'I am referring,' said Wonse, each word coming slowly to the surface like bubbles in some quicksand, 'to the matter of ... the king's . . . diet.'
There was a terrible silence. They heard the faint rustle of wings behind them, and the shadows in the corners of the hall grew darker and seemed to close in.
'Diet,' said the head thief, in a hollow voice.
'Yes,' said Wonse. His voice was almost a squeak. Sweat was dripping down his face. The head assassin had once heard the word 'rictus' and wondered when you should use it correctly to describe someone's expression, and now he knew. That was what Wonse's face had become; it was the ghastly rictus of someone trying not to hear the words his own mouth was saying.
'We, er, we thought,' said the head assassin, very carefully, 'that the dr… the king, well, must have been arranging matters for himself, over the weeks.'
'Ah, but poor stuff, you know. Poor stuff. Stray animals and so forth,' said Wonse, staring hard at the tabletop. 'Obviously, as king, such makeshifts are no longer appropriate.'
The silence grew and took on a texture. The councillors thought hard, especially about the meal they had just eaten. The arrival of a huge trifle with a lot of cream on it only served to concentrate their minds.
'Er,' said the head merchant, 'how often is the king hungry?'
'All the time,' said Wonse, 'but it eats once a month. It is really a ceremonial occasion.'
'Of course,' said the head merchant. 'It would be.'
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