Guards! Guards!

the Archchancellor of Unseen University. “You will be—that is, I am sure the king is aware that, traditionally, the University is exempt from all city levies and taxes…”
    He stifled a yawn. The wizards had spent the night directing their best spells against the dragon. It was like punching fog.
    “My dear sir, this is no levy,” protested Wonse. “I hope that nothing I have said would lead you to expect anything like that. Oh, no! No. Any tribute should be, as I said, entirely voluntary. I hope that is absolutely clear.”
    “As crystal,” said the head assassin, glaring at the old wizard. “And these entirely voluntary tributes we are about to make, they go—?”
    “On the hoard,” said Wonse.
    “Ah.”
    “While I am positive the people of the city will be very generous indeed once they fully understand the situation,” said the head merchant, “I am sure the king will understand that there is very little gold in Ankh-Morpork?”
    “Good point,” said Wonse. “However, the king intends to pursue a vigorous and dynamic foreign policy which should remedy matters.”
    “Ah,” the councillors chorused, rather more enthusiastically this time.
    “For example,” Wonse went on, “the king feels that our legitimate interests in Quirm, Sto Lat, Pseudopolis and Tsort have been seriously compromised in recent centuries. This will be speedily corrected and, gentlemen, I can assure you that treasure will positively flow into the city from those anxious to enjoy the king’s protection.”
    The head assassin glanced at the hoard. A very definite idea formed in his mind as to where all that treasure would end up. You had to admire the way dragons knew how to put the bite on. It was practically human.
    “Oh,” he said.
    “Of course, there will probably be other acquisitions in the way of land, property and so forth, and the king wishes it to be fully understood that loyal Privy Councillors will be richly rewarded.”
    “And, er,” said the head assassin, who was beginning to feel that he had got a firm grip on the nature of the king’s mental processes, “no doubt the, er—”
    “Privy Councillors,” said Wonse.
    “No doubt they will respond with even greater generosity in the matter of, for example, treasure?”
    “I am sure such considerations haven’t crossed the king’s mind,” said Wonse, “but the point is very well made.”
    “I thought it would be.”
    The next course was fat pork, beans and floury potatoes. More, as they couldn’t help noticing, fattening food.
    Wonse had a glass of water.
    “Which brings us onto a further matter of some delicacy which I am sure that well-traveled, broadminded gentlemen such as yourselves will have no difficulty in accepting,” he said. The hand holding the glass was beginning to shake.
    “I hope it will also be understood by the population at large, especially since the king will undoubtedly be able to contribute in so many ways to the well-being and defense of the city. For example, I am sure that the people will rest more contentedly in their beds knowing that the dr—the king is tirelessly protecting them from harm. There can, however, be ridiculous ancient…prejudices…which will only be eradicated by ceaseless work…on the part of all men of good will.”
    He paused, and looked at them. The head assassin said later that he had looked into the eyes of many men who, obviously were very near death, but he had never looked into eyes that were so clearly and unmistakably looking back at him from the slopes of Hell. He hoped he would never, he said, ever have to look into eyes like that again.
    “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