Unseen Academicals

by Terry Pratchett

  ‘Just. Someone. Who. Made. Clothes. Just someone?! I am not anyone. I am Pepe and I don’t make clothes. I create gorgeous works of art that just happen to require a body to show them off as they should be seen. Tailors and dressmakers make clothes. I forge history! Have you heard about micromail?’

  ‘Got yer. Yep,’ said Trev.

  ‘Good,’ said Pepe. ‘Now, what have you heard about micromail?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t chafe.’

  ‘It’s got one or two other little secrets, too . . .’ said Pepe. ‘Anyway, I can’t say I’ve got any time for the wizards, myself. Snooty lot. But it’s not going to be a game out there tomorrow, it’s going to be a war. Do you know a bloke called Andy? Andy Shank?’

  Trev’s heart sank. ‘What’s he gotta do with it?’

  ‘I just heard the name, but I reckon I know the type. Lord Vetinari has done what he wanted. He’s broken the football, but that’s leaving a lot of sharp bits, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘The Watch’ll be there tomorrow,’ said Trev.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this? A street face like you being glad that the Watch is going to be anywhere?’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of people watching.’

  ‘Yeah, won’t that be fun?’ said Pepe. ‘And, you know, there’s people in this city that would watch a beheading and hold their kiddies up for a better view. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m not going to give you an edge, the last thing you’ll want to see tomorrow is an edge. I’ll give you something that’s much better than an edge. After all, you’re Dave Likely’s lad.’

  ‘I’m not playing,’ said Trev. ‘I promised my ol’ mum.’

  ‘You promised your old mum?’ said Pepe. There wasn’t even any attempt to hide the disdain. ‘And you think that makes any difference, do you? You’ve got a star in your hand, lad. You’ll play, all right, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You come along and see me round the back entrance of Shatta, sorry about that, it sounds better in Dwarfish, and kick on the door round about midnight. You can bring a chum with you if you like, but you better bloody well come.’

  ‘Why do I ’ave to kick the door?’ said Trev.

  ‘Because you’ll have a bottle of best brandy in each hand. Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you. I’m protecting my investment and, on the way, that means protecting yours as well. Off you go, boy. You’re late for training. And me? I’m a soddin’ genius!’

  Trev noticed more watchmen around as he headed onwards. They could be absolute bastards if they felt like it, but Sam Vimes had no use for coppers that couldn’t read the streets. The Watch was jumpy.

  Carter used to live in his mum’s cellar until she rented it out to a family of dwarfs, and now he lived in the attic, which baked in the summer and froze in the winter. Carter survived because the walls were insulated with copies of Bows & Ammo, Back Street Pins, Stanley Howler’s Stamp Monthly, Giggles, Girls and Garters, Golem Spotter Weekly, and Fretwork Today. These were only the top layer. In self-defence against the elements, he glued old copies over the larger cracks and holes in the roof. As far as Trev knew, Carter had never persevered beyond a week with any of the hobbies indicated by his rather embarrassing library except, possibly, the one notoriously associated with the centrefolds of Giggles, Girls and Garters.

  Mrs Carter opened the door to him and indicated the stairs with all the hearty welcome and hospitality that mothers extend to their sons’ no-good street friends. ‘He’s been ill,’ she announced, as if it were a matter of interest rather than concern.

  This turned out to be an understatement. One of Carter’s eyes was a technicolor mess and there was a livid scar on his face. It took some time for Trev to find this out because Carter kept telling him to go away, but since the ramshackle door was held shut with a piece of string, the application of Trev’s shoulder had seen to that, at least.

  Trev stared at the boy, who shrank back into his unspeakably dreadful bed as if he was expecting to be hit. He didn’t like Carter. No one liked Carter. It was impossible. Even Mrs Carter, who in theory at least should entertain some lukewarm affability to her son, didn’t like Carter. He was fundamentally unlikeable. It was a sad thing to have to say, but Carter, farting or otherwise, was a wonderful example of charisntma. He could be fine for a day or two and then some utterly stupid comment or off-key joke or entirely inappropriate action would break the spell. But Trev put up with him, seeing in him, perhaps, what Trev might have been had he not been, in fact, Trev. Maybe there was a bit of Carter the Farter in every bloke at some time in his life he had thought, but with Carter it wasn’t just a bit, it was everything.

  ‘What ’appened?’ Trev said.

  ‘Nuffin’.’

  ‘This is Trev. I know about nothin’ ’appenin’. You need to get to the

  hospital with that.’

  ‘It’s worse than it looks,’ Carter moaned.

  Trev cracked. ‘Are you bloody stupid? That cut’s a quarter of an inch from your eye!’

  ‘It was my fault,’ Carter protested. ‘I upset Andy.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see where that’d have been your fault,’ Trev said.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ said Carter.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Well, it was a bloody war, that’s what it was.’

  ‘I found it necessary to spend a little time down the Lat. There was fightin’, wasn’t there?’

  ‘The clubs ’ave signed up to this new football and some people ain’t ’appy.’

  Trev said, ‘Andy?’ and looked at the livid, oozing scar again. Yep, that looked like Andy being unhappy.

  It was hard to feel sorry for someone as basically unlikeable as Carter, but just because he had been born with Kick Me Up The Arse tattooed on to his soul was no reason for doing it. Not to Carter. That was like pulling wings off flies.

  ‘Not just Andy,’ said Carter. ‘There’s Tosher Atkinson and Jimmy the Spoon and Spanner.’

  ‘Spanner?’ said Trev.

  ‘And Mrs Atkinson.’

  ‘Mrs Atkinson? ’

  ‘And Willy Piltdown, Harry Capstick and the Brisket Boys.’

  ‘Them? But we hate them. Andy hates them. They hate Andy. One foot on their turf and you get sent home in a sack!’

  ‘Well, you know what they say,’ said Carter. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my enemy.’

  ‘I think you got that wrong,’ said Trev. ‘But I know what you mean.’

  Trev stared at nothing, utterly aghast. The subjects of that litany of names were Faces. Hugely influential in the world of the teams and, more importantly, among the supporters. They owned the Shove. Pepe had been right. Vetinari thought the captains were in charge and the captains were not in charge. The Shove was in charge and the Faces ran the Shove.19

  ‘There’s going to be a team put together for tomorrow and they’ll try to get as many of them in as possible,’ Carter volunteered.

  ‘Yeah, I heard.’

  ‘They’re going to show Vetinari what they think of his new football.’

  ‘I didn’t hear the name of the Stollops there,’ Trev said.

  ‘I hear their dad’s got them doing choir practice every night,’ said Carter.

  ‘The captains did sign up,’ said Trev, ‘so it’ll look bad for them. But ’ow much do you think Andy and his little chums care ’bout that?’ He leaned forward. ‘Vetinari’s got the Watch, though, ’asn’t he? And you know about the Watch. Okay, so there’s some decent bastards among ’em when you get ’em by theirselves, but if it all goes wahoonie-shaped they’ve got big, big sticks and big, big trolls and they’ve not got to bother too much about who they hit because they’re the Watch, which means it’s all legal. And, if you get ’em really pissed off, they’ll add a charge of damaging their truncheons with your face. And talking of faces, exactly ’ow come you’re a quarter-inch away from being a candidate for a white stick?’

  ‘I told Andy I didn’t think it was a good idea,’ said Carter.
<
br />   Trev couldn’t hide his surprise. Even that much bravery was alien to Carter. ‘Well, as it ’appens, it might be a blessin’ in disguise. You just stay here in bed and you won’t end up stuck between the Old Sam and Andy.’ He stopped because of a rustling noise.

  Since Carter glued pages of his used magazines to the walls with flour-and-water paste, the attic was home to some quite well fed mice, and for some reason, one of them had just gnawed its way to freedom via the chest of last year’s Miss April, thus giving her a third nipple, which was, in fact, staring at Trev and wobbling. It was a sight to put anyone off their tea.

  ‘What’re you goin’ to do?’ said Carter.

  ‘Anything I can,’ said Trev.

  ‘You know Andy’s out to get you? You and that weird bloke.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of Andy,’ said Trev. As a statement, this was entirely true. He was not frightened of Andy. He was mortally terrified to his boots and back again, with a visceral fear that dripped off his ribs like melting snow.

  ‘Everyone’s afraid of Andy, Trev. If they’re smart,’ said Carter.

  ‘Hey, Fartmeister, I’m Trevor Likely!’

  ‘I think you’re goin’ to need a lot more than that.’

  ***

  I am going to need a lot more than that, thought Trev, travelling at speed across the city. If even Pepe knew there was something on the boil, then surely the Old Sam would know too? Oops.

  He sprinted quickly to the horse bus’s rear platform and landed in the road before the conductor was anywhere near. If they didn’t catch you on the bus then they couldn’t catch you at all, and while they were issued with those big shiny choppers to deter non-paying passengers, everyone knew that a) they were too scared to use them and b) the amount of trouble they would get into if they actually whacked a respectable member of society did not bear thinking of.

  He darted through the alley into Cockbill Street, spotted another bus plodding its way in the right direction, jumped on to the running board and held on. He was lucky this time. The conductor gave him a look and then very carefully did not see him.

  By the time he reached the big junction known as Five Ways, he had travelled almost the width of the city at an average speed faster than walking pace and had hardly had to run very far at all. A near perfect result for Trev Likely, who wouldn’t walk if he could ride.

  And there, right in front of him, was the Hippo. It used to be a racetrack until all that was moved up to the far end of Ankh. Now, it was just a big space that every large town needs for markets, fairs, the occasional insurrection and, of course, the increasingly popular cart-tail sales, which were very fashionable with people who wanted to buy their property back.

  It was full today, without even a stolen shovel to be seen. All over the field, people were kicking footballs about. Trevor relaxed a little. There were pointy hats in the distance and no one seemed to be doing any murder.

  ‘Wotcher, howya doing?’

  He adjusted his eyeline down a little bit. ‘How’s it goin’, Throat?’

  ‘I’m hearing you’re kind of associated with Unseen Academicals,’ said Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the city’s most enterprising but inexplicably least successful businessman.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to sell pies?’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah,’ said Dibbler. ‘Too many amateurs here today. My pies aren’t just knocked up out of rubbish for a load of drunken old football fans.’

  ‘So your pies are for—?’ Trev left the question hanging in the air with a noose on the end of it.

  ‘Anyway, pies are so yesterday,’ said Dibbler dismissively. ‘I am on the ground floor of football memorabilityness.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Like genuine autographed team jerseys and that sort of thing. I mean, look here.’ Dibbler produced from the large tray around his neck a smaller version of what one of the new gloing! gloing! footballs would be if it were about a half of the size and had been badly carved out of wood. ‘See those white patches? That’s so they can be signed by the team.’

  ‘You’re goin’ to get them signed, are you?’

  ‘Well, no, I think people would like to get that done themselves. The personal touch, you know what I mean?’

  ‘So they’re actually just painted balls of wood and nothin’ else?’ said Trev.

  ‘But authentic!’ said Dibbler. ‘Just like the shirts. Want one? Five dollars to you, and that’s cutting me own throat.’ He produced a skimpy red cotton item and waved it enticingly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your team colours, right?’

  ‘Two big yellow Us on the front?’ said Trev. ‘That’s wrong! Ours has got two little Us interlocked on the left breast like a badge. Very stylish.’

  ‘Pretty much the same,’ said Dibbler airily. ‘No one’ll notice. And I had to keep the price down for the kiddies.’

  He leaned closer. ‘Anything you can tell me about the game tomorrow, Trev? Looks like the teams are putting together a tough squad. Vetinari’s not going to get it all his own way for once?’

  ‘We’ll play a good game, you’ll see,’ said Trev.

  ‘Right! Can’t lose with a Likely playing, right?’

  ‘I just help around the place. I’m not playin’. I promised my ol’ mum after Dad died.’

  Dibbler looked around at the crowded stadium of the Hippo. He appeared to have something else on his mind other than the need for the next dollar. ‘What happens if your lot lose?’ he said.

  ‘It’s only a game,’ said Trev.

  ‘Ah, but Vetinari’s got his reputation based on it.’

  ‘It’s a game. One side wins, one side loses. Just a game.’

  ‘A lot of people aren’t thinking like that,’ said Dibbler. ‘Things always come out well for Vetinari,’ he went on, staring at the sky. ‘And that’s the magic, see? Everyone thinks he always gets it right. What do you think will happen if he gets things wrong?’

  ‘It’s just a game, Throat, only a game . . . Be seein’ you.’ Trev wandered onwards. People were putting up tiers of wooden stands on one side of the arena, and because this was Ankh-Morpork, when two or more people gathered together thousands turned up just to wonder why.

  And there was Mr Ponder Stibbons, sitting at a long table with some of the football captains. Oh, yes, the Rules Committee. There had been talk about that. Even with the rules written down, and half of them as old as the game itself, there were a few things that had to be made clear. He arrived in time to hear Ponder say, ‘Look, you can’t have a situation in the new game where people hang around right next to the other team’s goal.’

  ‘Worked all right before,’ said one of the captains.

  ‘Yes, but the ball flies. One really good kick would send it down half the length of the Hippo. If someone gets that right the goalkeeper wouldn’t have a chance.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying,’ said Mr Stollop, who had become a kind of spokesman for the captains, ‘is that there’s got to be two blokes from team A in front of a bloke from team B before he scores?’

  ‘Yes, that’s about right,’ said Ponder stiffly, ‘but one of them is the goalkeeper.’

  ‘So, what happens if one of them fellers nips past him downfield before he kicks the ball?’

  ‘Then he will be what is traditionally known as off his side,’ said Ponder.

  ‘Off his head, more like,’ said one of the captains. And since this had the same shape as humour, it got a laugh. ‘If that’s true, you could end up with loads of blokes rushing past one another, all trying to get the other poor buggers into an unlawful position without any of the poor devils moving, right?’

  ‘Nevertheless, we are standing by this rule. We have tried it out. It allows for free movement on the field. In the old game it wasn’t unusual for players to bring their lunch and a copy of Girls, Giggles and Garters and just wait for the ball to come along.’

  ‘Hello, Trev, how are you getting on?’ It was Andy, and he wa
s standing behind Trev.

  There must be a thousand people here today, Trev thought in a curiously slow and blissful sort of way. And a lot of watchmen. I can see a couple of them from here. Andy isn’t going to try anything right here, is he?

  Well, yes, he might, because that’s what made him Andy. The little bee that buzzed in his brain might bang against the wrong bit and he would carve your face off. Oh, yes, and there was Tosher Atkinson and his mum, strolling about as if out for a walk.

  ‘Haven’t seen you about much lately, Trev,’ said Andy. ‘Been busy, I suspect?’

  ‘I thought you were lyin’ low?’ said Trev hopelessly.

  ‘Well, you know what they say. Sooner or later all sins are forgiven.’

  In your case, quite a bit later, Trev thought.

  ‘Besides,’ said Andy, ‘I’m turning over a new leaf, ain’t I?’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Got out of the Shove,’ said Andy. ‘Gotta put aside my scallywag ways. Time to fit in.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Trev, waiting for the knife.

  ‘So I’m a key player for Ankh-Morpork United.’ It wasn’t a knife, but it had a rather similar effect. ‘Apparently his lordship gave them the idea,’ Andy said, still speaking in the same greasy, friendly tone. ‘Of course, no one wants to be the team playing you wizards. So there is, like, a new one just for the occasion.’

  ‘I thought you never played?’ said Trev weakly.

  ‘Ah, but that was in the bad old days before football was open to more individual effort and enterprise. See this shirt?’ he said.

  Trev looked down. He hadn’t thought much about what the man was wearing, just that he was there.

  ‘White with blue trim,’ said Andy cheerfully. ‘Very snazzy.’ He turned around. The numeral 1 was on the back in blue with the name Andy Shank above it. ‘My idea. Very sensible. Means we’ll know who we are from the back.’

  ‘And I told your wizards that your gentlemen ought to do the same,’ said Mrs Atkinson, surely one of the most feared Faces who had ever wielded a sharpened umbrella with malice aforethought. Grown men would back away from Mrs Atkinson, otherwise grown men bled.