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'Fairly straightforward,' he said, thinking quickly. 'A case of mortis portalis tackulatum with complications.'
'What's that mean?' said Chidder.
'In .'
'But he's still breathing!'
'These are just reflex actions that might easily confuse the layman,' said the doctor airily.

Chidder sighed. He suspected that the Guild, who after all had an unrivalled experience of sharp knives and complex organic compounds, was much better at elementary diagnostics than were the doctors. The Guild might kill people, layman's terms,' the doctor sniffed, 'he's as dead as a doornail.' 'What are the complications?' The doctor looked shifty. 'He's still breathing,' he said. 'Look, his pulse is nearly humming and he's got a temperature you could fry eggs on.' He hesitated, aware that this was probably too straightforward and easily understood; medicine was a new art on the Disc, and wasn't going to get anywhere if people could understand it. 'Pyrocerebrum ouerf culinaire,' he said, after working it out in his head. 'Well, what can you do about it?' said Arthur. 'Nothing. He's dead. All the medical tests prove it. So, er . . . bury him, keep him nice and cool, and tell him to come and see me next week. In daylight, for preference