Unseen Academicals d-37

by Terry Pratchett

  There was general laughter at this lame joke, but the plain fact was that right now they would have laughed at a paper bag.

  ‘This will be a proper football match, gentlemen, no trickery, only skills,’ said the Patrician, his voice sharp again. ‘And on that note I am decreeing a new code, based on the hallowed and traditional rules of football so recently rediscovered, but including many familiar ones of more recent usage. The office of referee is there to ensure obedience to the rules. There must be rules, my friends. There must be. There is no game without rules. No rules, no game.’

  And there it was. No one else seemed to notice, through the fumes, the razor blade glittering for a moment in the candyfloss. Rules? thought Glenda. What are these new rules? I never knew there were rules. But Lord Vetinari’s assistant, whoever he was, was quietly putting a few sheets of paper in front of each man.

  She remembered old Stollop’s bafflement when confronted with a mere envelope. Some of them could read, surely? But how many of them could read now?

  His lordship had not finished. ‘Finally, gentlemen, I would like you to peruse and sign the copies of the rules Mister Drumknott has given you. And now I understand the Archchancellor and his colleagues are looking forward to seeing you in the Uncommon Room for cigars and, I believe, an exceptionally rare brandy!’

  Well, that would about wrap it up, wouldn’t it? The footballers were used to just beer. To be fair, they were used to lots of just beer. Nevertheless, if she was any judge, and she was pretty good, they would now be very nearly falling-down drunk. Although some seasoned captains could stand up for some time while being, technically, falling-down drunk. And there is nothing more embarrassing than seeing a falling-down drunk except for when it is a falling-down drunk who is still standing up. And that was amazing: the captains were the type of men who drank in quarts, and could belch the national anthem and bend steel bars with their teeth, or even somebody else’s teeth. Okay, they had never had much in the way of schooling, but why did they have to be so dumb?

  ‘Tell me,’ murmured Ridcully to Vetinari as they watched the guests file out unsteadily, ‘are you behind the discovery of the urn?’

  ‘We have known one another for quite some time, Mustrum, have we not,’ said Vetinari, ‘and as you know, I would not lie to you.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘Well, of course I would lie to you in acceptable circumstances, but on this occasion I can truthfully say that the discovery of the urn came as a surprise to me as well, albeit a pleasant one. Indeed, I assumed that you gentlemen had had something to do with it.’

  ‘We didn’t even know it was there,’ said Ridcully. ‘Personally, I suspect that religion is involved.’

  Vetinari smiled. ‘Well, of course, classically, gods play with the fates of men, so I suppose there is no reason why it shouldn’t be football. We play and are played and the best we can hope for is to do it with style.’

  It might have been possible to cut the air in the Uncommon Room with a knife, had anyone been able to find a knife. Or hold a knife the right way if found. From the point of view of the wizards, it was business as usual, but while a number of captains were being wheeled away in a wheelbarrow, thoughtfully stationed there earlier in the evening, there were enough visitors still standing to make for a damp, hot hubbub. In an unregarded corner, the Patrician and the two Archchancellors had found a space where they could relax unheeded in the big chairs and settle a few matters.

  ‘You know, Henry,’ said Vetinari to the former Dean, ‘I think it would be a very good idea if you were to referee the match.’

  ‘Oh, come on! I think that would be most unfair,’ said Ridcully.

  ‘To whom, pray?’

  ‘Well, er,’ said Ridcully. ‘There could be a question of rivalry between wizards.’

  ‘But on the other hand,’ said Vetinari, his voice all smoothness, ‘it might also be said that, for political reasons, another wizard would have a vested interest in not allowing a fellow Archmage to be seen to be bested by people who, despite their often amazing talents, skills, features and histories, are nevertheless lumped together in the term ordinary people.’

  Ridcully raised a very big brandy glass in the general direction of the edge of the universe. ‘I have every faith in my friend Henry,’ he said. ‘Even though he’s a little bit on the tubby side.’

  ‘Oh, unfair!’ snapped Henry. ‘A large man may be quite light on his feet. Is there any chance of me having the poisoned dagger?’

  ‘In these modern times,’ said Vetinari, ‘I’m sorry to say that a whistle of some sort will have to suffice.’

  At which point someone tried to slap Vetinari on the back.

  It happened with remarkable speed and ended possibly even faster than it began, with Vetinari still seated in his chair with his beer mug in one hand and the man’s wrist gripped tightly at head height. He let go and said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘You’re that Lord Veterinary, ain’t ya? I seed you on them postage stamps.’

  Ridcully glanced up. Some of Lord Vetinari’s clerks were briskly heading towards them, along with some of the slurred speaker’s friends, who could be defined at this point as people who were slightly more sober than he was and right now were sobering up very, very fast, because when you have just slapped a tyrant on the back you need all the friends you can get.

  Vetinari nodded at his gentlemen, who evaporated back into the crowd, and then he snapped his fingers at one of the waiters. ‘A chair here, please, for my new friend.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Ridcully, as a chair was pushed under the man who, by happy coincidence, was falling backwards in any case.

  ‘I mean,’ said the man, ‘everary one saysh you’re a bit of a wnacker, but I saysh you’re awright over thish football fing. ’Sno future in jus’ shlogging away. I should know, I got kicked inna head quite a few times.’

  ‘Really?’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Swithin, shir,’ said the man.

  ‘Any other name, by any chance?’ said Vetinari.

  ‘Dustworthy,’ he said. He raised a finger in a kind of salute. ‘Captain, the Cockbill Boars.’

  ‘Ah, you aren’t having a good season,’ said Vetinari. ‘You need fresh blood in the squad, especially since Jimmy Wilkins got put into the Tanty after eating someone’s nose. Naphill walked all over you because you lost your backbone when both of the Pinchpenny brothers were taken to the Lady Sybil, and you’ve been stuck down in the mud for three seasons. Okay, everyone says that Harry Capstick is making a very good showing since you bought him from Treacle Mine Tuesday for two crates of Winkle’s Old Peculiar and a sack of pork scratchings, which is not bad for a man with a wooden leg, but there’s never anyone in support.’

  A circle of silence spread outwards from Vetinari and the swaying Swithin. Ridcully’s mouth had dropped open and Henry’s brandy glass remained half empty, an unusual occurrence for a glass that’s been in the hands of a wizard for more than fifteen seconds.

  ‘Also, I’m hearing that your pies are leaving a lot to be desired, such as dead, cooked, organic content,’ continued Vetinari. ‘Can’t get the Shove behind you when the pies are seen to walk about.’

  ‘My ladsh,’ said Swithin, ‘are the besht there ish. It’sh not their fault they’re up againsht better people. They never getsh a chance to play shomeone they can beat. They alwaysh gives it one hundred and twenty pershent and you can’t give more than that. Anyhow, how come you know all this shtuff? It’s not like we’re big in the league.’

  ‘Oh, I take an interest,’ said Vetinari. ‘I believe that football is a lot like life.’

  ‘There ish that, shir, there ish that. You does your besht and then shomeone kicksh you inna fork.’

  ‘Then I strongly advise you to take an interest in our new football,’ said Vetinari, ‘which will be about speed, skill and thinking.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right, I can do all them,’ said Swithin, at which point he fell off his chair.


  ‘Does this poor man have any friends here?’ said Vetinari, turning to the crowd.

  There was some diffidence among them concerning whether or not it was a good idea to be friends with Swithin at this point.

  Vetinari raised his voice: ‘I would just like a couple of people to take him back to his home. I would like them to put him to bed and see that no trouble comes to him. Perhaps they ought to stay with him until morning too, because he just might try to commit suicide when he wakes up.’

  ‘New Dawn For Football’ said the Times when Glenda picked it up the next morning. As was its wont when it was reporting something it thought was particularly important, the paper’s headline was followed by two others in descending sizes of font: ‘Footballers Sign Up For The New Game’ was on the next line down and then on the next ‘New Balls A Success’.

  To Glenda’s surprise and dismay, Juliet still had a place on the front page, with the picture of her used smaller than yesterday, under the headline ‘Mystery Lady Vanishes’, and a paragraph which simply said that no one had seen the mystery model, Jewels, since her debut (Glenda had to look this one up) two days ago. Honestly, she thought, not finding somebody is news? And she was surprised that there was room for even this, since most of the front page was dedicated to the football, but the Times liked to start several stories on the front page and then, just when they were getting interesting, whisk them off to page 35, or somewhere, to end their days behind the crossword and the permanent advert for surgical trusses.

  The leader column inside was headed ‘Score One For Vetinari’. Glenda never normally read the leader column because there was only a certain number of times she was prepared to see the word ‘however’ used in a 120-word article.

  She read the front-page story at first glumly and then with rising anger. Vetinari had done it. He had got them drunk and the fools had signed away their football for a pale variety cooked up by the palace and the university. Of course, minds are never quite that simple. She had to admit to herself that she hated the stupidity of the present game. She hated the idiot fighting and mindless shoving, but it was hers to hate. It was something that people themselves had put together and rickety and stupid though it was, it was theirs. And now the nobs were again picking up something that wasn’t theirs and saying how wonderful it was. The old football was going to be banned. That was another little razor blade in Lord Vetinari’s alcoholic candyfloss.

  She was also deeply suspicious about the urn, the picture of which, for some reason, was still on her kitchen table. Since what was claimed to be the original rules was written in an ancient language, how could anyone other than a nob know what they meant? She ran her eye down the description of the new rules. Some of the rules of old street football had survived in there like monsters from another era. She recognized one that she had always liked: the ball shall be called the ball. The ball is the ball that is played as the ball by any three consecutive players, at which point it is the ball. She’d loved it when she first read it for the sheer stupidity of its phraseology. Apparently, it had been added on a day, centuries ago, when an unfortunately severed head had rolled into play and had rather absent-mindedly replaced the ball currently in play on account of some body, formerly belonging to the head, now lying on the original ball. That kind of thing stuck in the memory, especially because after the match the owner of the head was credited with scoring the winning goal.

  That rule and a few others stood out as remnants of a vanished glory in the list of Lord Vetinari’s new regulations. A few nods at the old game had been left in as a kind of sop to public opinion. He should not be allowed to get away with it. Just because he was a tyrant and capable of having just about anybody killed on a whim, people acted as if they were scared of him. Someone ought to tell him off. The world had turned upside down several times. She hadn’t quite got her bearings, but making sure that Lord Vetinari did not get away with it was suddenly very important. It was up to the people to decide when they were being stupid and old-fashioned; it wasn’t up to nobs to tell them what to do.

  With great determination she put on her coat over her apron and, after a moment’s thought, took two freshly made Jammy Devils from her cupboard. Where a battering ram cannot work, really good shortcrust pastry can often break through.

  In the Oblong Office, the Patrician’s personal secretary looked at the stopwatch.

  ‘Fifty seconds slower than your personal best, I’m afraid, my lord.’

  ‘Proof indeed that strong drink is a mocker, Drumknott,’ said Vetinari severely.

  ‘I suspect that no further proof is needed,’ said Drumknott, with his little secretarial smile.

  ‘Although I would, in fairness, point out that Charlotte of the Times is emerging as the most fearsome crossword compiler of all time, and they are a pretty fearsome lot. But her? Initialisms, odds and evens, hidden words, container reverses, and now diagonals! How does she do it?’

  ‘Well, you did it, sir.’

  ‘I undid it. That is much easier.’ Vetinari raised a finger. ‘It is that woman who runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps, depend upon it. She hasn’t been mentioned as a winner recently. She must be compiling the things.’

  ‘The female mind is certainly a devious one, my lord.’

  Vetinari looked at his secretary in surprise. ‘Well, of course it is. It has to deal with the male one. I think—’

  There was a gentle tap at one of the doors. The Patrician turned back to the Times while Drumknott slipped out of the room. After some whispered exchanges, the secretary returned.

  ‘It would appear that a young woman has got in via the back gate by bribing the guards, sir. They accepted the bribes, as per your standing orders, and she has been shown into the anteroom, which she will soon find is locked. She wishes to see you because, she says, she has a complaint. She is a maid.’

  Lord Vetinari looked over the top of the paper. ‘Tell her I can’t help her with that. Perhaps, oh, I don’t know, a different perfume would help?’

  ‘I mean she is a member of the serving classes, sir. Her name is Glenda Sugarbean.’

  ‘Tell her—’ Vetinari hesitated, and then smiled. ‘Ah, yes, Sugarbean. Did she bribe the guards with food? Something baked, perhaps?’

  ‘Well done, sir! A large Jammy Devil apiece. May I ask how—?’

  ‘She is a cook, Drumknott, not a maid. Show her in, by all means.’

  The secretary looked a little resentful. ‘Are you sure this is wise, sir? I have already told the guards to throw the foodstuffs away.’

  ‘Food cooked by a Sugarbean? You may have committed a crime against high art, Drumknott. I shall see her now.’

  ‘I must point out that you have a full schedule this morning, my lord.’

  ‘Quite so. It is your job to point this out, and I respect that. But I did not return until half past four this morning and I distinctly remember stubbing my toe on the stairs. I am as drunk as a skunk, Drumknott, which of course means skunks are just as drunk as I. I must say the term is unfamiliar to me, and I had not thought hitherto of skunks in this context, but Mustrum Ridcully was kind enough to enlighten me. Allow me, then, a moment of indulgence.’

  ‘Well, you are the Patrician, sir,’ said Drumknott. ‘You can do as you please.’

  ‘That is kind of you to say so, but I did not, in fact, need reminding,’ said Vetinari, with what was almost certainly a smile.

  When the severe thin man opened the door, it was too late to flee. When he said, ‘His lordship will see you now, Miss Sugarbean,’ it was too late to faint. What had she been thinking of? Had she been thinking at all?

  Glenda followed the man into the next room, which was oak panelled and sombre and the most uncluttered office she had ever seen. The room of the average wizard was so stuffed with miscellaneous things that the walls were invisible. Here, even the desk was clear, apart from a pot of quill pens, an inkwell, an open copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times and–her eye stayed fixed on this one, unable to
draw itself away–a mug with the slogan ‘To the world’s Greatest Boss’. It was so out of place it might have been an intrusion from another universe.

  A chair was quietly placed behind her. This was just as well, because when the man at the desk looked up she sat down abruptly.

  Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. ‘Miss… Sugarbean, there are whole rooms in this palace full of people who want to see me, and they are powerful and important people, or at least they think they are. Yet Mister Drumknott has kindly inserted in my schedule, ahead of the Postmaster General and the Mayor of Sto Lat, a meeting with a young cook with her coat on over her apron and an intent, it says here, of “having it out with me”. And this is because I take notice of incongruity, and you, Miss Sugarbean, are incongruous. What is it you want?’

  ‘Who says I want anything?’

  ‘Everyone wants something when they are in front of me, Miss Sugarbean, even if it is only to be somewhere else.’

  ‘All right! You made all the captains drunk last night and got them to sign that letter in the paper!’

  The stare did not flicker. That was much worse than, well, anything.

  ‘Young lady, drink levels all mankind. It is the ultimate democrat, if you like that sort of thing. A drunk beggar is as drunk as a lord, and so is a lord. And have you ever noticed that all drunks can understand one another, no matter how drunk they are and how different their native tongues? I take it for a certainty that you are a relation to Augusta Sugarbean?’ The question, tagged on to the praises of inebriation, hit her between the eyes, scattering her thoughts.

  ‘What? Oh. Well, yes. That’s right. She was my grandmother.’

  ‘And she was a cook at the Guild of Assassins when she was younger?’

  ‘That’s right. She always made a joke about how she wouldn’t let them use any—’ She stopped quickly, but Vetinari finished the sentence for her.