King Whatsit The Very Bad
King Whatsit The Very Bad
“This was built by King Whatsit The Very Bad,” says the porter, as he heaves our bags out the back of the electric carriage. “You can tell by the details. The long severe lines, the sharp, precise symmetry, the way you can feel the blood and screams coming off the tower where a hundred people were sacrificed. This way please.”
You think you have misheard him. Disoriented by the bright sunlight and the inhumanly tall architecture you stagger after the porter, up the twisting sandstone ramp. The porter is not a big man but carries our cases easily. You find yourself puffing, carrying only your jacket and handbag, the hot sun burning down.
“Blood and screams?”
You stumble slightly. The porter takes pity on you, slowing to allow you to catch up at the next bend. “It’s like this. When he had the great tower built it was to be a palace, and that meant that it would mostly be offices. So he moved people in to get on with their work as soon as possible. Which caused accidents. There’s blood in the cement.” He scuffed his shoe. “Screams too.”
“So…” you gasp.
“The king approved of this. He thought that the deaths would sanctify the building, make it strong and powerful. He sped up the schedule, worked people too hard and there were avoidable deaths. Or unavoidable ones, perhaps, as a consequence. And so at the end his name was struck from the records in penance for what he had done and we refer to him by his new name.” He flashes a smile over his shoulder.
“King Whatsit The Very Bad?”
“His name has been struck from the records.”
“After he was deposed?” you ask.
The porter stops, putting the bags down. “My, you don’t know about the city at all do you.” He points upwards to a spire, as sharp as a dagger blade. “The king’s tower. From where he rules the city.”