More broadly, what was the city for? Did it just exist to grow bigger? Or was it for something else?

8

“WHY DOES HE EVEN get a ceremony?” the king said as he strode through the Point of Return, Clarence hurrying along at his feet, his entourage following at his back.

“Your Highness,” said Clarence in a low voice, “I advise discretion—the gentleman’s friends are waiting at the front.”

“Ha!” said the king, pointing at his own head. “I’ve got a bruise right here that says there was nothing gentle about him.”

“In answer to your question, the ceremony will be minimal, but we need people who knew him to act as witnesses. It’s all procedure.”

As they reached the front, one of Ward’s friends stood and bowed to the king. “We’re deeply sorry for the actions of—”

“I’m not interested,” snapped the king without looking at her. Ward’s friend dropped her head and looked away, as if worried the king might punch her on the way past. Before walking on any farther he turned to her and asked: “Why did he do it?” He said it calmly but pointedly.

“I . . . I don’t . . .” She plainly didn’t know but wanted to say something that was, somehow, useful.

“Did he ever talk about me?” said the king.

Ward’s friends looked at each other. “Not in any unusual way,” one of them said.

“What do you mean, unusual way?”

“Just that he talked about you like anyone else would.”

“We can’t understand it,” another of the friends added. “He was just ordinary and quiet.”

The king was about to ask more, but then one of the Point’s undertakers, whose name was Bolton, approached him. “Can I help you, Your Highness?”

“Yes, you can,” said the king.

* * *

The waiting room was through a door to the side of the stage. The king walked through it and found himself surrounded by bodies.

They lay on wheeled trolleys and shelves, stacked three high. He was well aware of how many people died in the city every day, thanks to the list that came in each letter. But seeing it expressed in words was quite different from seeing it expressed in racks of dead bodies waiting to be burned. Once upon a time they’d been useful citizens and now they weren’t, so the city was going to burn them and put the energy back into itself—the last useful thing they could do.

Everyone was replaced eventually—except the king. At least he assumed that was the case. He’d never asked. He didn’t want to ask. Just in case it had never occurred to anyone that he could be replaced.

The waiting room was not wide and the king had to strip his entourage down to four, otherwise it would have been terribly crowded in there. Clarence trotted in with them.

“Which of these is him?” the king asked Bolton.

Bolton stepped over to a body and indicated it with an open palm. The king joined her at the side of the trolley.