‘So, what’s it all about?’ said Juliet.
Glenda sighed. How to begin? How did you talk to Juliet about similes and metaphors and poetic licence all wrapped up in wonderful curly writing?
She did her best. ‘Weeell, basically he’s saying that he really fancies you, thinks you’re really fit, how about a date, no hanky panky, he promises. And there’s three little x’s underneath.’
Juliet started to cry. ‘That’s loverlee. Fancy ’im sitting down and writing all those words just for me. Real poetry just for me. I’m gonna sleep with it under my pillow.’
‘Yes, I suspect that he had something like that in mind,’ said Glenda and thought, Trev Likely a poet? Not likely at all.
There was a dreadful load on Pepe’s bladder, and he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, if that wasn’t too offensive a description of lying between Madame and a wall. She was still asleep. She snored magnificently, using the traditional multi-part snore, known to those who are fortunate enough to have to listen to it every night as the ‘errgh, errgh, errghh, blorrrt!’ symphony. And she was lying on his leg. And the room was pitch dark. He managed to retrieve his leg, half of which had gone to sleep, and set out on the well-known search for porcelain, which began by him putting his foot down on an empty champagne bottle, which skittered away and left him flat on his back. In the gloom he groped for it, found it, tested it for true emptiness, because you never knew your luck, and, as it were, filled it again, putting it down on what was probably a table, but in his mind and the darkness could just as well have been an armadillo.
There was another sound syncopating with Madame’s virtuoso performance. It must have been that which woke him. By groping, he located his shorts and after only three tries managed to get them the right way up and the right way round. They were a little chilly. That was the problem with micromail; it was, after all, metal. On the other hand, it did not chafe and you never had to wash it. Five minutes on the fire and it was as hygienic as anything. Besides, Pepe’s version of the shorts held a surprise all of their own.
Thus feeling that he could face the world, or at least the part of it that would need to see only the top of him, he shuffled and stubbed his way to the shop’s door, checking every bottle along the way for evidence of liquid content. Remarkably, a bottle of port had survived with fifty per cent remaining capacity. Any port in a storm, he thought, and drank his breakfast.
The shop’s door was rattling. It had a small sliding aperture by which the staff could determine whether they wanted to let a prospective customer in, because when you are a posh shop like Shatta, you don’t sell things to just anyone. Pairs of eyeballs zigzagged back and forth across his vision as people clustered on the other side of the door and fought for attention. Somebody said, ‘We’re here to see Jewels.’
‘She’s resting,’ said Pepe. That was always a good line and could mean anything.
‘Have you seen the picture in the Times?’ said a voice. Then, ‘Look,’ as a vision of Juliet was held up in front of the door.
Blimey, he said to himself. ‘She had a very tiring day,’ he said.
‘The public wants to know all about her,’ said a sterner voice.
And a rather less aggressive female voice said, ‘She seems to be rather amazing.’
‘She is. She is,’ said Pepe, inventing desperately, ‘but a very private person and a bit artistic too, if you know what I mean.’
‘Well, I’ve got a big order to place,’ said yet another voice as the owner managed to shuffle for slot space.
‘Oh, well, we don’t have to wake her up for that. Just give me a moment and I’ll be right with you.’ He took another swig of the port. When he turned around, Madame, in a nightshirt that could have accommodated a platoon, at least if they were very friendly, was bearing down on him with a glass in one hand and the champagne bottle in the other.
‘This stuff ’s gone horribly flat,’ she said.
‘I’ll go and find some fresh,’ he replied, snatching it from her quickly. ‘We’ve got newspaper people and customers out there and they all want Jools. Can you remember where she lives?’
‘I’m sure she told me,’ said Madame, ‘but it all seems a long time ago. That other one, Glenda I think, works at some big place in the city, as a cook. Anyway, why do they want to see her?’
‘There’s a wonderful picture in the Times,’ said Pepe. ‘You know when you said you thought we’d get rich? Well, it looks like you weren’t thinking big enough.’
‘What do you suggest, dear?’
‘Me?’ said Pepe. ‘Take the order, because that’s good business, and tell the others that Jools will see them later.’
‘Do you think they’ll go for that?’
‘They’ll have to, because we don’t know where the hell she is. There’s a million dollars walking around this city on legs.’
***
Rhys, Low King of the Dwarfs, paid particular attention to the picture of the wonderful girl. The definition wasn’t too bad at all. The technique of translating the clacks semaphore signal into a black-and-white picture was quite well advanced these days. Even so, his people in Ankh-Morpork must have thought this particularly interesting to merit the expense of the bandwidth required. Certainly, it was exercising a lot of other dwarfs, but in the Low King’s experience, it was possible to find someone, somewhere, who objected to anything. He looked at the grags in front of him. So simple for people like Vetinari, he thought. He just has religions to deal with. We don’t have religions. Being a dwarf is a religion in itself, and no two priests ever agree, and sometimes it seems that every other dwarf is a priest. ‘I see nothing here to disturb me,’ he said.
‘We believe the beard to be a false one,’ said one of the grags. ‘That is perfectly acceptable,’ said the King. ‘There is absolutely nothing in any precedent that bans false beards. They are a great salvation to those who find beards hard to grow.’
‘But she looks, well, alluring,’ said one of the other grags. They were indistinguishable under their tall, pointed leather cowls.
‘Attractive, certainly,’ said the King. ‘Gentlemen, is this going to take long?’
‘It must be stopped. It’s not dwarfish.’
‘Oh, but it manifestly is, is it not?’ said the King. ‘Micromail is one hundred per cent mail and you don’t get any more dwarfish than that. She is smiling and while I would agree that dwarfs do not appear to smile very much, certainly not when they come to see me, I think we could profit from her example.’
‘It’s positively an offence against morality.’
‘How? Where? Only in your heads, I feel.’
The tallest grag said, ‘So you intend to do nothing?’
The King paused for a moment, staring at the ceiling. ‘No, I intend to do something,’ he said. ‘First of all, I shall see to it that my staff find out just how many orders there have been for micromail originating from here in Bonk today. I’m sure Shatta would not object to them seeing their records, especially since I intend to tell Madame Sharn that she can come back and establish her premises here.’
‘You would do that?’ said a grag.
‘Yes, of course. We have nearly concluded the Koom Valley Accord, a peace with the trolls that no one ever thought they would see. And I am fed up, gentlemen, with your whining, moaning and endless, endless attempts to re-fight battles that you have already lost. As far as I am concerned, this young lady is showing us a better future and now, if you are not out of my office in ten seconds, I will charge you rent.’
‘There will be trouble over this.’
‘Gentlemen, there is always trouble! But this time I will be making it for you.’
As the door slammed shut behind them, the King sat back in his chair.
‘Well done, sir,’ said his secretary.
‘They’ll keep on. I can’t imagine what being a dwarf would be like if we didn’t argue all the time.’ He squirmed a little in his chair. ‘You know, they’re right when they say it doesn’
t chafe and it’s not as cold as you would imagine. Do ask our agent to express my thanks to Madame Sharn for her generous gift, will you?’
Even this early in the day, the Great Hall of the University was a general thoroughfare. Most of the tables were pushed back against the walls or, if someone felt like showing off, levitated to the ceiling, and the huge black-and-white slabs of the floor, worn smooth by the footfalls of millennia, were polished still further as today’s faculty and students took a short cut to various concerns, destinations and, very occasionally, when no viable excuse presented itself, to lectures.
The Great Chandelier had been swung down and off to one side for its daily replenishing of candles, but there was, fortunately for Mustrum Ridcully’s purposes, a large expanse of clear floor.
He saw the figure he was waiting for hurrying towards him. ‘How did it go, Mister Stibbons?’
‘Extremely well, I have to say, sir,’ said Ponder. He opened the sack he was carrying. ‘One of these is our original ball and one of them is the ball that Nutt and Trevor Likely had made last night.’
‘Ah, spot the ball,’ said Ridcully. He picked them both up in his enormous hands and dropped them on the flagstones.
Gloing! Gloing!
‘Perfectly identical,’ he said.
‘Trevor Likely said they had it made by a dwarf for twenty dollars,’ said Ponder.
‘Did he really?’
‘Yes, sir, and he gave me the change and the receipt.’
‘You seem puzzled, Mister Stibbons?’
‘Well, yes, sir. I feel I have been rather misjudging him.’
‘Possibly even small leopards can change their shorts,’ said Ridcully, slamming him on the back convivially. ‘Call it score one for human nature. Now, which of these balls is the one that’s going back to the Cabinet?’
‘Amazingly, sir, they did think to mark the new ball and there’s a tiny little dot of white paint on this one here . . . I mean this one here . . . I think it was here . . . Ah! Here it is. It’s ours. I’ll send one of the students to put the other one back shortly. We still have an hour and a half.’
‘No, I’d rather you did it yourself, Mister Stibbons, I’m sure it would only take a few minutes. Do hurry back, I’d like to try a little experiment.’
When Ponder returned, he found Ridcully loitering unobtrusively by one of the big doors. ‘You have your notebook ready, Mister Stibbons?’ he said quietly.
‘And a fresh pencil, Archchancellor.’
‘Very well, then. The experiment begins.’
Ridcully gently rolled the new football out on to the floor, straightened up and glanced at his stopwatch.
‘Ah, the ball has been kicked aside by the Professor of Illiberal Studies, quite possibly by accident . . . Now one of the bledlows, Mister Hipney I think his name is, has kicked it somewhat uncertainly. One of the students, Pondlife, I believe, has prodded it back . . . We have momentum, Mister Stibbons. Undirected, it is true, but promising. Ah, but we can’t have this . . .
‘No touching the ball with your hands, gentlemen!’ shouted the Archchancellor, deftly trapping the travelling ball with his boot. ‘That’s a rule! We really could do with that whistle, Stibbons.’
He bounced the ball on the stone floor.
Gloing!
‘Don’t just mess about like kids kicking a tin! Play football! I am the Archchancellor of this university, by Io, and I will rusticate, or otherwise expel, any man who skives off without a note from his mother, hah!’
Gloing!
‘You will arrange yourself into two teams, set up goals and strive to win! No man will leave the field of play unless injured! The hands are not to be used, is that clear? Any questions?’ A hand went up. Ridcully sought the attached face.
‘Ah, Rincewind,’ he said, and, because he was not a determinedly unpleasant man, amended this to, ‘Professor Rincewind, of course.’
‘I would like permission to fetch a note from my mother, sir.’
Ridcully sighed. ‘Rincewind, you once informed me, to my everlasting puzzlement, that you never knew your mother because she ran away before you were born. Distinctly remember writing it down in my diary. Would you like another try?’
‘Permission to go and find my mother?’
Ridcully hesitated. The Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography had no students and no real duties other than to stay out of trouble. Although Ridcully would never admit it, it was against all reason an emeritus position. Rincewind was a coward and an unwitting clown, but he had several times saved the world in slightly puzzling circumstances. He was a luck sink, the Archchancellor had decided, doomed to being a lightning rod for the fates so that everyone else didn’t have to. Such a person was worth all his meals and laundry (including an above-average level of soiled pants) and a bucket of coal every day even if he was, in Ridcully’s opinion, a bit of a whiner. However, he was fast, and therefore useful.
‘Look,’ said Rincewind, ‘a mysterious urn turns up and suddenly it’s all about football. That bodes. It means something bad is going to happen.’
‘Come now, it could be something wonderful,’ Ridcully protested.
Rincewind appeared to give this due consideration. ‘Could be wonderful, will be dreadful. Sorry, that’s how it goes.’
‘This is Unseen University, Rincewind. What is there to fear?’ Ridcully said. ‘Apart from me, of course. Good heavens, this is a sport.’ He raised his voice. ‘Arrange yourselves into two teams and play football!’
He stepped back and joined Ponder. The dragooned footballers, having been given clear instructions in a loud voice, went into a huddle to find out by hubbub what they should actually do instead.
‘I can’t believe this,’ said Ridcully. ‘Every boy knows what to do when they’ve found something to kick, don’t they?’ He cupped his hands. ‘Come on, two captains step up. I don’t care who it is.’ This took rather more time than might have been expected since those who had not surreptitiously left the Hall could see that the post of football captain was one that offered a wonderful chance for being the target of the Archchancellor’s mercurial wrath. Eventually two sacrifices were pushed forward and found it too difficult to push their way back into the ranks again.
‘Now, I say again, pick the teams alternately.’ He took off his hat and flung it to the ground. ‘Now we all understand this! It’s a boy thing! It’s like little girls and the colour pink! You know how to do this! Pick the teams alternately so one of you ends up with the weird kid and the other with the fat kid. Some of the fastest mathematics of all time has been achieved by team captains trying not to end up with the weird kid— Stay where you are, Rincewind!’
Ponder gave an involuntary shudder as his schooldays came running back, jeering at him. The fat kid in his class had been the unfortunately named ‘Piggy’ Love, whose father owned a sweet shop, which gave the son some weight in the community, not to mention clout. That had left only the weird kid as the natural target for the other boys, which meant a chronic hell for Ponder until that wonderful day when sparks came out of Ponder’s fingers and Martin Sogger’s pants caught fire. He could smell them now. Best days of your life be buggered; the Archchancellor could be a bit crass and difficult at times, but at least he wasn’t allowed to give you a wedgie—
‘Are you listening to me, Stibbons?’
Ponder blinked. ‘Er, sorry, sir, I was . . . calculating.’
‘I said, who’s the tall feller with the tan and the dinky beard?’
‘Oh, that’s Professor Bengo Macarona, Archchancellor. From Genua, remember? He’s swapped with Professor Maidenhair for a year.’
‘Oh, right. Poor old Maidenhair. Perhaps he won’t get laughed at so much in a foreign language. And Mister Macarona’s here to better himself, yes? Put a bit of polish on his career, no doubt.’
‘Hardly, sir. He’s got doctorates from Unki, QIS and Chubb, thirteen in all, and a visiting professorship at Bugarup, and he has been cited in two hundred and thirty-six
papers and, er, one divorce petition.’
‘What?’
‘The rule about celibacy isn’t taken seriously over there, sir. Very hot-blooded people, I understand, of course. His family owns a huge ranch and the biggest coffee plantation outside Klatch, and I think his grandmother owns the Macarona Shipping Company.’
‘So why the hell did he come here?’
‘He wants to work with the best, sir,’ said Ponder. ‘I think he’s serious.’
‘Really? Oh, well, he seems like a sensible chap, then. Er, the divorce thing?’
‘Don’t know much, sir, it got hushed up, I believe.’
‘Angry husband?’
‘Angry wife, as I heard it,’ said Ponder.
‘Oh, he was married, was he?’
‘Not to my knowledge, Archchancellor.’
‘I don’t think I quite understand,’ said Ridcully.
Ponder, who was not at all at home in this area, said very slowly, ‘She was the wife of another man . . . I, er, believe, sir.’
‘But I—’
To Ponder’s relief, light dawned on Ridcully’s huge face. ‘Oh, you mean he was like Professor Hayden. We used to have a name for him...’
Ponder braced himself.
‘Snakes. Very keen on them, you know. Could talk for hours about snakes with a side order of lizards. Very keen.’
‘I’m glad you feel like that, Archchancellor, because I know that a number of the students—’
‘And then there was old Postule, who was in the rowing team. Coxed us through two wonderful years.’ Ponder’s expression did not change, but for a few moments his face went pink and shiny. ‘A lot of that sort of thing about, apparently,’ said Ridcully. ‘People make such a fuss. Anyway, in my opinion there’s not enough love in the world. Besides, if you didn’t like the company of men you wouldn’t come here in the first place. I say! Well done, that man!’ This was because, in the absence of Ridcully’s attention, the footballers had at last started their own kick-about and some quite fancy footwork was emerging. ‘Yes, what?’
A bledlow had appeared alongside Ridcully.
‘Gentleman to see the Archchancellor, sir. He’s a wizard, sir. The, er, the Dean, as was, only he says he’s an Archchancellor too.’