will you tell your flies from me, they need to learn how to let go of a grudge? It’s not healthy holding on.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

The swarm is too compassionate to forget. They mourn the loss of every failed colony, every maggot-death.

 

As such, they regard you as their sworn enemy across countless generations. 

(Like delivering good news)

But they will abide by our pact nonetheless.

 

With a grunt of pain, the PEST KNIGHT slides down to sit on the floor opposite CAUL.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

My name has been Naemic Rale, knight-to-be of the Lucilian Chorus. That name will be lost when the swarm takes me - but for now, it’s mine, and you’re welcome to use it.

(More informally)

I’ve been sent to treat with you. 

 

CAUL:

(Amused)

Treat with me, is that right?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

We have learnt to our benefit that dead-divers tend to be very well-informed about our city’s criminal elements. It’s a pity to lose that knowledge to the Neth, not when it could help the wider cause of justice.

 

By law and tradition we cannot intervene in civic sentencing, but…we were hoping you may prove willing to help us all the same.

 

Now that you have nothing left to lose.

 

CAUL:

Nothing left, hm?

(Now definitely poking fun)

Not quite true, unfortunately, knight-madam. You have to understand that even in death, my clients have come to expect certain standards of confidentiality from me-

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Snapping back with cold, calm anger)

Your clients are gangsters, thieves, and killers.

 

The flies say you’ve never raised a knife to innocent flesh, but you have made a habit of trafficking with the worst of the living. Day after day, descending into death at their command and for their profit.

 

Give them up to us now, names and deeds - and compensate.

 

CAUL:

(Raising an eyebrow)

“Compensate”?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

For a life ill-used, and a talent ill-spent.

 

CAUL bristles at this.

 

CAUL:

I’d expect a woman swarming with corpse-eating insects to better understand that survival can be an repulsive affair. Has to be, sometimes.

(More softly)

Besides. If your flies know how I’ve lived, you can probably figure out yourself that my clients will be far more dangerous to me in the Neth than they are now in life, if I cross them tonight. There’ll be no getting away from them down there.

 

As the old bagman said on his deathbed, “This is hardly the time to start making enemies.”

 

So, from one dying woman to another - I’m sorry. I can’t help you.

 

The PEST KNIGHT smirks reluctantly at that - then gets to her feet, taking this as a ‘no.’

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Very well. 

​

She begins to walk away.

 

CAUL considers for a moment - and then remembers PUG.

 

CAUL:

(Calling out)

Naemic. 

 

Naemic Rale!

 

The PEST KNIGHT stops. Comes back.

 

CAUL:

I can give you something you didn’t ask for.

 

There’s a house in the Ribs, on Bacon Row. A red door. 

 

In the house, a cellar. In the cellar, sealed away in wine barrels, are the bodies of two old women. They were tortured and murdered by a young man who they loved.

 

The PEST KNIGHT considers this.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Where’s the killer now?

 

CAUL:

Dead and scattered.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

By you?

 

CAUL:

No. Killed by robbers, scattered by a good citizen, a wayman called Pug.

(Beat)

Dead in turn.

 

The PEST KNIGHT considers.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Unenthusiastically)

Corpses upon corpses, and nobody living left to charge. That’s complicated, you understand. It doesn’t leave much for us in the way of redress.

 

CAUL:

I don’t know that I agree.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

No?

 

CAUL:

(Calmly and almost casually, but this is something she truly believes)

No. What redress could be more important than returning the lost to the light?

 

How can there be justice if every complicated carcass stays buried?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(A little defensive now herself)

There’s not many of us left working, you understand. We’re directed to focus our efforts on cases which can be meaningfully resolved-

 

CAUL:

(A little harsher)

Then that’s not justice either. That’s cleaning up around the wound.

 

The PEST KNIGHT takes the point - or perhaps her flies take the point, because their buzzing rises and she halts for a moment as if she's listening to them.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Heavily)

We’ll take the chance.

 

CAUL:

Just like that?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Just like that. The message has been passed on, and the swarm are out looking. If your story’s true, they’ll find the house, and the cellar.

 

We’ll bury the women according to custom, we’ll record the crime and have the killer summoned for judgement.

(Simply)

Death is no longer an escape from the living hand of justice. If he’s found guilty, he’ll be sentenced to post-fatal restitution - and his title and house may be forfeited to a past generation that’s deemed worthier of the name.

 

CAUL:

What d’you suppose they’ll do with the old women?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Heavily)

That isn’t the concern of the Chorus, unfortunately, it’s a matter for the landowners. 

 

Most likely, sell them off so they can be put to work.

(Pause)

Does that make you regret telling me?

 

CAUL:

(Honestly)

A little.

 

Hard to make the right choice in times like ours, isn’t it? One way or another, everything comes back.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

How can there be justice when every corpse is currency, you mean?

 

Yes, it is hard. Of course it is. But we cannot afford to- ach!

 

She sways and staggers. Then she begins to cough uncontrollably and violently, staggering in pain, and rests a clanking gauntlet against the wall.

 

CAUL:

(Calling out)

You all right? ? I’ve got water if you need it.

 

CAUL lifts an earthenware jug from inside her cell and pours it.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Wheezing, weakly amused)

The flies……the flies say that stuff’s filthy enough to kill us both before the appointed hour.

 

CAUL:

No doubt. Have some anyway.

 

The PEST KNIGHT takes the water and drinks it.

 

She’s breathing hard, swills - and then spits out blood.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Recovering, a little shaky)

Not much time left amongst the living for me, I fear.

 

I’m meant to be riding out on the trade road tonight. Going after a man who stabbed his wife eight times in the back while she was washing his favourite jacket. 

 

He turned and fled the city while she was still bleeding out on the kitchen floor, and now he’s holed up in a drown in Swelter, thinking he’s got away with it.

The flies keep warning me I might not make it all the way there to crown him with a noose.

 

They can smell the death that’s gathering in me, hour by hour.

(With weak amusement)

It was the fysis took both my parents when I was young. Always knew it’d get me too in the end.

​

CAUL:

I’m sorry.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

No need for sorries. I’m luckier than most. Luckier than you, I’m sure.

 

I’ll choose a good place to die, out on the road. Somewhere with a view. 

 

Have you ever left Catalfac?

 

CAUL:

Only in death.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Pity. You’d have loved the mulberry fields out where I’m headed. 

 

Silkworm cocoons dangling from the leaves, soft and wriggling clouds beneath the clouds themselves.

 

Used to love watching ‘em work, when I was small. The contentment of small and simple beasts.

 

Thinking I’ll ride out that way again, lay my head down in the mulberry, and die amongst the honest labouring folk.

 

CAUL is starting to see a kindred spirit in the PEST KNIGHT - someone closer to death than to life.

 

CAUL:

What happens after you die?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Heavily)

The flies take over. They lay their eggs inside me. Fill every crevice, seize my eyes and my nerves. Make a living city of me.

 

They’ll steer my body all the way to Swelter. Find that killer. See him hanged.

 

Then they’ll keep riding me on for as long as they can, until their children and grandchildren have had their fill of me.

 

The flies buzz around her.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Softly, to herself)

Ah. They’ve already found the house. 

 

CAUL:

They’re good at what they do.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Better than people.

(With a little sympathy, considering CAUL’s own situation)

It’s not such a bad thing, you know - to be useful in death. To go on contributing.

 

CAUL:

So long as you can choose it.

 

The PEST KNIGHT acknowledges this - then she takes a step forward. She draws her sword, swinging it in an arc - and then brings the tip down against the stone in salute.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

The Chorus compensates its witnesses for their efforts. A favour for a favour, a vow of service. We’re old-fashioned that way.

​

Do you have any requests?

 

CAUL:

One. There’s a dimbox head in my possession - a singing nun. I don’t know what they did with her. I’d appreciate her being found.

 

Doesn’t matter where she ends up, so long as she’s treated well. Just - see her safe.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

We can track her down.

 

That’s not much of a favour, especially if we profit from it. Anything else?

 

CAUL:

No. No, I honestly don’t think so.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(With gentle sincerity)

From one dying woman to another - the flies are generous in their gifts, and they hold to their vows.

 

You won’t have a chance like this again. 

 

There must be something.

 

CAUL:

I live light. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s really nothing I need.

 

The PEST KNIGHT accepts this.

 

PEST KNIGHT:

Between now and your final breath, if you think of something else we can do, let us know.

 

CAUL:

How do I contact you?

 

PEST KNIGHT:

(Amused at that)

Oh, you’ll find we have people everywhere. Speak aloud, and see what comes.

(Pause)

Good luck below, dead-diver.

 

CAUL:

Same to you.

 

The PEST KNIGHT turns and slowly clanks away down the corridor.