His audience tried to avoid looking at one another's faces.

“I thought you'd be pl-eased,” said Edward.

Finally, Lord Rust voiced the unspoken consensus. There was no room in those true-blue eyes for pity, which was not a survival trait, but sometimes it was possible to risk a little kindness.

“Edward,” he said, “the last king of Ankh-Morpork died centuries ago.”

“Executed by t-raitors!”

“Even if a descendant could still be found, the royal blood would be somewhat watered down by now, don't you think?”

“The royal b-lood cannot be wa-tered down!”

Ah, thought Lord Rust. So he's that kind. Young Edward thinks the touch of a king can cure scrofula, as if royalty was the equivalent of a sulphur ointment. Young Edward thinks that there is no lake of blood too big to wade through to put a rightful king on a throne, no deed too base in defence of a crown. A romantic, in fact.

Lord Rust was not a romantic. The Rusts had adapted well to Ankh-Morpork's post-monarchy centuries by buying and selling and renting and making contacts and doing what aristocrats have always done, which is trim sails and survive.

“Well, maybe,” he conceded, in the gentle tones of someone trying to talk someone else off a ledge, “but we must ask ourselves: does Ankh-Morpork, at this point in time, require a king?”

Edward looked at him as though he were mad.

“Need? Need? While our fair city languishes under the heel of the ty-rant?”

“Oh. You mean Vetinari.”

“Can't you see what he's done to this city?”

“He is a very unpleasant, jumped-up little man,” said Lady Selachii, “but I would not say he actually terrorizes much. Not as such.”

“You have to hand it to him,” said Viscount Skater, “the city operates. More or less. Fellas and whatnot do things.”

“The streets are safer than they used to be under Mad Lord Snapcase,” said Lady Selachii.

“Sa-fer? Vetinari set up the Thieves' Guild!” shouted Edward.