behooves all decent men to nearly stand up and be almost heard ...
But no one said anything. The cowards, each man thought.
And no one touched the pudding, or the brick-thick chocolate mints served afterwards. They just listened in flushed, gloomy horror as Wonse's voice droned on, and when they were dismissed they tried to leave as separately as possible, so that they didn't have to talk to one another.
Except for the head merchant, that is. He found himself leaving the palace with the chief assassin, and they strolled side by side, minds racing. The chief merchant tried to look on the bright side; he was one of those men who organise sing-songs when things go drastically wrong.
'Well, well,' he said. 'So we're privy councillors now. Just fancy.''
'Hmm,' said the assassin.
'I wonder what's the difference between ordinary councillors and privy councillors?' wondered the merchant aloud.
The assassin scowled at him. 'I think,' he said, 'it is because you're expected to eat shit.'
He turned the glare back on his feet again. What kept going through his mind were Wonse's last words, as he shook the secretary's limp hand. He wondered if anyone else had heard them. Unlikely . . . they'd been a shape rather than a sound. Wonse had simply moved his lips around them while staring fixedly at the assassin's moon-tanned face.
Help. Me.
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