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13 October 2281 – The Minotox Crematorium
The Betason was the last to enter the Crematorium. He shut the thick black oak doors behind him. His footsteps fired across the marble of the silent hall, with a pistol ricochet. He passed each of the seven bronze death masks, while a crowd of mourners waited in silence. The corpse of the seventh prince was wrapped in crimson silk and laid upon a pile of wood and oil. The pile was placed inside the black marble pylon gates that held up Bloodford funeral hearth. Above the pylons sat a marble pediment depicting the rise of the Bloodford Princes. The final assent awaited him through the gateway to the gods.
The Betason lit the oil. The pyre burst into rainbow flickering flames.
“Here passes Wartling VII. Rise to Obb, the Mother Rook, the Guardian of the past, and keeper of the dead.”
The two-handed bird sign of Obb was made in unison across the hall. The Betason walked over to the throne, and placed the crown of blood rubies upon the head of the successor.
“Hail Wartling VIII.”
A roar of joy burst forth. When the room had cheered themselves quiet, the Betason took his seat to the right of the newly-crowned prince.
The smoke of Wartling VII, rose up the stack and out into the greasy London night, sickly and still. The smoke fell into mist, down upon the sticky streets.
Up above the slime leered the Minotox, six hundred metres of polished bricks, a monolith, wide, watchful, blocking sun, moon, and stars, the palace of the Bloodford Princes.
The courtiers waited, in the highest hall of the British Isles, up inside the Minotox Crematorium, a cathedral prism, razor to the moonless sky, carved with gothic precision. There they waited, beneath the winding spiral stack, the pinnacle of smoke, where the Bloodford Princes made their final ascension.
The hall echoed with the crackle of a dying fire. There were no lamps or candles. By the light of his father’s embers, Grand Prince Wartling VIII, gave his inaugural address. He wore the bright crimson livery of his house, cut into a lacy winter frock. It was trimmed with gold thread roses and encrusted with rubies. He sat in silence. His eyes fixed upon the red heat. None were permitted to speak until he gave leave.
“Father was a fool, a snivelling mouse, a lover of flowers, an insult to my blood,” said the Prince. He paused to see if his courtiers had courage enough to defend his father’s ashes.
The hall was silent.
“He was weak, he believed in…democracy. London belongs to me now.”
The hall remained silent.
The Betason was eager to speak. He wore an old crimson dinner dress with a plain flamenco design. It was bad manners to outshine the prince.
“I serve you, as I served your father. Tell me what you want, and it shall be done my lord.” The Betason’s voice came from under a pair of dim lit spectacles.
“Bring me a lamp,” said the Prince.
He pulled out a gold-leafed notebook and read:
“My father’s reforms will be scrapped. London is mine, the Thames is mine, the bricks, the mortar, even the ghosts are mine.”
The Betason scratched at his wrists.
“The Palace Guard are to be disbanded.” the Prince continued. The Betason coughed and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.
“The Hornet Corps will replace them. The Betason will remain my chief advisor, but the Hornets have offered a cheaper rate. It’s economics.”
The Prince could see the Betason’s eyes widening through the gloom. “The Manor Barons are behind me Betason. Don’t look so afraid, I’ll still need you to run the Minotox. But I don’t trust your men.”
The Betason crushed his handkerchief inside his fist, as the courtiers witnessed the public demotion.
The Palace Gardener had been waiting for her moment to speak. Deirdre didn’t get involved in palace politics. Her main concern was the rate at which she could get horse manure into the botanical moat.
When the senior courtiers had pledged themselves to their new prince, and the lesser courtiers had bowed and kissed his feet, Deirdre felt bold enough to speak.
“What’s to become of your father’s botanical gardens my lord?” said Deirdre.
“Another one of Father’s follies, he really believed he could preserve the endangered plants of the British Isles. Slash and burn,” said the Prince, with a wave of his hand.
Deirdre lunged at him with her arthritic wrists. Before she could strike the prince, a high-ranking Hornet took her out with a kick to the mouth.
They hauled her limp body away.
The newly-crowned prince began to shake. He’d seen the murder in her eyes. He dabbed his forehead with a black silk handkerchief.
He composed himself and continued, “Slash and burn, and fill it with wolves.”
The Betason was clenched up like a coil of naval rope.
“And what if the people rise up against you my lord?” said the Betason.
“Feed them to the Wolves.”
