It was a sight that would have made any Vothlander laugh, and they did from their seats within the palace's throne room, waiting for their prince to arrive. Behind them, in the palace courtyard, the Lower-people were seated in rows and columns. None of them were smiling even though the prince's birthday was cause for celebration. They had been scrubbed clean by the royal servants prior to their seating and they were all there against their wishes.
The Lower-people were dressed in beautiful clothing, which they would return after the ceremony. Their eyes fleeted from side to side, as the enforcers had been placed there to ensure the good behavior of the Lower-people. Anywhere Lower-people went, the enforcers followed.
The Lower-people had been rounded up from their respective farms and workplaces and told they had been 'invited' by the King Timion. Then the enforcers flogged a foolish woman who declined the invite. She had broken the fourth rule which stated that everyone must obey the command of the King, his Elite, and the Enforcers or they shall be killed. The others quietly followed the enforcers to the 'party' at King's palace, wondering when the word 'invite' had ever been synonymous to command.
"Excuse me!" A man said from his seat in the rows, his wife was somewhere to the left, in the columns, they had been told to raise their hands if they had anything to say. A sole enforcer broke out from the ranks and walked over to the man raising his hand. The man looked uneasy and his legs wobbled, he was also sweating.
"What is the matter?" The enforcer said, leaving his whip in its holster. The man raised his head to the bull-man, glad he had been answered.
"Please," He said. "I need to use the restroom."
"You can't. The nearest restroom is in the palace and is reserved for Vothlander's. You have to hold it in." The enforcer said. He feared he would have to use the whip; he was a new recruit and had not fully mastered the art.
"But, it's not pee." The man said, sweating. "I need to . . . you know?"
"You have to wait until the ceremony begins." The enforcer replied, confused. Another enforcer walked over to the two men. The other Lower-people were watching from their rows and columns.
"What is the matter? Is he causing any trouble?" This enforcer asked the new recruit.
"He wanted to use the restroom." The new enforcer said he was glad the other man had come. He moved back a few steps to indicate he had left the job to the newcomer.
"You wait until it ends, then you go home and do what you have to do."
"Too late," The sweating man grunted, lifting one of his legs. "It's already coming out!" There was a large volcanic sound as the man passed air from his lower orifice and then the seat of his pants bulged. Then the smell came, a thick, pungent invisible cloud of death that hung around the two enforcers.
The new enforcer pulled out his whip and began to flog the Lower-person who had desecrated the prince's birthday. The recruit also pulled out his own whip, angered by the stench around him. He screamed and flogged the man with all his strength.
"What on earth did you eat, you bastard!" He shouted, whipping the sweating man. The terrible smell grew until it had covered all the rows and columns of Lower-people and some couldn't take it anymore.
They bolted from their seats, cursing the sweating man while holding their noses. The other enforcers pulled out their whips to round up the absconders and pandemonium broke out in the royal courtyard. The Vothlander's laughed from their seats in the throne room, this was the best birthday they had ever attended. One of the Lower-people workers, Kofi, laughed as three enforcers whipped his head and shoulders repeatedly. He seemed to be enjoying the lashings as much as the Vothlander's
Inside the place, Wenelaus was bent over the lying figure of Prince Arrod. The day before, he had been found and brought to the palace by the enforcers, who said they found him sprawled on the floor next to one of his farms. The prince had not woken up since then, but that wasn't what made the royal servant scared. Wenelaus dipped the cloth in the bowl of warm water and wiped the prince's chest. He should not have gone near the prince but this disease was unlike any he had ever witnessed.
Wenelaus made sure the wet cloth had absorbed all the pus before dipping it back into the bowl. Prince Arrod just lay there, oblivious of his surroundings. There was a large bump on his forehead which Wenelaus assumed was the first spore, it was certainly the biggest. That spore must have burst and covered the prince with pus, and then the affected parts of his skin where the pus had landed had grown into new spores. It was Wenelaus' best assumption.
There was no way the prince would be able to appear at his birthday, even if he somehow regained consciousness; his body was covered in these hideous things, some growing and waiting to explode. It was a weird disease, anything that involved pus-like this should have been contagious. A smaller boil on Arrod's neck burst with a small puff, spilling its sticky white residue on the boy's collarbone. The royal servant was reaching for the bowl when three men walked in.
"Wenelaus, kindly step aside. We have a new herbalist." King Timion said to the royal servant and the older man obeyed. He stole a glance at the other two men, one of which was the warmonger, General Ariad. The third man was too young and well dressed to have been an herbalist. He pulled a small vial from his pouch; the glass vial had a nice smell and was beautifully crafted.
"Tears of the water-goddess." The herbalist announced, holding up the vial. The glass bottle dazzled as the light hit its edges and the red liquid inside sloshed around the edges.
"And what will it do?" The king asked, trying not to look at his grandson, the only heir to the throne. What would he do if the boy dies? Two hundred gold coins were just a suggestion, he was willing to pay a million for his Arrod.
"Let the man do his job, Your Highness." General Ariad said. "He is the herbalist."
"It will remove all the boils on the prince's body and make him regain consciousness." The herbalist said to the king.
"Perfumes could do that?" Wenelaus said from the corner. The General glared at the servant, his eyes were black, even the parts that should be other colors had turned black.
"Who gave you the right to speak without being asked a question? Remain silent or I shall make sure you are punished." The general frowned.
"The last herbalist to administer a potion took a sip before giving it to the prince. I assume that would not be a problem with you?" The king said to the herbalist and the young man swallowed.
"My lord," said General Ariad. "This is a man I can vouch for; I would trust him with my life it came to that."
"Then take the vial from him and have a sip." King Timion said. Wenelaus knew if he didn't speak at that moment, the general would find another excuse and make the king accept this pseudo-herbalist's perfumed potion.
"Your Highness, permission to speak," Wenelaus said from his corner.
"You may speak, Wenelaus." King Timion turned to face the man. Wenelaus made sure looked only at the king as he spoke, the general's face would surely be a sorry sight.
"We still do not know the cause of his sickness; I suggest the herbalists and native doctors identify the problem before procuring their solutions."
"What do you know about medicine, servant?" The herbalist broke in. "This small bottle can cure any sickness in just a few minutes; a few drops can wake up the prince."
"Then obey the King's command and drink it. Just a little, there should be enough left." Wenelaus replied. Being taunted by others was a problem for him. Doing the taunting he could handle. King Timion and the general remained silent. It was now a war between lowers.
"I am not sick; there would be no evidence of its prowess." The herbalist fumed.
"Does it cure moles?" The royal servant asked.
"What kind of question is that?"
"Does it?" King Timion asked the man. The herbalist nodded.
"Then we shall have proof." Wenelaus approached the sweet-smelling herbalist. Sweet smells are used to conceal the smell of the devil, beware of sweet-smelling people. His father used to say. He pulled the neck of the herbalist's robe, exposing a medium-sized mole on the man's shoulder. It shouldn't have been visible but Wenelaus' eyes have been known to be sharp.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Drink up." The king said. The herbalist cast a glance backward and General Ariad nodded, a subtle movement which Wenelaus sharp eyes caught. There was fear in the herbalist's eyes as he took a sip from the vial. They began to wait, watching the small dark mole on the man's shoulder, watching the strands of hair on the mole.
"Uh!" The herbalist grabbed his stomach after two minutes. "Mercy," He whispered to no one in particular, the red tears of the water-goddess flowing down from his eyes and ears. King Timion watched with horror in his eyes, dumbfounded.
"Apologies, Your Majesty." General Ariad said, pulling out his sword from the scabbard. "I had no idea this man was a traitor." Wenelaus watched the herbalist writhing in pain; he would have killed the prince.
"Have mercy!" The sweet-smelling man screamed. The blood still flowed from his eyes and ears, staining his white robe. "Please, mercy," He said, this time facing the large man behind him.
The warmonger swung his sword and separated the herbalist's head from his body, ending the screams. Wenelaus felt bile rising in his throat; he doubled over and vomited, spewing his breakfast over the marble floor.
"Wenelaus," King Timion said, breaking the silence. "Leave us; I need to have a conversation with the general." Wenelaus bent to retrieve his bowl and then decided against it. He nodded and rushed out of the room. He ran until he reached the courtyard, where he unleashed another torrent of vomit on the innocent flora. As he wiped his mouth he noticed the situation of the courtyard. The chairs were upturned and enforcers were busy pummeling the Lower-people.
"Animals," Wenelaus said to himself. "I have been living with animals."