Unseen Academicals (4 page)

‘But it’s banned, man!’ the Archchancellor insisted.

‘Er, not as such. It’s common knowledge that Lord Vetinari doesn’t like it, but I understand that if the games are outside the city centre and confined to the back streets, the Watch turns a blind eye. Since I would imagine that the supporters and players easily outnumber the entire Watch payroll, I suppose it is better than having to turn a broken nose.’

‘That’s quite a neat turn of phrase there, Mister Stibbons,’ said Ridcully. ‘I’m quite surprised at you.’

‘Thank you, Archchancellor,’ said Ponder. He had in fact got it from a leader in the
Times
, which the wizards did not like much because it either did not print what they said or printed what they said with embarrassing accuracy.

Emboldened, he added, ‘I should point out, though, that under UU law, Archchancellor, a ban doesn’t matter. Wizards are not supposed to take notice of such a ban. We are not subject to mundane law.’

‘Of course. But nevertheless it is generally convenient to
acknowledge
the civil power,’ said Ridcully, speaking like a man choosing his words with such care that he was metaphorically taking some of them outside to look at them more closely in daylight.

The wizards nodded. What they had heard was: ‘Vetinari may have his little foibles, but he’s the sanest man we’ve had on the throne in centuries, he leaves us alone, and you never know what he’s got up his sleeve.’ You couldn’t argue with that.

‘All right, Stibbons, what do you suggest?’ said Ridcully. ‘These days you only ever tell me about a problem when you’ve thought up a solution. I respect this, although I find it a bit creepy. Got a way to wriggle us out of this, have you?’

‘I suppose so, sir. I thought we might, well, put up a team. It doesn’t say anything about winning, sir. We just have to play, that’s all.’

It was always beautifully warm in the candle vats. Regrettably, it was also extremely humid and rather noisy in an erratic and unexpected way. This was because the giant pipes of Unseen University’s central heating and hot water system passed overhead, slung from the ceiling on a series of metal straps with a greater or lesser coefficient of linear expansion. That was only the start, however. There were also the huge pipes for balancing the slood differential across the university, the pipe for the anthropic particle flux suppressor, which did not work properly these days, the pipes for the air circulation, which had not worked either since the donkey had been ill, and the very ancient tubes that
were all that remained of the ill-fated attempt by a previous archchancellor to operate a university communication system by means of trained marmosets. At certain times of the day all this piping broke into a subterranean symphony of gurgles, twangs, upsetting organic trickling sounds and, occasionally, an inexplicable boinging noise that would reverberate through the cellar levels.

The general ad hoc nature of the system’s construction was enhanced by the fact that, as an economy measure, the big iron hot water pipes were lagged with old clothing held on by string. Since some of these items had once been wizards’ apparel, and however hard you scrubbed you could never get all of the spells out, there were sporadic showers of multicoloured sparks and the occasional ping-pong ball.

Despite everything, Nutt felt at home down among the vats. It was worrying; in the high country, people in the street had jeered at him that he’d been made in a vat. Although Brother Oats had told him that this was silly, the gently bubbling tallow called to him. He felt at peace here.

He ran the vats now. Smeems didn’t know, because he hardly ever troubled to come down here. Trev knew, of course, but since Nutt doing his job for him meant that he could spend more time kicking a tin can around on some bit of wasteground he was happy. The opinion of the other dribblers and dippers didn’t really count; if you worked in the vats it meant that, as far as the job market was concerned, you had been still accelerating when you’d hit the bottom of the barrel and had been drilled into the bedrock. It meant that you no longer had enough charisma to be a beggar. It meant that you were on the run from something, possibly the gods themselves, or the demons inside you. It meant that if you dared to look up you would see, high above you, the dregs of society. Best, then, to stay down here in the warm gloom, with enough to eat and no inconvenient encounters and, Nutt added in his head, no beatings.

No, the dippers were no problem. He did his best for them when he could. Life itself had beaten them so hard that they had no strength left to beat up anyone else. That was helpful. When people found
out that you were a goblin, all you could expect was trouble.

He remembered what the people in the villages had shouted at him when he was small and the word would be followed by a stone.

Goblin. It was a word with an ox-train-load of baggage. It didn’t matter what you said or did, or made, the train ran right over you. He’d shown them the things he’d built, and the stones had smashed them while the villagers screamed at him like hunting hawks and shouted more words.

That had stopped on the day Pastor Oats rode gently into town, if a bunch of hovels and one street of stamped mud could be called a town, and he had brought…forgiveness. But on that day, no one had wanted to be forgiven.

In the darkness, Concrete the troll, who was so gooned out on Slab, Slice, Sleek and Slump, and who would even snort iron filings if Nutt didn’t stop him, whimpered on his mattress.

Nutt lit a fresh candle and wound up his home-made dribbling aid. It whirred away happily, and made the flame go horizontal. He paid attention to his work. A good dribbler never turned the candle when he dribbled; candles in the wild, as it were, almost never dripped in more than one direction, which was away from the draught. No wonder the wizards liked the ones he made; there was something disconcerting about a candle that appeared to have dribbled in every direction at once. It could put a man off his stroke.
*

He worked fast, and was putting the nineteenth well-dribbled candle in the delivery basket when he heard the clank of a tin can being bowled along the stone floor of the passage.

‘Good morning, Mister Trev,’ he said, without looking up. A moment later an empty tin can landed in front of him, on end, with no more ceremony than a jigsaw piece falling into place.

‘How did you know it was me, Gobbo?’

‘Your leitmotif, Mister Trev. And I’d prefer Nutt, thank you.’

‘What’s one o’ them motifs?’ said the voice behind him.

‘It is a repeated theme or chord associated with a particular person or place, Mister Trev,’ said Nutt, carefully placing two more warm candles in the basket. ‘I was referring to your love of kicking a tin can about. You seem in good spirits, sir. How went the day?’

‘You what?’

‘Did Fortune favour Dimwell last night?’

‘What are you on about?’

Nutt pulled back further. It could be dangerous not to fit in, not to be helpful, not to be careful. ‘Did you
win
, sir?’

‘Nah. Another no-score draw. Waste of time, really. But it was only a friendly. Nobody died.’ Trev looked at the full baskets of realistically dribbled candles.

‘That’s a shitload you’ve done there, kid,’ he said kindly.

Nutt hesitated again, and then said, very carefully, ‘Despite the scatological reference, you approve of the large but unspecified number of candles that I have dribbled for you?’

‘Blimey, what was that all about, Gobbo?’

Frantically, Nutt sought for an acceptable translation. ‘I done okay?’ he ventured.

Trev slapped him on the back. ‘Yeah! Good job! Respect! But you gotta learn to speak more proper, you know. You wu’nt last five minutes down our way. You’d probably get a half-brick heaved at yer.’

‘That has, I mean ’
as
been known to…’appen,’ said Nutt, concentrating.

‘I never seen why people make such a to-do,’ said Trev generously. ‘So there were all those big battles? So what? It was a long time ago and a long way away, right, an’ it’s not like the trolls and dwarfs weren’t as bad as you lot, ain’t I right? I mean, goblins? What was that all about? You
lot jus’ cut throats and nicked stuff, right? That’s practically civilized in some streets round here.’

Probably, Nutt thought. No one could have been neutral when the Dark War had engulfed Far Uberwald. Maybe there had been true evil there, but apparently the evil was, oddly enough, always on the other side. Perhaps it was contagious. Somehow, in all the confusing histories that had been sung or written, the goblins were down as nasty cowardly little bastards who collected their own earwax and were always on the other side. Alas, when the time came to write their story down, his people hadn’t even had a pencil.

Smile at people. Like them. Be helpful. Accumulate worth
. He liked Trev. He was good at liking people. When you clearly liked people, they were slightly more inclined to like you. Every little helped.

Trev, though, seemed genuinely unfussed about history, and had recognized that having someone in the vats who not only did not try to eat the tallow but also did most of his work for him and, at that, did it better than he could be bothered to do it himself, was an asset worth protecting. Besides, he was congenially lazy, except when it came to foot-the-ball, and bigotry took too much effort. Trev never made too much effort. Trev went through life on primrose paths.

‘Master Smeems came looking for you,’ said Nutt. ‘I sorted it all out.’

‘Ta,’ said Trev, and that was that. No questions. He
liked
Trev.

But the boy was standing there, just staring at him, as if trying to work him out.

‘Tell you what,’ Trev said. ‘Come on up to the Night Kitchen and we’ll scrounge breakfast, okay?’

‘Oh no, Mister Trev,’ said Nutt, almost dropping a candle. ‘I don’t think, sorry, fink, I ought to.’

‘Come on, who’s going to know? And there’s a fat girl up there who cooks great stuff. Best food you ever tasted.’

Nutt hesitated.
Always agree, always be helpful, always be becoming, never frighten anyone.

‘I fink I will come with you,’ he said.

There’s a lot to be said for scrubbing a frying pan until you can see your face in it, especially if you’ve been entertaining ideas of gently tapping someone on the head with it. Glenda was not in the mood for Trev when he came up the stone steps, kissed her on the back of the neck and said cheerfully, ‘ ’ullo, darlin’, what’s hot tonight?’

‘Nothing for the likes of you, Trevor Likely,’ she said, batting him away with the pan, ‘and you can keep your hands to yourself, thank you!’

‘Not bin keeping somethin’ warm for your best man?’

Glenda sighed. ‘There’s bubble and squeak in the warming oven and don’t say a word if anyone catches you,’ she said.

‘Just the job for a man who’s bin workin’ like a slave all night!’ said Trev, patting her far too familiarly and heading for the ovens.

‘You’ve been at the football!’ snapped Glenda. ‘You’re always at the football! And what kind of working do you call that?’

The boy laughed, and she glared at his companion, who backed away quickly as though from armour-piercing eyes.

‘And you boys ought to wash before you come up here,’ she went on, glad of a target that didn’t grin and blow kisses at her. ‘This is a food-preparation area!’

Nutt swallowed. This was the longest conversation he’d ever had with a female apart from Ladyship and Miss Healstether and he hadn’t even said anything.

‘I assure you, I bath regularly,’ he protested.

‘But you’re grey!’

‘Well, some people are black and some people are white,’ said Nutt, almost in tears. Oh, why had he, why had he left the vats? It was nice and uncomplicated down there, and quiet, too, when Concrete hadn’t been on the ferrous oxide.

‘It doesn’t work like that. You’re not a zombie, are you? I know they do their best, and none of us can help how we die, but I’m not having all that trouble again. Anyone might get their finger in the soup, but rolling around in the bottom of the bowl? That’s not right.’

‘I am alive, miss,’ said Nutt helplessly.

‘Yes, but a live what, that’s what I’d like to know.’

‘I’m a goblin, miss.’ He hesitated as he said it. It sounded like a lie.

‘I thought goblins had horns,’ said Glenda.

‘Only the grown-up ones, miss.’ Well, that was true, for some goblins.

‘You lot don’t do anything nasty, do you?’ said Glenda, glaring at Nutt.

But he recognized it as a kind of residual glare; she’d said her piece, and now it was just a bit of play-acting, to show she was the boss here. And bosses can afford to be generous, especially when you look a little fearful and suitably impressed. It worked.

Glenda said, ‘Trev, fetch Mister…?’

‘Nutt,’ said Nutt.

‘Fetch Mister Nutt some bubble and squeak, will you? He looks half-starved.’

‘I have a very fast metabolism,’ said Nutt.

‘I don’t mind about that,’ said Glenda, ‘so long as you don’t go showing it to people. I have enough—’

There was a crash from behind her.

Trev had dropped the tray of bubble and squeak. He was stock still, staring at Juliet, who was returning the stare with a look of deep disgust. Finally, she said, in a voice like pearls, ‘ ’ad your bleedin’ eyeful? You got a nerve, largin’ it in here wiv that rag round your neck! Everyone knows Dimwell are well pants. Beasly couldn’t carry the ball in a sack.’

‘Oh yeah right? Well, I hear that the Lobbins walked all over you last week. Lobbin Clout! Everyone knows they’re a bunch o’ grannies!’

‘Oh yeah, that’s all you know! Staple Upwright was let out of the Tanty the day before! See if you Dimmers like him stamping all over you!’

‘Old Staple? Ha! He’ll clog away, yeah, but he can’t run above a canter! We’ll run rings around—’

Glenda’s frying pan clanged loudly on top of the iron range. ‘Enough of that, the pair of you! I’ve got to clean up for the day, and I don’t want
football dirtying up my nice surfaces, you hear me? You wait here, my girl, and you, Trevor Likely, you get back to your cellar, and I shall want that dish cleaned and back here by tomorrow night or you can try begging your meals off some other girl, right? Take your little friend with you. Nice to meet you, Mister Nutt, but I wish I could find you in better company.’