'Ah. Kings can cure that, you know,' said another protomonarchist knowingly.
'As a matter of fact,' said Throat, rummaging in his pack, 'I've got one bottle left of this astonishing ointment what is made…' he glared at Carrot,'…by some ancient monks who live on a mountain…'
'And they can't answer back, you know,' the monarchist went on. 'That's how you can tell they're royal. Completely incapable of it. It's to do with being gracious.'
'Fancy,' said the leaky-guttering woman.
'Money, too,' said the monarchist, enjoying the attention. 'They don't carry it. That's how you can always tell a king.'
'Why? It's not that heavy,' said the man whose remaining hair was spread across the dome of his head like the remnant of a defeated army. 'I can carry hundreds of dollars, no problem.'
'You probably get weak arms, being a king,' said the woman wisely. 'Probably with the waving.'
'I've always thought,' said the monarchist, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it with the ponderous air of one who is going to deliver a lecture, 'that one of the major problems of being a king is the risk of your daughter getting a prick.'
There was a thoughtful pause.
'And falling asleep for a hundred years,' the monarchist went on stolidly.
'Ah,' said the others, unaccountably relieved.
'And then there's wear and tear on peas,' he added.
'Well, there would be,' said the woman, uncertainly.
'Having to sleep on them all the time,' said the monarchist.
'Not to mention hundreds of mattresses.'
'Right.'
'Is that so? I think I could get 'em for him wholesale,' said Throat. He turned to Vimes, who had been listening to all this with leaden depression. 'See, Captain? And you'd be in the royal guard, I expect. Get some plumes in your helmet.'
'Ah, pageantry,' said the monarchist, pointing with his pipe. 'Very important. Lots of
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