Unseen Academicals

I mean, Trev thought, he wouldn’t switch off his own magic, would he?

‘ “We own all your helmets, we own all your shoes.” ’

I mean, he really wouldn’t do that, would he? The only person who could stop it if it all went wrong wouldn’t have made a mistake like that?

‘ “We own all your generals — touch us and you’ll lose.” ’

Yes, he has done! He has done just that!

‘ “Morporkia! Morporkia! Morporkia owns the day,” ’ Trev shouted to quell his own rising panic. He has done that, we all saw him! He’s kept his own staff inside the field where you can’t do magic. He looked at Andy and Andy nodded. Yes, he had worked it out as well.

‘ “We can rule you wholesale. Touch us and you’ll pay.” ’

It is considered in the Sto Plains that only scoundrels know the second verse of their national anthem, since anyone spending time memorizing that would be up to no good purpose. The Ankh-Morpork national anthem, therefore, had a second verse that was deliberately written as ner ner ners and the occasional coherent word desperately trying to stay afloat, on the basis that this is how it would sound in any case. Trev listened to it with even more agony than usual.

But everyone joined in cheerful unison for the last line, which everybody knew, ‘ “We can rule you wholesale, credit where it’s due.” ’

Glenda, one arm as far across her bosom as it would go, risked a look at what would still probably be called the Royal Box, just as Vetinari raised the gold-ish coloured urn and a cheer went up. Ankh-Morpork was not particularly keen on cheering the Patrician but it would cheer money any day of the week. Yet it seemed to Glenda that there was some strange harmonic to the cheer, coming up from under the ground itself, as if the place was one huge mouth … Then the feeling went away. And the day came back.

‘Gentlemen? Team players to their places,’ said the Archchancellor of Brazeneck, haughtily.

‘Er, can I have a word with you, sir?’ said Trev, sidling up as quickly as possible.

‘Ah, yes. Dave Likely’s boy,’ said the former Dean. ‘We are about to play football, Mister Likely, I’m sure you’ve noticed.’

‘Yes, sir, well, er, but …’

‘Do you know of any good reason why I should hold up the game?’ the referee demanded.

Trev gave up.

Henry produced a coin from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mustrum?’ he said.

‘Heads,’ said the Archchancellor, and he turned out to be wrong.

‘Very well, Mister Hoggett … and who has the ball?’

Gloing! Gloing!

Nutt picked the ball out of the air and handed it over. ‘Me, sir.’

‘Ah, you are the coach for the Academicals.’

‘Yes, but a player as well should it become necessary.’

‘Gentlemen, you will see that I am placing the ball in the centre of the pitch.’ It’s true that the Archchancellor formerly known as Dean did rather relish the occasion. He took a few steps back, paused for dramatic effect, produced a whistle from his pocket and flourished it. He gave a blow that only a man of that size could give; his face began to twitch and go red. He raised his megaphone to his lips and shouted, ‘ANY BOY WHO HAS NOT BROUGHT HIS KIT WILL PLAY IN HIS PANTS!’ followed by Ponder Stibbons shouting, ‘I want to know who gave that to him!’

The crowd roared and you could hear the laugh going away in the distance, rolling down the streets as every listener in the crowded city passed it on, bringing back such memories that at least two people started to forge letters from their mother.

In his goal, the Librarian swung himself to the top of his posts to get a better look. In his goal, Charlie Barton, goalkeeper for United, methodically lit his pipe. And the man with the biggest problem within the ground that day, apart possibly from Trev, was the editor of the Times, Mr William de Worde, who had not trusted any underling with the reporting of this unique, most prestigious occasion, but wasn’t at all sure how it should be done.

At the whistle, he’d managed: