Unseen Academicals (42 page)

‘And how did you get in?’ Ponder demanded. ‘The Watch are all around this place.’

Pepe barely gave him a glance. ‘And who are you, smart boy?’

‘I run this university!’

‘Then I should go away and run it, because you’re not going to be any good around here.’

‘Is this–person–known to you, miss?’ Ponder demanded.

‘Er, yes. He, er, designs clothes.’

‘I am a fashionista,’ said Pepe. ‘I can do things with clothing that you wouldn’t think were possible.’

‘I’d believe that, at least,’ said Trev.

‘And I know a thing or two about riots and mobs.’

An idea struck Glenda and she whispered to the irate Ponder, ‘Very big in dwarf circles, sir. Knows a lot of influential people.’

‘So do I,’ said Ponder. ‘Actually, I am one,’ he wailed. ‘But
I
had to do the training
myself
yesterday and I couldn’t remember all of the things Mister Nutt comes up with so I had them running on the spot, which I don’t think is very helpful.’

‘There’s somethin’ goin’ bad,’ said Trev. ‘I know about this city. I’ll go and check a few things out. It’s not as if you really need me.’

‘I do,’ said Juliet.

Trev hesitated, but Nutt had shown him how to do this. He extended a hand and blew her a kiss as he went through the door.

‘Did you see that?’ said Juliet. ‘He blew me.’

Glenda looked at Pepe, whose eyes were turned up so far in his head that she could see the whites–although they were red.

A short while later, when most of the UU squad headed for the Hippo with Glenda and Juliet trailing after them like camp followers, half a dozen watchmen appeared from the various places that they had selected for a quiet smoke and fell in after them, trying to make it look as if they all just happened to be strolling in the same direction.

Trev was right
, Glenda thought.
It is going bad
.

Trev had not gone very far when his street sense told him he was being followed. He jinked in and out of a few alleys and waited at the next corner to confront the follower…The follower who wasn’t there. The alley behind him was empty all the way to the last street. He realized this at the same time as someone pressed what definitely felt like a knife to his neck.

‘Cor, this takes me back and so it does,’ said a voice. ‘I reckon I can still remember every back alley in this place.’

‘I know you, it’s Pepe, isn’t it? You’re a dwarf?’ said Trev, trying not to turn round.

‘Sort of a dwarf,’ said Pepe.

‘But I don’t have no argument with you, do I?’ said Trev.

Something small and shiny appeared on the edge of Trev’s vision. ‘Sample piece of moonsilver,’ said Pepe’s voice. ‘I could do more damage with a broken champagne bottle–and I have, believe you me. I wouldn’t threaten a bloke like you with a knife, not with that little girl doting on you like she is. She seems very happy with you and I’d like to keep her happy.’

‘Somethin’s goin’ down on the street,’ said Trev.

‘What, the whole street? Sounds like fun.’

‘Somethin’s gone wrong, ’asn’t it?’ said Trev.

Only now did Pepe enter his field of view. ‘Not really my problem at
all,’ he said. ‘But there’re some kinds of people I just don’t like. I’ve seen too many of ’em, bullies and bastards. If you want to learn athletics very quickly, be born around here with a talent for design and maybe a few other little preferences. Lord Vetinari has got it all wrong. He thought he could take on the football and it’s not working. It’s not like the Thieves’ Guild, see. He had it easy with the Thieves’ Guild. That’s because the Thieves’ Guild is organized. Football ain’t organized. Just because he’s won over the captains don’t mean that everyone’s going to meekly get into line after them. There was fights all over the place last night. Your chums with their shiny new football and their shiny new jerseys are going to get creamed tomorrow. No, worse than creamed–cheesed.’

‘I thought you were just someone who made clothes?’ said Trev.

‘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.
*

‘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.

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.