Carnival Row (2019–…): Season 1, Episode 1 - Some Dark God Wakes - full transcript

Run! Run!

Hurry!

Come on, run!

Stop her, you maggots!

Do it now!

Oi. I told you already.

You get your cut
after I get mine.

- Fly along now.
- No.

I'm coming with you this time.

Like hell you are.
We need you here.

- You're our last sparrowhawk.
- I'm done, okay?



Find some other Pix
to muster passengers for you.

I'm going to the Burgue.

You know the deal.

Lest you can pay, you best get

your twiggy little ass
back to shore.

With all due respect, Captain,
I'm not leaving.

Get the fuck off my ship
before I throw you off.

Try it.

I just came from that rock

your lads
won't even set foot on,

and I've cut down
tougher things than you

in the past five minutes.

It's the coastal battery!

Fuck it.



Get her in the hold.

Let's get out of here, lads.

Move!

Thank you.

Excuse me.

Excuse me, miss.

I just wanted to say thank you.

For what you done.

Folks are saying you're the one
that arranged for the passage.

Please don't thank me.

You'll still have to pay them.

Or work off your fee
in the Burgue.

What I did wasn't anything.

It was everything.

You gave us all a fighting
chance at a better life.

I-I hope so.

Is that a Burguish soldier?

Yes.

He's somebody
I knew from the war.

You and he, were you...?

Look, it's nothing
to be ashamed of.

I had a tryst
with a Burguish rifleman once.

Curiosity, mostly,

but he was a nice enough lad.

It was a bit more
than that for me.

Is that why you're headed
to the Burgue?

To be with him?

No.

He died.

In the last Pact advance.

I'm sorry.

Oi!

What's your hurry, love?

Come up and see me.

See, you can't sell this
Critch bilge out on the Row.

Not without a permit.

Now, fortunately,
it's your lucky day.

'Cause we can sell you one.

Um, I need to speak
with my father.

Oh, he's not here now, is he?

Used to be a big shot doctor
back in his country, he was.

Really?
And now he pushes this dross.

All right, come on, there.

Get this shit out of here,
all right?

- You can't have this stall
here anymore...
- You gonna pick that up?

What'd you say?

- Thatch, no, no, no. Don't.
- It's all right, it's all right.

Thatch.

'Cause it seemed to me that you
was asking for a civics lesson.

You don't want to do that.

Ooh. Or else what?

Oh!

You might want to change
your trousers.

- No, stay down, stay down.
Stop it!

Sorry, Inspector.
He's just joined.

Are you off your trolley?
Do you know who that is?

Thank you, Inspector.

- How's your father?
- Good.

What brings you to the Row
this morning?

A case.

She woke up last night.

She's lucid?
She's talking?

Yeah. By Titania's grace.

Magrite, my love,

this is Inspector Philostrate.

You can call me Philo.

You're police?

I am.

I've been charged
with finding the man responsible

for these attacks.

Unseelie Jack.

That's what
they've been calling him.

What us Critch
have been calling him, you mean.

Jack would never take

the clawhammer to your kind.

You can talk to him, Mags.

He's one of the good ones.

I've talked
to some of the others.

At least, the ones who can talk.

I'm afraid
I didn't get very far.

I was hoping
you could tell me more.

Help me bring this man...
Well, if we can call him that...

To justice.

Can I have some tea?

Of course.

You're from Anoun.

I spent some time in
the Tirnanese highlands myself

during the war.

I was stationed in a mimasery.

One of the most beautiful places
I've ever seen.

With some of the bravest people
I've ever known.

Sometimes I feel
like I left my heart behind.

Me, too.

I hate to ask you
to relive this.

I know it's painful.

But this man is still out there,

hunting innocent fae folk.

Every three weeks, another one.

It's been three weeks
since your attack.

He's gonna do it again.

We have to stop him.

I need your help.

Please.

I heard him

before I saw him.

He called me a Pix whore.

Said he could smell it on me.

The darkness.

Do you remember
what he looked like?

His head was shaved,

except for the hair
on the side of his face.

Muttonchops.

He had a tattoo on his forearm.

Of what?

A snake, I think.

Anything else?

The smallest detail
could lead to his arrest.

He wore a uniform.

A uniform?

What kind of uniform?

Was it police?

Military?

Do you know?

I haven't been here long.

No.

'Course not.

Thank you.

You've been very helpful,
very brave.

I can tell
you're from the highlands.

Hmm.

Mr. Philo.

I can see you're a good man.

I hope you find

what you lost there.

You as well.

Careful, Franny!

Not so close, Peter!

You heard Nanny.
Come back at once.

Never mind her, silly old goat.

By the Martyr, look!

A shipwreck!

Run back.

Get a constable.

Hurry!

The Critch are swarming
our city.

They are changing the very
fabric of our society.

And not for the better.

They bring vices, wantonness,

the scourge of lixer addiction,

the worship of strange gods.

- That's right.
- Agreed.

Our streets are safe no more.

Whole boroughs have become
off-limits to decent citizens.

The people look
to their chancellor for relief.

What do they find instead?

A majority content
to do nothing!

It would seem
that good Proctor Longerbane

has forgotten why the fae folk

were forced to flee their lands
in the first place.

Exactly. Exactly.

Because the party he leads

chose to let Tirnanoc fall
into the hands of the Pact!

Let's not forget
which party dragged us

into that misbegotten adventure
in empire making.

It was a war we could have won.

- Yeah!
- Yes!

It was a war we should have won!

See how he dodges

the issue at hand.

Burguishmen
can't find honest work

because the Critch do their jobs
for a pittance!

If Proctor Longerbane wishes

to send the fae folk
back to whence they came,

let him amass
a majority of votes to do so.

Hmm?

Making laws is the province

of this august chamber.

Mine is but to see those laws
duly enforced.

So, that doesn't include the law

against consorting
with Pix harlots.

The audacity!

To impugn my family honor!

Impugn? How?

His slurs matter not.

The Breakspear name

is above reproach.

Even so, that you should have
to tolerate such impudence

when it's you
that holds the majority.

Mm, by but a blade's margin.

The slightest misstep could
cost me the chancellorship.

Jonah.

Good morning, Father.

Hello, Mother.

Above reproach.

Indeed, husband.

And where have you been?

Out with friends.

- All night.
- It would seem.

Not on Carnival Row, I trust.

Of course not.

No, you-you've been quite clear

about the boundaries
of my comings and goings.

You're the chancellor's son,
Jonah.

You can't give your father's
enemies any ammunition.

Rest assured, I'd sooner die

than become an embarrassment
to my dear, beloved father.

It's your future
that concerns me, Jonah.

Don't worry.

My future's daffodils
and rainbows

as far as the eye can see.

Fellow Burguishmen!

Your city is under siege!

But you are not alone!

Have your voice heard!

So, have you caught him yet?

Tourmaline.

It's been three weeks
since the last one.

I expect he'll be
on the prowl tonight, won't he?

Good to see you, too.

I'm just wondering
if I should make a point

of running my errands
before sundown.

I'd have had him by now

if more of the victims
had been forthcoming.

Yeah, well, a bloke with a badge
knocking on your door

isn't exactly a relief
where they come from.

What?

I will grant you,
the police are no angels,

but we're not the bloody Pact.

Yeah, but you lot left us
to them,

just like you'd leave us
to Jack.

It's what people are saying.

Right.

How bad is it?

Do I need to be worried
about riots?

It's tense.

A racist with a hammer
is beating us

where he finds us,
and we don't see

too many of you lot out here
giving a shit.

You looking for trouble?

Yeah, you're not
in Sheep-Land anymore,

you fuckin' trotter.

This city belongs to us!

You'd do well to remember that!

Anyway, this Jack business.

I can tell you where I'd look.

Which is what you're doing here.

Last victim said
he had muttonchops.

Hmm. Well, look at you.

Did you see this?

Another wreckage.

Came from Anoun.

Any survivors?

Are there ever?

She was found on the shore
just off Cape Tairn.

It's just what
this fucking city needs,

another Pix mouth to feed.

Oi, wake up.

Name?

Name.

Vignette. Vignette Stonemoss.

Not yours, you daft thing,

the sodding ship that went down.

Oh, uh, Deliverance,
I think it was.

Yeah, and you boarded her where?

Near Anoun. Off the coast.

They're smart,
these Critch runners.

Sailing up and down the coast
just clear of Pact cannons, eh?

Eh, not smart enough
to keep clear

of the winter squalls,
though, are they?

What happened to the others?

All lost but you, darling.

They wouldn't let us out
of the hold,

even when the ship
started taking on water.

If they let you out of the hold
and you'd winged ashore,

you wouldn't be worth nothing
to 'em, now would you?

Who are you contracted to?

I don't know.

Only that it was two years' work
for the passage.

All right. Get her processed.

And find out who
this ship is registered to,

and make sure
she gets where she belongs.

- Here.
- This way. Go.

I wonder who he could be.

It's the finest house
on the Crossing.

He must be very rich.

Oh, he'd have to be.

Sent his solicitor
to the auction,

bought the place sight unseen
is how I heard it.

Sight unseen?

Well, he must be very rich,
indeed.

You expecting someone,
dear sister?

No.

Yes? Can I help you?

I'm looking
for Mr. Ezra Spurnrose.

It's all right, Afissa.

I'm Ezra Spurnrose.

You're the registered owner
of the sailing ship Deliverance?

What's this all about?

- Lost at sea.
- Surely,

Mr. Spurnrose, you understood
the risks involved?

Apparently not.

I'm-I'm afraid I tied up
a considerable portion

of my family assets
in this enterprise.

Uh, I was approached to fund

the purchase
and furbishment of the...

the Deliverance
as a passenger vessel

in return for a share

of the profits earned
in bringing these...

desperate wretches
to our shores.

It's not illegal.

Is it?

No.

But it ought to be,
if you ask me.

We have more than enough

Critch here already,
thank you very much.

Now, as to the disposition

of this here Pix.

She's indentured
for the price of passage.

50 guilders.

You can sell that contract
to someone else,

or you can keep her
as a domestic.

Your choice.

A lady's maid?

Oh, Ezra!

I've not had one
since poor Father died.

Well, it is high time
we corrected

that intolerable state
of affairs.

Thank you.

And I'm sorry.

- Now, what for, dear?
- For doubting you

and your ever mysterious
business ventures.

Clearly, you are handling
our affairs most capably.

What's your name, girl?

Vignette.

Well, come along, then.

Let's get you cleaned up.
I think we still got

the last girl's uniform
somewhere.

You'll have Swansday off.

Please attend
to personal matters then

and not during the week.

Sorry.

The last girl we... Uh, milk?

The last girl we had
had a veritable parade of kin

popping in downstairs at all...
Oh, that-that's enough.

At all hours
of the day and night.

It was terribly annoying.

Not to worry, miss.

I have no kin to speak of.

Oh, are they all
still in Tirnanoc?

They're all dead.

Well, of course,
I think it's dreadful

that the Burgue
abandoned Tirnanoc

to the ravages of the Pact.

Taking in an unfortunate
such as yourself

is the least we can do.

You'll need to clean your nails

- before you serve me tea again.
- Yes, miss.

Well, it's no wonder
that it fits you so well.

All you fae are so slight
and hollow-boned.

I'm not sure about this braid,
though.

Don't.

Uh, I'm so-so sorry, miss.

Please excuse me. I just...

I don't have much else left.

My braids tell who I am.

Oh.

How quaint.

It reminds me
of someone I've lost.

I do hope
you won't be any trouble.

You may go.

This is our city!

It belongs to the Burguishmen!

You need only look
at the godless hell

these bestial shite races
have made

of their own fucking lands

to know what's at stake here!

If Absalom Breakspear can't
put a stop to the tide of Critch

swamping our shores,

then let him step aside
for a man who can:

Ritter Longerbane!

- Longerbane!
- Longerbane!

Ritter Longerbane!

Ritter Longerbane!

Well, it's a disgrace,
that's what it is.

These used to be
respectable neighborhoods.

Sergeant.

What the fuck
are you doing here?

Well, last I heard,
it wasn't illegal

to gather with like-minded folk.

Not even the sorts of folk
who might be happy

to take a hammer
to a few faerish skulls, eh?

You still after that bloke?
How long you gonna keep that up?

Till I find him.
And I will find him.

Yeah, well,
not among these fine gents.

Oh, I don't know.
I think he might be close.

Very close.

What are you insinuating?

Just that Jack's last victim

said he might be
one of you Choppers.

A bald one.

Wearing a uniform, Sergeant.

Well, these fucking Critch.

They will say anything
to get attention,

- won't they, lads?
- Right.

Yeah. That's right.

Then you won't mind

showing me your arm, will you?

I don't have to show you
a fucking thing.

Look, I took an oath

to protect the people
of this good city

just like you did.

Do you and your like-minded folk

consider the fae
among those people?

Why do you care so bloody much?

What's this strange affinity
you have for them?

Because I served
beside their kind in the war.

They put their lives
on the line, same as we did,

and I'm just not sure
I like how this city has chosen

- to repay them for it.
- Ah, right. The war.

Yeah, I hear all sorts of things
happened over there.

Oh, you heard, did you?

I wouldn't blame a lad
for going a little heathen.

No proper women around.

Just all those beggared tinks

happy to spread
for a shiny Burguish stiver.

It's easy enough.

Just close your eyes,

think of your sweetheart
back home.

See, I heard
it's like sticking your cock

into a pail of greasy ferrets.

Is that true?

Stand up, and you'll regret it.

Hey!

Don't think I won't
fucking report you for this.

Do it!

I can't wait to tell 'em
where I found you.

Good evening.

Evening.

Mrs. Fyfe.

Mr. Philostrate.

I kept your plate warm.

Much obliged.

Oh, you should be.

Supper is served
between 6:00 and 7:00.

- House rules.
- Come, Mr. Bagstock,

20 minutes grace is the least
we can afford Mr. Philostrate,

considering he spends his days
keeping our streets safe.

It's favoritism, is what it is.

Don't think I haven't noticed.

Can't recall you've ever told me

how this happened.

I'm sure I have.

It's a war wound.

Yes, but you never told me how.

I can't imagine...

you'd want to know
more than that.

Why not?

Because not everyone
came back, I suppose.

You mean my husband?

It's been seven years.

More.

Sometimes the old wounds
hurt the most.

I've made peace with my pain.

It's yours I'm curious about.

It was war
and it was hard, and...

I did things I regret.

I'm sure that's not
the whole of it.

What if it is?

What makes you so sure
there's a story worth hearing?

Because you're
a man worth knowing.

And men like you
are made of stories.

Tell me one.

Some other time. It's late.

Right.

Yes.

I should go.

Good night, Mr. Philostrate.

Good night, Mrs. Fyfe.

Is this really necessary?

Well, we can't have you
flying away

in the middle of the day,
now, can we?

Lace up.

You can go where you like
on your own time,

but keep in mind that you're
always representing this house.

To that end, I don't suppose
you know of a train

going towards
the Tetterby Hotel, do you?

What do you know of that place?

A friend of mine came
to the Burgue a while ago.

Heard she
might be staying there.

The Tetterby is
a house of ill repute, girl.

On Carnival Row.

I must be mistaken, then.

You see that you are.

Now, listen, girl,

I'll be keeping
a close watch on you.

I've got a full belly
and a roof over my head,

thanks to this family,

and in this city,
that's no mean feat.

So you mind yourself.

Vignette?

Are you just about
finished in here?

Yes, ma'am.

I would send you on an errand.

Can I count on your discretion?

Yes, ma'am.

I need you to go to the Row
and have this refilled.

- Tamphus Oil.
- Mm.

Along with Calder root
and the Martyr knows what else.

A drop behind each ear,
and men take notice

of what they otherwise overlook.

I may be plain, but at least
I'm clear-eyed about it.

It is quite dear, yes.

My brother would not approve
of such an expenditure.

But then again,
he's not about to turn 23

with few suitable prospects
for marriage, is he?

Run along.

Rumor has it our new neighbor
takes residence today,

and it's a safe wager
Louisa Pembroke already has

a new dress picked out to parade
herself in front of him.

Lively, now.

Found 'em on the bank.
Good condition.

Worth a guilder apiece,
at least.

Two guilders for the lot,
take or leave.

- Excuse me, miss.
- Beg your pardon, ma'am.

Tourmaline!

Vini!

How'd you find me?

I paid one of the deckhands
to track you down for me.

Spent the last of my money
from sparrowhawking.

Only to find out
your oldest friend was a whore.

- We all do what we have to do
- Says the one who spent her days

helping refugees escape
the Pact.

I think you mean
selling refugees

into indentured servitude.

Please. It wasn't heroism.

It was a job. Got paid.

Same as you.

Right. But that's
not why you did it.

Oh. And why'd I do it?

Because people needed help,

and that was the help
you could give.

I've known you long enough
to know you never give up.

And yet, here I am.

Things must be bad, eh?

Can't imagine
you'd ever leave Tirnanoc.

I didn't plan to.

I got word that a group
was hiding out in the woods,

waiting for a boat out.

Heard they'd escaped
from a camp of some kind.

All women and girls.

Little girls.

The Pact was after them,

and I tried to help, but...

they killed them all.

Every single one of them.

The brigade...

there were so many of them, I...

I knew I'd never
make it back, so...

I made for the ship.

Their ship.

The one that
I'd arranged for them.

That they never lived to see.

But you're here now.

Mm-hmm.

Is this a widow's braid?

Mm-hmm.

Gods, you don't know, do you?

Know what?

Vignette...

Philo's alive.

And you think Sergeant Dombey
is this, uh...

- What do you call him?
- Unseelie Jack.

Unseelie?

It means "hateful"
in their tongue.

I can't rule Dombey out, sir.

And this has nothing to do
with your own personal distaste

- for the sergeant's politics?
- Only insofar as his politics

align with
Unseelie Jack's politics.

And that he fits the description
offered by the latest victim...

down to the fact
that he wears a uniform.

Even so,
you can't just go around

assaulting your colleagues.

The men in this building
are not your enemies.

I am not in the business
of deciding who my enemies are.

Neither are they.

Justice is justice.

- When was your last day off?
- I don't need a day off.

- What's the hurry on this?
- What's the fuckin' hurry?

Sir, every three weeks this
lunatic brings down his hammer.

- Any day now...
- Any day now there's gonna be
a dead lixer fiend.

Or an aborted half-blood
or a Black Raven

who caught the sharp end
of a knife fight.

The Row is an ugly place.

These are not criminals
or cutthroats.

The last victim was a maid.

The one before that
was a fisherman.

Well, you can't
save them all, Philo.

Damn it, I can save one!

Just let me put a man on Dombey.

Absolutely not.
You want me to put surveillance

on one of our own,

you better come to me with more
than some fucking hunch.

It's more than a hunch.

Philo, go home!

Get some rest.

Come back fresh tomorrow.

- Sir, I can...
- Philo!

That wasn't a request.

Hey, what'd he say?

Wanted me to leave Dombey be.

Said I was making it personal.

What have you got?

Sketch artist got back
from talking to the victim.

Right.

Best keep this
to ourselves, I think.

Oi. Cuppins.

Are we running
a naval academy now?

Fucking Basilisk is in port.

Basilisk?

Ironclad. Long-range.
They keep them out there

in that tin can for weeks
until they're half mad,

then back home
to let off some steam.

- Sounds like a bloody nightmare.
- It sure is.

Mine. Every three weeks.
Move.

Every three weeks?

Jack doesn't wear
a policeman's uniform.

He's a fuckin' sailor.

I should've seen it sooner.

You were right.

They're all the same,
these Burguishmen.

They come with promises,
take what we have,

and when there's nothing left
to take, they leave.

It's a common enough story.

The story of our
whole fuckin' country.

So we move on.

We tell a new story,
a better one.

No.

No. Not yet.

Vignette, listen.

Just calm down, take a minute
and listen to me.

I'm not done with him.

He will know
what he's done to me.

He will look in my eyes
and know.

Fuck.

A carriage.

A fine one.

It's him.

- It must be.
- Is everything all right?

Our new neighbor.

- Shall we be the first
to welcome him?
- Imogen!

What?
It's the friendly thing to do.

- It's not proper.
- Ah, don't be so old-fashioned.

This is the seventh century.

Imogen.

Oh, you're coming after all?

Well, somebody had to stop you
making a spectacle of yourself.

May I help you?

Good afternoon, sir.

Is the master of the house
at home?

Whom may I say is calling?

- It's Ezra...
- Ezra Spurnrose and his sister.

We're neighbors, come to extend
our hospitality.

Show them in, Fergus.

Thank you.

Spurnrose.

I hear your father was the
finest watchmaker in the Burgue.

We'd like to think so, yes.

Is the master of the house
available?

I'm master here.

I shouldn't have said anything.

She survived seven years
in Pact-occupied Tirnanoc.

I'm sure she can survive
a night in the Burgue.

Yeah, I'm sure she can too.

I'm not sure about the bloke
she's mad at.

Well, that's not the kid again,
is it?

Second time this week.

The chancellor's own kin,

just waltzing in the front door
of a faerie brothel

like he's never heard
of trouble.

There goes my night.

Mmm.

Fine, I'll throw my hat in.

- Really? You sure?
- Yes, yes.

Why not?
I could use a distraction.

Jonah.

Welcome back, sir.

Hello, Moira, dear.

What kind of company are you
in the mood for this evening?

Fleury.

I got to piss.

Any luck on the waterfront?

I showed the sketch
to the boatswain.

If he knew the face,
he wasn't saying.

I was afraid of that.

So what we doing here, then?

Like they say,

if the fish you're looking
to catch isn't in the sea...

look in the tank.

These lads aren't gonna give up
one of their own so easy.

Not gonna ask 'em to.

All the victims were struck
on the right side of the head.

Which means
our man was left-handed.

His last victim said
he had a tattoo on his forearm.

You want to ask 'em
to roll up their sleeves?

After a fashion.

Fucking told you, that cunt.

He's a fucking prick.

Oi! Where you goin' with that?

See you back there.

'Scuse me.

Ow! Sorry, mate.

- Oh, what a...
- For fuck's sake!

Oh, fucking hell.

Fuck.

Inspector!

It's him! It's Jack!

Go around!

Show me your hands!

It's done!

Done?

It's just beginning.

I had to stop 'em.

I had to.

You don't know
the evil they've been about

right under your nose.

Step away from the ledge.

They're not our god's children.

They come from a dark place.

And they haven't come alone.

They've brought something
with them.

Something
that will be the end of us.

I've seen it.

With my own eyes.

You think I'm mad.

I know darkness.

I've been to the twilight edge
of the world

and dredged up things
from the sunless deep

that would turn your blood cold.

But nothing

like the thing I saw in the dark
beneath our very feet.

You're ill-prepared for
the hardship that lies ahead.

There is more here
than you can fathom.

And while you go about
your little life,

so sure that this world
still belongs to you...

some dark god wakes.

Needless to say,

we couldn't get out of there
fast enough.

Imagine it.

A Puck living here.

On Finistere Crossing.

What is the city coming to?

My robe.

Mm, that'll be all, Vignette.

I'll take tea in my room here
at 7:00.

Good night, miss.

Mmm.

Mr. Philostrate.

What are you doing in here?

Oh, is this no longer my room?

I thought I'd surprise you.

For your birthday.

Well, it's not my birthday.

You moved in a year ago,

so I figured I must have missed
at least one by now.

What happened to your hand?

And your head.

Philo.

Someone threw a hammer at me.

You know how it goes.

What? Let me see?

You should get that looked at.

- There's no need.
- You might need stitches.

- No, it's fine. No doctors.
- You could have a concussion.

I said...

no doctors.

I'm sorry.

It's been a night.

I just have a lot on my mind.

You can talk about it.

You know that, right?

It's not unheard of,

for people who share a bed to
share some thoughts on occasion.

Another time, maybe.

- Don't do that.
- What?

"Another time, maybe."

Look, I don't want to burden you
with these things, Portia.

It's no burden.

You don't know the weight of it.

I don't.

But I know you carry it alone,

and you don't have to.

I want to know you, Philo.

And I'm telling you

you may just be happier
in the dark.

I see.

Yes.

Right.

I keep forgetting what this is.

- I didn't mean to...
- No, you're just looking out
for me.

Thank you for that.

Just carry on
and let me know the next time

you fancy a quick fuck.

Portia...

Good night, Mr. Philostrate.

You lying shit.

You're alive.

Mima Roosan came to me
with blood on her hands.

She said you died in her arms.

Why did she lie to me?

Because I told her to.

We...

we told each other everything.

Couldn't you have
at least told me good-bye?

I wanted to.

I never meant to hurt you.

Hurt me?

You destroyed me.

I waited for you,

and you left me
in the ashes of my homeland

with nothing but grief
for seven years.

I should've done this
the day we met.

Do it.

Do it.

You're not worth it.

I wish you had died.

There's more here
than you can fathom.

And while you go about
your little life,

so sure that this world
still belongs to you,

some dark god wakes.