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"
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
.
