Prince Amos loves the thrill of the chase, but his fat old nanny has no pace. In the distance, he can hear her breath with rasping breaths and a long, haggard wheeze. Her frightfully large bovine buttocks pendulum beneath her oversized royal blue robes, and her enormous udders bounce above a jiggling mass of steamed pudding belly. If only she had feathers, she would ruffle and coo like a fat old partridge with nothing better to do.
the shadows of giant marble-fluted pillars. All is silent, save for the echoing sound of his nanny's shuffling feet. The coast is clear as he creeps in the silence; the cold marble skin of the palace floor glides beneath his stealthy bare feet as he darts for cover. He hides where he cannot be found, peeking from behind a marble column, before he then hurtles down the spiraling stairwell. The corkscrewing steps shoot under his feet as he jumps the last steps onto the hard-polished marble floor in a single, bounding leap.
“Come back, my precious little princeling. Come to dear old nanny.” Shouts Nanny Slatt as she trundles on clumsy feet under her fat sack of meat. Sweat streams down a plump red face and clings onto thin, stony lips as she wobbles down the spiral staircase. She stops halfway, gasping for breath, and her stumpy hands wipe a flood of sweat dripping from her vexed brow. Her beady eyes flutter in a fixed state of continuous blinking. She sniffs and puckers her small nose. “What did I do to deserve such a bothersome burden?” Nanny Slatt chases after Prince Amos as fast as her waddling legs can take her.
Prince Amos cups his mouth and pinches his nose, snorting in laughter, his puppy-dog eyes shining from an angelic face mopped with floppy golden hair. He gives Nanny Slatt a sly little wink and lurches into a full-blown sprint. His little legs rush down the wide corridors of The Great Palace’s eastern wing as he sprints past hundreds of different rooms where a thousand hushed voices whisper in the eternal dance of royal service. Gaggles of the weaver’s cackle and chirp as their calloused fingers weave fine cottons, wools, and silks. The next rooms hold armies of fastidious tailors who lean over drapes of bright-colored cloths where, with exacting eyes, they measure and cut so Thiel’s elite can posture and strut.
“You wait till I tell your father.” Nanny Slatt rolls into the eastern wing corridor, muttering curses under her breath.
Prince Amos rushes ahead, drawn to the sound of a calamitous song. He turns left and darts into the palace kitchens, sprinting through a wall of steam and engulfed in a blast of heat. Knives drum a frantic beat, spoons whirl, and pots clatter as brittle plates clatter and shatter. The smell of fried, smoked pork rashers fills his little puckering nostrils as an infantry of cooks swelters and toils while making breakfast. Giant vats bubble and steam near fat little pigs, which crackle and pop, sizzling on spits. Slabs of fish and fowl roast and hiss below cured meats, which dangle from the kitchen’s rafters.
Prince Amos scampers through the kitchen warrens, diving between the legs of goby cooks who hack and swear. Loose potatoes roll through mucky puddles of scales, fish guts, and crimson smears. A woven basket overflows with colorful fruity jewels amidst vibrant vegetables nestled in patches of leafy green. The prince stops and glimpses over his shoulder to see the following fat fowl chasing him amidst the kitchen’s morning matinee.
“You treacherous little swine. You’ll give your poor old nanny a heart attack.” The prince’s nanny trundles through the brigades of cooks, elbowing them out of her way. “You’ll take me to an early grave.” Her curses fade into distant mutters as Prince Amos flees from the barreling bird.
The prince’s swift feet dart beneath a giant puff of foggy flour, where the air sighs with the divinity of the baker’s treats, where careful hands shape, roll, and knead.
Prince Amos puckers his nose, sniffing out fruity jam tarts, sugared almonds, and sweet honey-baked apple pie. A shower of dried fruits rains down onto flaky sheets, and on a table’s edge sits an unguarded golden slice of honeyed apples with cinnamon spice. His greedy little fingers grab a handful of the sugary delight.
“Oy. Get your grubby mitts off my apple pie!” The pastry chef cries as the prince’s thieving hands thrust back and forth in the thrill of his quickening flight.
Prince Amos races into the eastern courtyard, which is brimming with life. He spits golden crumbs from greedy mouthfuls of pie as he shovels down his last remaining bite.
The prince gathers his breath, caught up in the chaos of palace life, where stone grinds and metal chimes. The smithies’ hammer falls and sparks fly as red-hot embers dance in the morning sky. Water hisses as flaming metal thrusts into the smith’s liquid pits. The knock of wood explodes in clouds of dust as the carpenter’s seesaw through thick trunks of wood. To his left, master millers run delicate hands through grains of fine golden grains, and at the keep gates, freshly gutted carcasses of stags and boars fill long trestle tables. The butcher’s knife goes to work, slicing through meat and peeling back their hides. The hunting horns sound, and the hunting dogs bark, giddy and wild.
Prince Amos spies Nanny Slatt waddling through the crowds, spitting venomous words. “You loathsome little beast. Bless my poor soul. Come back to dear old nanny!”
The throb of The Great Palace’s courtyard dissolves into low-lit light as Prince Amos scampers into the silence of the southern wing. The air is thick with scented oils and the gentle sound of trickling bathing waters. The steady rise of the thick, clotted steam rises behind the royal bathhouse doors.
The prince stops, and his innocent little ears absorb the buzz of gossip from chatting peers. Noble words groan in contentment, mixed with hushed hisses of resentment. The muffled speech whispers amidst the gentle patter of his bare feet.
Prince Amos places his ear against the crack of the bathing house door.
“Adal’s up to something.”
“Of course he is.”
“He has a mind like his father.”
“Yes, and he’s just as useless with coin. He’s broke.”
“Really?”
“The Bank of Thiel will bail him out. Again.”
“Damn you, Elrich, you enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Soon enough, The Bank of Thiel will govern the kingdom. I’m sure the Lord Commander deserves a significant pay raise. A few extra properties and perhaps even an estate for your eldest daughter, Jasmine.”
“Well, that would be beneficial.” Says Lord Commander Torrington. “Jasmine is matched, and her own estate would be a welcome extension to the Torrington lands. She will wed in her seventeenth summer.”
“Wed, to whom?”
“To Lord Aram’s son. He’s of good stock with an old name. Secondary to his father’s preferential export services.”
“I hear Aram’s boy prefers rear service.”
“What?”
“He’s rather chummy with all those stable boys.” Lord Elrich scoops steaming water over his head.
“Utter nonsense, Elrich. The young lad has a fine way with stallions. He’s a half decent huntsman and a fine rider.”
“A fine rider in the hay is more like it.” Scoffs, Lord Elrich.
“Damn your hearsay, Elrich. I’d have him gelded.”
“Is that before or after he seeds Jasmine?”
“We know our duties as fathers, and plowing mine comes easy enough.” Lord Torrington declares this through the thick clouds of rising steam.
“Not so easy. Mine has put weight on, and more than a few extra loaves.” Elrich mumbles.
“More than a bakery, old boy. A little extra sugar produced a fine pair of milkers. Half of the court has noticed those sizable charms.”
“Pillows of joy, I call them.” Says Elrich, smug as he can be.
“I should fatten up my own.” Muses Torrington: “This one’s as flat as the floor and hard as stone.”
“She yields?”
“On rare occasions and with enough wine, but you know how it is; when duty calls.”
“Hmm. Speaking of duty, we should host another private ball.” Lord Elrich says, submerging himself to his shoulders with a contented groan.
“Damn right, Elrich. We can ball Lady Elrich together. What say you to a milker each?”
“Damn it, Torrington. She’ll know it’s you. That said, with enough wine and a few drops on her gums, Lady Elrich will be flying with the celestials.”
“Play a little swapsy? Yours for mine.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Invite the others?” Lord Torrington’s voice almost squeals with excitement.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Anyway, we should go. It’s breakfast time.”
The decorous speech from Thiel’s elite.
Prince Amos creeps away from the bathhouse; his pace slows as he dawdles on his little, bare feet. He turns right, through a small doorway, and down into the stairwell into the wine cellars’ cold depths, where vintners sleep with rosy cheeks. The world ferments around him, sweet with the scents of fruity ciders, dark ales, and ruby red wines.
The old, burly brewer rests his pudgy hands on his protruding gut as he guffaws his words to a gathering of apprentice brewers. He sits on a tall stool, regaling them all with a slurred tale of proud bravado and intoxicated spirit.
“All ripped in muscle, with a chest like an ocean swell. Massive, I was, and a champion bare-knuckle fighter, too. Anyway, the lads took one look at me and scarpered. The young duchess ran straight into my arms and begged me for a proper seeing, too. Lads, I shit you not; she couldn’t even walk the next morning. One word, ‘girth,’ when I was your age, I was plowing half the palace.”
A pitcher of strong ale stands unguarded, and the prince’s tiny hands reach and grasp the head-sized flagon. As the ale flows, his world slows.
Prince Amos climbs back up the narrow stairwell, his staggering feet slapping on the bright marble floor. A trail of dirt and a whiff of ale mark his intoxicated trail.
The prince wanders through the great hall and into the throne room, which sits empty in white-wash gloom. The alabaster thrones call out silent commands to an absent audience, where a wall of golden guards with bright white cloaks guards the empty thrones. They stand at ease, and beneath their helms, they snort with muffled laughter as their eyes follow the prince’s escape.
The throne room’s huge golden double doors swing open with a loud creak, heralding the arrival of a fat sack of waddling meat. “Ale? You’re eight.” Nanny Slatt rolls into the throne room, seething and exhausted.
Prince Amos, spurred into a new flight, sprints with drunken feet back toward the western courtyard and into the summer’s morning light.
Legions of guards stand, march, and pace armored men follow in heed as steady words govern the decorous peace. The honorable armies of Thiel control their tight formations in iron-clad lines, with heavy infantry and cavalry following behind. Eagle-eyed archers with nocked arrows ready to fly surround the royal blue banners, which flutter high with pride. The royal army swarms in peaceful delight, fully drilled and ready to fight. The prince runs and dodges between man and steed as the soldiers cheer his galloping feet.
The young prince escapes the bright light and creeps into the hushed, long halls, where the western wing thrums with decorous dignity, away from the army’s calls. Every room is rich and divine, blasted in gold and with riches untold. Faithful stewards govern and count, and trustworthy clerks’ scrawl and scribe. The shrewd sovereign magistrates set forth royal decrees amidst eloquent barristers who put disputes to rest. Discreet doctors nod sage farewells, and long-nosed physicians dive into deep leather-bound tomes. Pompous butlers stand in wait for command with eager maids, standing in humble silence, heads bowed and ready to serve.
Prince Amos sneaks towards a quiet room, his little ears prickle to the conversation of a young, gallant barber who blathers with fair words that fall with nauseating flattery.
“Lady Elrich. You are a walking goddess, and no less. You turn every head in the city. Such beauty and glorious locks should be a crime, punishable only by admiration, loyalty, and passionate service.”
“Such fair words of praise for such an accomplished work. Such unfaltering flattery does not fall on deaf ears. I have heard of your passion and artistry, even for a lady of my maturity.” The old noble Lady Elrich runs her manicured fingers through her twists of prudish graying hair. Her arms gracefully fall by her side, her elbows discreetly pushing up her massive bust as she admires herself in the gold-guided mirror.
“Lady Elrich, you surprise me. It would be my pleasure, and I am here to serve. A morning of relaxation, somewhere discreet, where the honor of your sizeable charms would be all mine.” The flattery continues as the dandy barber fans his face with admiring eyes. “I could not shield my eyes from your charms, so big and fine. Of course, for this service, there is no price. However, a discreet donation to aid my simple life would be a very welcome delight.”
Lady Elrich licks her wanting lips, her pushed up bust ready to burst from her fine silks. “Then let it be so. A session of relaxation in my free time. It would be a delight to rest beneath a tall, hard, unfaltering tree. Do not concern yourself; I will look after you more than kindly.”
“Such a rare treat. Of course, the place of rest must be very discreet.” The barber’s voice falls into a conspiratorial whisper in her ear. “There is a door at the very top of the western stairwell, hidden behind the hanging tapestry. A quiet retreat where no soul will listen or speak, or I dare day, even hear any passionate screams.” He breaks out into a fit of cringeworthy, affected laughter. His fingertips fiddle with her locks of gray before his hands drift down to her exposed shoulders. “Should you need to sleep, I’m afraid the room is a little bare, and the bed is exceptionally hard.” His fingertips glide lower than what is deemed respectable behavior. “I fear, Lady Elrich, that after such a restful affair, we will need to redo your beautiful hair. Such a beautiful bun will be easily undone, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a liberally applied waxen spray.”
Lady Elrich’s hands rest on his, urging them down to cup her immodest breasts. Her breath catches as their fingers entwine. “Very hard and bare, you say, with your waxen spray in my hair?” She bites her bottom lip with a shudder. "Any price for this is more than fair."
A careless step sends a faltering vase crashing to the polished floor. Shards of crystal shatter, erupt, and spray as the little prince’s prying ears dash away.
Prince Amos rushes through endless rooms where the decorous are at play. The royal artists blush as their portraits and melodies twinkle in the dawdling air. Their chronicles are voiced with surpassing beauty, well-chosen, and strummed with care.
A beaky nose with beady eyes scouting eyes peers around the corridor corner, then Nanny Slat trundles forward in stroppy pursuit. “The One curse you to Ana’s pit. You wicked little beastling.” She spits out a mouthful of salty sweat.
Prince Amos sprints out of the corridor through an enormous double doorway and into the palace gardens, where he races beneath citrus, willow, and pear. The warmth of the morning sun brushes his face as he bounds over pristine lawns and beds of flowers in full bloom. Their multicolored petals flutter and gleam in a tranquil space like a celestial dream. All is still, save the morning breeze. The prince’s wobbling feet wander on carpets of luscious green lawns, through palace mazes, and toward the orchard trees. He crouches in the tree’s shadow, looming up the sun through the rustling leaves. To his left, golden sunlight shines down onto glorious summer thrones at the heart of the home.
Nanny Slatt comes to stand before the summer thrones; she totters and sways, exhausted. “You’re always hiding from your dear old nanny.” The fat old bird comes to rest, wheezing with labored breaths. Her shuffling trotters lurk and edge as she sniffs at the air. “Come out now. I’m too tired to seek.” She sighs, defeated. “My little princeling, eventually, you will grow out of this wretched game.”
Prince Amos holds his breath as a childish, snorting snigger leaks out of his nose and mouth. He falls onto his back, rolling in the soft green grass, holding his belly in stitches of laughter. His blue bedtime silks cling to matted filth, and his little bare feet kick with glee. The prince’s floppy golden hair blows in the breeze, and his innocent face is flush with strong ale. He grins as his belly rumbles from a hard morning of games and tumbles.
Prince Amos looks up to the palace balcony and beams a mischievous grin at his father, King Adal.