When it was said that Lilian Emelot was only responsible for the choice of flowers, they were completely wrong. Lilian Emelot also provided the most wonderful, lavish, chicest, perfect dinner you could imagine.The royal dining room had a Quinsbury's accent that she glossed over depending on the circumstances. If you had just returned from a holiday to Egypt, she would have had the entire room filled with sand and placed mini palm trees on the tables. From Oeloeloe? Uloean flower wreaths greeted you as well as southern cocktails at a wicker cocktail bar. Something more to do with Fritne? Then there was a Fri tower in the hall and you ate oat bread, bitter sausage and drank wine. But now that the entire Courtly Functional Bourgeoisie had come to listen to the king's autumn speech, Lilian had a flower arrangement made in the shape of the state house and an image of the Ythsan flag as an umbrella stand. She had the entire palace scrubbed, polished and polished down to the smallest detail by the Courtly cleaning service, took the curtains and tablecloths to the laundry, had the Courtly polishers shine the porcelain tableware with a golden shine, made miraculous orange flower bouquets and placed 86 scented candles for the conviviality. A professional chef prepared the caviar, the deep-sea scallops, the royal liver pate, wild boar fillet drizzled with Oeloean berry sauce and dishes whose names were too fancy to pronounce. Lilian spent five hours at the Courtly manicure and pedicure, had a stunning haircut and bought an orange-colored dress costing more than 3,000 byts (Ythsaan money) with diamonds at the neck. Makeup, which made her look 23 instead of a 56-year-old filthy rich great-aunt, almost made her a queen.While Robert arrived with the last flower arrangement, Lilian ordered the dining room to be turned upside down for the fourth time. The ceiling was even painted because she thought it was no longer as powder pink as before and after a long consultation, three tiles of marble were placed at the door because the first step inside on the plank floor was perhaps a bit too vulgar, as an entrance. The garden was taken care of incredibly well by professional courtly gardeners, who struggled for a moment because everything was completely soaked from the rain. Finally, Lilian Emelot placed the Courtly reception committee at the gate and waited with a beautiful smile for the entire Courtly Functional Bourgeoisie.
'... And that is why, dear compatriots, I let the cornfields rise like my people who sway in the wind and shine in the sun. Those who have money, fame and wealth will provide dignity to those, the poor, as a sign of sincere loyalty to each other. Live in everyone's footsteps and let your life be part of this magical universe, unfathomably evolved towards human well-being, hence society is...'
Robert Veracker struggled against the terrible sleep that crept dormantly through his head and allowed his eyelids to slip into rest for a single second. He had gotten up before sunrise this morning to get Lilian's last flower arrangement to the royal palace in time before the first guests arrived. Before that he had slept extremely poorly in a wet bed with the sound of rain in iron buckets placed here and there under the holes in the attic roof.
"Veracker!" A harsh male voice that sounded suspiciously like the voice of the military chief of his department tore him from his silence. In a flash, his eyes shot open, his heart skipped a beat in alarm, and he fatally lost his balance. The too-tight yellow wellies groaned as his tired body veered to one side, staggering to stay upright, and he clutched frantically at Madam Haclaire's satin evening dress. To make matters worse, in his fall he tore the silver daffodil from its beautiful plumage. Screaming, she flew to the ground, tried to maintain her prestige for a while by seeking support from the cloak of the Courtly pastor, but in this way also dragged the gullible man into her downfall.
Majesty Henri Lodehart of Yths stopped his long-winded explanation about society and watched in amazement as Robert Veracker made Madam Haclaire scream, how the Courtly pastor threw himself on the ground and at the very last moment grabbed hold of the train of Madame Laila, who screaming, flying around her husband's neck. The poor man started waving his arms in panic, mowing the Honorable and five lawyers to the ground. An entire colony of ladies-in-waiting took off running straight through the hall. They ran with their plumage running around like a runaway chicken coop and threw themselves at the police force, screaming. They tried in vain to keep their balance by grasping the red velvet curtains that were going to their doom with their sticks and all, and engaged in battle with everyone who was still standing. A school director ended up sprawled on the floor, while the monks babbled prayers before they got to see the marble floor tiles up close.
'Insane!' the royal pacer shouted happily and pressed the stop button on his state-of-the-art pace-timetool.
'Your Majesty, in 48 seconds, ¾ of the Courtly Functional Bourgeoisie lies on the tiles of your throne room, my lord. A record!'
The royal old man had almost thrown his crown against the head of his pacer when he changed his mind and tore the piccolo whistle from the hands of a Courtly Tierlantine and blew on it loudly. In an instant everyone remained motionless in their position, standing, sitting, lying or hanging. Stretched out on the floor, tangled in the heavy curtains or half-stumbling, everyone stared at the king, who looked around wildly. Here and there there was a final thud or groan of someone falling. Pepin the Tierlantine, Court jester, looked dismayed at his piccolo flute that the king was holding tremblingly.
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The councilor who sat next to the majesty stood up and coughed: 'Let everyone help each other to their feet, arrange themselves and tidy up the throne room, then proceed to the dining room, awaiting the second part of the dinner and the speech, which will depend on the circumstances. is postponed for a few minutes and allows the perpetrator of this havoc to come forward.'
"Veracker!" the military chief shouted, as Robert groaned as he tried to get out of the crowd of lawyers.
Madam Haclaire stumbled to her feet, pushed through the panting crowd to the perpetrator, and gave him her most disapproving look. She snatched her silver daffodil from his hands, smacked his face scornfully, and pushed him toward the stage. Robert swallowed as he saw the entire Courtly Functional Citizenry disperse in disdain and ease his way to the king. The people shuffled to the exit, muttering angrily, and headed for the dining rooms.
The pacer diligently calculated their stumbling speed and recorded the results with delight. He had once again taken his job to heart, as a proud member of the royal staff. Excellent pacers were as rare as snow in the sun. They were born as talkative children, who rattled off their tunes at lightning speed and took hours to apologize when they made a mistake. At the age of 5, she memorized dictionaries from front to back and vice versa in 25 different gears. Those who proved to be truly excellent and succeeded in the entrance auditions of the pace setter academy could enter training for the 12-member corps of court pace setters in the country. As a final exam, one had to read His Majesty's 28-part royal social speeches at 3046 different speeds, varying between 5.5 minutes and 4 hours. A profession that has already had its tongue tied several times.
When everyone had finally reached the dining room, the pacer had gone to get a cup of tea for the king in 56 seconds and 35 hundredths and the counselor had smoothed the curtains, the king sighed so loudly that the curtains flew back from their folds.
"Veracker is an irresponsible member of the Courtly Functional Citizenship," the councilor growled, looking askance at the even more crooked curtains.'
He is being irresponsible and confusing. I doubt, my lord, whether he still fits into this picture.'
The king adjusted his gold rings, turned up his nose and looked doubtfully at the curtain rods, as if they might give way again at any moment.
"He's just a jack of all trades, Siel."
"And he broke the late record last week!" added the pacer, beaming.
'That's exactly why!' the councilor convinced them that he was right. 'His colleague, Janus, who, like him, is on the lowest rung of the Courtly Functional Citizenry and even lives in the same house as him, carries out his duties thoroughly and correctly, arrives no more than 5 minutes late, always listens attentively to your speeches, Lord, and does not cause everyone to end up on the ground in less than a minute. Veracker doesn't belong here, he's a brat, a simple soul without respect or order!'
"And yet, like every member, we desperately need him," said the king, sipping his tea.
"I highly doubt that!"
"Maybe we can discuss this matter with him, I can certainly find an opening," the pacer suggested and took out his red, shiny pocket diary. "5 minutes and 36 seconds will be enough, don't you think?" And he scribbled the appointment on the already crowded page.
The councilor sighed. 'And yet I still maintain that he is a disgrace to the whole court! Siel slowly stroked his frilly cape. He felt the purple riot of fire bubbling in his head and had to restrain himself from letting the flames burst out past his pointy ears. Siel was one of the rare night elves, an elf who lived far longer than any human from Yths and possessed exceptional gifts. They never slept but only occasionally closed their eyes to study the inside of their heads. They were almost as physically strong as the buroons but at least two meters tall and much more intelligent. They had acquired human language and customs centuries ago in order to live among humans and benefit from their wealth. The rare night elves were either members of the Courtly Functional Citizenship or lived in wealthy Agriar. The only downside was the aggression problem that every night elf suffered from. When people attacked the honor of Yths or did other stupid things, purple riot fire bubbled up from their chest and rose to their heads in an instant. Siel had had to isolate himself several times in the iron room of the palace to let the fire come out in hot spewing streams.
In principle, a night elf can catch fire with his hands and direct it at the enemy, but it was included in Court law that a night elf was sentenced to wear a metal helmet and shackles on his ankles and wrists when he lit fire in public. It was a safety precept that the people had invoked to avoid being burned alive when a night elf lost his temper. Siel tried to let the riot fire sink back into his chest even though he would have happily set Robert Veracker on fire.
Robert stared in amazement at the scene that was all about him, even though he apparently wasn't there. He cast his most striking glance at the king in the hope that he would realize that he was just standing there and staring. In vain.
A last sip of cherry tea disappeared down the royal throat. 'And I maintain that he can still be of great service to us!'
'And I maintain that,' babbled the speedster, a little too fast to be audible, 'that he sets the most fantastic times during his working hours!'
Robert turned around as politely as possible and decided to go apologize to Madam Haclaire and then pay her tailor. He shuffled to the dining room, his heart sinking with every step as he thought of the expensive bills the Court tailors had in store for him today.
The three Courtly gentlemen of Lilian's reception committee opened the doors of the throne room and instructed Edgard, who was leaning against the doorpost in a bored manner, to call the people back in for the second part of the royal speech.