‘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.’
She paused. Nutt looked so lost and bewildered. Gods help me, she thought, I’m turning into my mum again. ‘No, wait.’ She reached down, opened one of the warming ovens and came back again with another large dish. The scent of cooked apples filled the kitchen. ‘This is for you, Mister Nutt, with my compliments. You need fattening up before you blow away. Don’t bother to share it with this scallywag, ’cos he’s a greedy beggar, ask anyone. Now, I’ve got to clean up, and if you boys don’t want to help, get out of my kitchen! Oh, and I’ll want that dish back as well!’
Trev grabbed Nutt’s shoulder. ‘Come on, you heard what she said.’ ‘Yes, and I don’t mind helping—’
‘Come on!’
‘Thank you very much, miss,’ Nutt managed, as he was dragged down the stairs.
Glenda folded her oven cloth neatly as she watched them go.
‘Goblins,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever seen a goblin before, Jools?’
‘What?’
‘Have you ever seen a goblin?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Do you think he’s a goblin?’
‘What?’
‘Mr Nutt. Is he a goblin, do you think?’ said Glenda, as patiently as possible.
‘He’s a posh one, then. I mean, he sounded like he reads books and stuff.’
This was a discrimination that was, in Glenda’s view, at practically forensic standards of observation for Juliet. She turned around and found to her surprise that Juliet had gone back to reading something, or at least staring intently at the words. ‘What have you got there?’ she asked.
‘It’s called Bu-bubble. It’s like, what important people are doing.’ Glenda looked over her friend’s shoulder as she leafed through the pages. As far as she could tell all the important people shared one smile and were wearing unsuitable clothes for this time of year. ‘So what is it that makes them important?’ she asked. ‘Just being in a magazine?’
‘There’s fashion tips too,’ said Juliet defensively. ‘Look, it says here chrome and copper micromail is the look for the season.’ ‘That’s the page for dwarfs,’ sighed Glenda. ‘Come on, get your things and I’ll take you home.’
Juliet was still reading as they waited for the horse bus. Such sudden devotion to a printed page worried Glenda. The last thing she wanted was to see her friend getting ideas in her head. There was such a lot of room in there for them to bounce around and do damage. Glenda herself was reading one of her cheap novels wrapped in a page of the Times. She read the way a cat eats: furtively, daring anyone to notice. While the horses plodded up towards Dolly Sisters, she took her scarf out of her bag and absent-mindedly wrapped it around her wrist. Personally, she hated the violence of the football, but it was important to belong. Not belonging, especially after a big game, could be dangerous to your health. It was important to show the right colours on your home turf. It was imp
ortant to fit in.
For some reason, that thought immediately turned her mind to Nutt. How strange he was. Kind of ugly, but very clean. He had stunk of soap and seemed so nervous. There was something about him...
The air in the Uncommon Room had gone as cold as meltwater. ‘Are you telling us, Mister Stibbons, that we should be seen to enter a game for bullies, louts and roughs?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘That would be impossible!’
‘Unlikely, yes. Impossible? No,’ said Ponder wearily.
‘Most certainly not possible!’ said the Senior Wrangler, nodding at the Chair. ‘We would be trading kicks with people from the gutters!’
‘My grandfather scored two goals in a match against Dimwell,’ said Ridcully, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Most people never managed one in their lives, in those days. I think the most number of goals scored by one man in his whole life is four. That was Dave Likely, of course.’
There was a ripple of hurried rethinking and retrenchment.
‘Ah, well, of course, those were different times,’ said the Senior Wrangler, suddenly all syrup. ‘I’m sure that even skilled workmen occasionally took part in a spirit of fun.’
‘It wasn’t much fun if they ran into Granddad,’ said Ridcully, with a faint little grin. ‘He was a prizefighter. He knocked people down for money and pubs sent for him if there was a really dangerous brawl. Of course, in a sense, this made it even more dangerous, but by then most of it was out in the street.’
‘He threw people out of the buildings?’
‘Oh yes. In fairness, it was usually from the ground floor and he always opened the window first. He was a very gentle man, I understand. Made musical boxes for a living, very delicate, won awards for them. Teetotal, you know, and quite religious as well. The punching was just a job of casual work. I know for a fact he never tore off anything that couldn’t be stitched on again. A decent chap, by all accounts. Never met him, unfortunately. I’ve always wished I had something to remember the old boy by.’
As one wizard, the faculty looked down at Ridcully’s huge hands. They were the size of frying pans. He cracked his knuckles. There was an echo.
‘Mister Stibbons, all we need to do is engage another team and lose?’ he said.
‘That’s right, Archchancellor,’ said Ponder. ‘You simply forfeit the game.’
‘But losing means being seen not to win, am I right?’
‘That would be so, yes.’
‘Then I rather think we ought to win, don’t you?’
‘Really, Mustrum, this is going too far,’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Excuse me?’ said Ridcully, raising his eyebrows. ‘May I remind you that the Archchancellor of this university is, by college statute, the first among equals?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Well, I am he. The word first is, I think, germane here. I see you scribbling in your little notebook, Mister Stibbons?’
‘Yes, Archchancellor. I’m looking to see if we could manage without the bequest.’
‘Good man,’ said the Senior Wrangler, glaring at Ridcully. ‘I knew there was no reason to panic.’
‘In fact I’m pleased to say that I think we could rub along quite well with only a minimal cut in expenditure,’ Ponder went on.
‘There,’ said the Senior Wrangler, looking triumphantly at the first among equals, ‘you see what happens if you don’t simply panic.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ridcully calmly. With his gaze still fixed on the Senior Wrangler he added, ‘Mister Stibbons, would you be so kind as to enlighten the rest of us: to what, in reality, does a “minimal cut in expenditure” equate?’
‘The bequest is a trust,’ said Ponder, still scribbling. ‘We have the use of the significant income from the very wise investments of the Bigger trustees, but we cannot touch the capital. Nevertheless, the income is enough to cover – I’m sorry to be imprecise – about eighty-seven point four per cent of the university’s food bill.’
He waited patiently until the uproar had died away. It was amazing, he thought, how people would argue against figures on no better basis than ‘they must be wrong’.
‘I’m sure the Bursar would not agree with those figures,’ said the Senior Wrangler sourly.
‘That is so,’ said Ponder, ‘but I’m afraid that is because he regards the decimal point as a nuisance.’
The faculty looked at one another.
‘Then who is dealing with our financial affairs?’ said Ridcully.
‘Since last month? Me,’ said Ponder, ‘but I would be happy to hand the responsibility over to the first volunteer.’
This worked. Regrettably, it always did. ‘In that case,’ he said, in the sudden silence, ‘I have worked out, with reference to calorific tables, a regime that will give every man here a nourishing three meals a day—’
The Senior Wrangler frowned. ‘Three meals? Three meals? What kind of person has three meals a day?’
‘Someone who can’t afford nine,’ said Ponder flatly. ‘We could eke out the money if we concentrate on a healthy diet of grains and fresh vegetables. That would allow us to keep the cheeseboard with a choice of, say, three types of cheese.’
‘Three cheeses isn’t a choice, it’s a penance!’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Or we could play a game of football, gentlemen,’ said Ridcully, clapping his hands together cheerfully. ‘One game. That’s all. How hard would that be?’
‘As hard as a face full of hobnails, perhaps?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘People get trodden into the cobbles!’
‘If all else fails, we will find volunteers from the student body,’ said Ridcully.
‘Corpse might be a better word.’
The Archchancellor leaned back in his chair. ‘What makes a wizard, gentlemen? A facility with magic? Yes, of course, but around this table we know this is not, for the right kind of mind, hard to obtain. It does not, as it were, happen like magic. Good heavens, witches manage it.
But what makes a magic user is a certain cast of mind which looks a little deeper into the world and the way it works, the way its currents twist the fortunes of mankind, et cetera, et cetera. In short, they should be the kind of person who might calculate that a guaranteed double first is worth the occasional inconvenience of sliding down the street on their teeth.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting that we give out degrees for mere physical prowess?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘No, of course not. I am seriously suggesting that we give out degrees for extreme physical prowess. May I remind you that I rowed for this university for five years and got a Brown?’
‘And what good did that do, pray?’
‘Well, it does say “Archchancellor” on my door. Do you remember why? The University Council at the time took the very decent view that it might be the moment for a leader who was not stupid, mad or dead. Admittedly, most of these are not exactly qualifications in the normal sense, but I like to think that the skill of leadership, tactics and creative cheating that I learned on the river also stood me in good stead. And thus for my sins, which I don’t actually remember committing but must have been quite crimson, I was at the top of a shortlist of one. Was that a choice of three cheeses, Mister Stibbons?’
‘Yes, Archchancellor.’
‘I was just checking.’ Ridcully leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen, in the morning, correction, later this morning, I propose to tell Vetinari firmly that this university intends to once again play football. And the task falls to me because I am the first among equals. If any of you would like to try your luck in the Oblong Office, you have only to say.’
‘He’ll suspect something, you know,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘He suspects everything. That is why he is still Patrician.’ Ridcully stood up. ‘I declare this meet— this overly extended snack . . . over. Mister Stibbons, come with me!’
Ponder hurried after him, books clutched to his chest, happy for the ex
cuse to get out of there before they turned on him. The bringer of bad news is never popular, especially when it’s on an empty plate.
‘Archchancellor, I—’ he began, but Ridcully held his finger to his lips.
After a moment of cloying silence, there was a sudden festival of scuffling, as of men fighting in silence.
‘Good for them,’ Ridcully said, heading off down the corridor. ‘I wondered how long it would take them to realize that they might be seeing the last overloaded snack trolley for some time. I’m almost tempted to wait and see them waddle out with their robes sagging.’
Ponder stared at him. ‘Are you enjoying this, Archchancellor?’
‘Good heavens no,’ said Ridcully, his eyes sparkling. ‘How could you suggest such a thing? Besides, in a few hours I have to tell Havelock Vetinari that we are intending to become a personal affront. The unschooled mob hacking at one another’s legs is one thing. I don’t believe he will be happy with the prospect of our joining in.’
‘Of course, sir. Er, there is a minor matter, sir, a small conundrum, if you will . . . Who is Nutt?’
There seemed to Ponder to be a rather longer pause than necessary before Ridcully said, ‘Nutt would be . . . ?’
‘He works in the candle vats, sir.’
‘How do you know that, Stibbons?’
‘I do the wages, sir. The Candle Knave says Nutt just turned up one night with a chitty saying he was to be employed and paid minimal wage.’
‘Well?’
‘That’s all I know, sir, and I only found that out because I asked Smeems. Smeems says he’s a good lad but sort of odd.’
‘Then he should fit right in, don’t you think, Stibbons? In fact, we are seeing how he fits in.’
‘Well yes, sir, no problem there, but he’s a goblin, apparently, and generally, you know, it’s a sort of odd tradition, but when the first people from other races first come to the city they start out in the Watch . . .’
Ridcully cleared his throat, loudly. ‘The trouble with the Watch, Stibbons, is that they ask too many questions. We should not emulate them, I suggest.’ He looked at Ponder and appeared to reach a decision. ‘You know that you have a glowing future here at UU, Stibbons.’