Automatically, Ridcully turned again to look at Glenda, and got a distinct feeling that here was a woman about to learn a foreign language in a hurry. It was an odd but slightly exciting idea. Until this moment, he had never thought of the maids in the singular. They were all... servants. He was polite to them, and smiled when appropriate. He assumed they sometimes did other things than fetch and carry, and sometimes went off to get married and sometimes just... went off. Up until now, though, he'd never really thought that they might think, let alone what they thought about, and least of all what they thought about the wizards. He turned back to the table.
'Who will be doing the chanting, Mister Stibbons?'
'The aforesaid supporters, fans, sir. It's short for fanatics.'
'And ours will be... who?'
'Well, we are the largest employer in the city, sir.'
'As a matter of fact I think Vetinari is, and I wish to all hells I knew exactly who he is employing,' said Ridcully.
'I'm sure our loyal staff will support us,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. He turned to Glenda, and to Ridcully's dismay said, glutinously, 'I'm sure you would be a fan, would you not, my child?'
The Archchancellor sat back. He had a definite feeling that this was going to be fun. Well, she hadn't blushed and she hadn't yelled. In fact, she had not done anything, apart from carefully pick up the china.
'I support Dolly Sisters, sir. Always have done.'
'And are they any good?'
'Having a poor patch at the moment, sir.'
'Ah, then I expect you will want to support our team, which will be very good indeed!'
'Can't do that, sir. You've got to support your team, sir.'
'But you just said they weren't doing well.'
'That's when you support your team, sir. Otherwise you're a numper.'
'A numper being... ?' said Ridcully.
'He's someone who's all cheering when things are going well, and then runs off to another team when there's a losing streak. They always shouts the loudest.'
'So you support the same team all your life?'
'Well, if you move away it's okay to change. No one will mind much unless you go to a real enemy.' She looked at their puzzled expressions, sighed and went on: 'Like Naphill United and the Whoppers, or Dolly Sisters and Dimwell Old Pals, or the Pigsty Hill Pork Packers and the Cockbill Boars. You know?'
When they clearly didn't, she continued: 'They hate each other. Always have done, always will. They are the bad matches. The shutters go up for those. I don't know what my neighbours would say if they saw me cheering a Dimmer.'
'But that's dreadful!' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
'Excuse me, miss,' said Ponder, 'but most of those pairs are quite close to one another, so why do they hate one another so much?'
'That at least is easy,' said Dr Hix. 'It's hard to hate people who are a long way away. You forget how dreadful they are. But you see a neighbour's warts every day.'
'That's just the sort of cynical comment I'd expect from a post-mortem communicator,' grumbled the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
'Or a realist,' said Ridcully, smiling. 'But Dolly Sisters and Dimwell are quite far apart, miss.'
Glenda shrugged. 'I know, but it's always been like that. That's how it is. That's all I know.'
'Well, thank you... ?' There was no mistaking the hanging question.
'Glenda,' she said.
'I see there are a great many things we don't yet understand.'
'Yes, sir. Everything.' She hadn't meant to say that aloud. It just escaped of its own accord.
There was a stirring among the wizards, who were nonplussed because what had happened could not really have happened. The tea trolley might as well have neighed.
Ridcully banged his hand on the table before the others could summon up words.
'Well said, miss,' he chuckled, as Glenda waited for the floor to open and swallow her. 'And I'm sure that remark came from the heart, because I suspect it could not have come from the head.'
'Sorry, sir, but the gentleman did ask for my opinion.'
'Now, that one was from the head. Well done,' said Ridcully. 'So do, therefore, give us the benefit of your thinking, Miss Glenda.'
Still in a kind of shock, Glenda looked into the Archchancellor's eyes and saw that it was no time to be less than bold, but that was unnerving too.
'Well, what's this all about, sir? If you want to play, just go and do it, yes? Why change things?'
'The game of foot-the-ball is very behind the times, Miss Glenda.'
'Well, so are you - Sorry, sorry, but, well. You know. Wizards are always wizards. Not a lot changes in here, does it? And then you talk about some Master of the Music to make a new chant, and that's not how it goes. The Shove makes up the chants. They just happen. They just, like, come out of the air. And the pies are pretty awful, that's true, but when you're in the Shove, and it's mucky weather, and the water's coming through your coat, and your shoes are leaking, and then you bite into your pie, and you know that everyone else is biting into their pie, and the grease slides down your sleeve, well, sir, I don't have the words for it, sir, I really don't, sir. There's a feeling I can't describe, but it's a bit like being a kid at Hogswatch, and you can't just buy it, sir, you can't write it down or organize it or make it shiny or make it tame. Sorry to speak out of turn, sirs, but that's the long and the short of it. You must have known it, sir. Didn't your father ever take you to a game?'
Ridcully looked down the table at the Council and noted a certain moistness of eye. Wizards were, largely, of that generation from which grandfathers are carved. They were also, largely, large, and awash with cynical crabbiness and the barnacles of the years, but... the smell of cheap overcoats in the rain, which always had a tint and taste of soot in it, and your father, or maybe your grandfather, lifting you on to his shoulders, and there you were, above all those cheap hats and scarves, and you could feel the warmth of the Shove, watch its tides, feel its heartbeat, and then, certainly, a pie would be handed up, or maybe half a pie if times were hard, and if they were really bad it might be a handful of fat greasy pease which were to be eaten one at a time to make them last longer... or when times were flush there might be a real treat, like a hot dog you didn't have to share, or a plate of scouse, with yellow fat beading on the top and lumps of gristle you could chew at on the way home, meat which now you would not give to a dog but which was sacred lotus eaten with the gods, in the rain, in the cheering, in the bosom of the Shove...
The Archchancellor blinked. No time seemed to have passed, unless you count seventy years which had gone past like that. 'Er, very graphically argued,' he said, and pulled himself together. 'Interesting points well made. But, you see, we have a responsibility here. After all, this city was just a handful of villages before my university was built. We are concerned about the fighting in the streets yesterday. We heard a rumour that someone was killed because he supported the wrong team. We can't stand by and let this sort of thing happen.'
'So you'll be shutting down the Assassins' Guild, will you, sir?'
There was a gasp from every mouth, including her own. The only rational thought that didn't flee from her mind was: I wonder if that job is still going in the Fools' Guild? The pay wasn't much, but they do know how to appreciate a pie.
When she dared look, the Archchancellor was staring at the ceiling, while his fingers drummed on the table. I should have been more careful, Glenda whined in her own ear. Don't get chatty with nobs. You forget what you are, but they don't.
The drumming stopped. 'Good point, well put,' said Ridcully, 'and I shall marshal my responses thusly.' He flicked a finger and, with a smell of gooseberries and a pop, a small red globe appeared in the air over the table.
'One: the Assassins, while deadly, are not random, and indeed are mostly a danger to one another. Assassination is only to be feared, generally speaking, by those powerful enough to have a stab, as it were, at defending themselves.'
Another little globe appeared.
'Two: it is an article of faith with them that property is undamaged. They are invariably courteous and considerate and notoriously silent, and would never dream of inhuming their target in a public street.'
A third globe appeared.
'Three: they are organized and therefore amenable to civic influence. Lord Vetinari is very keen on that sort of thing.'
And another globe popped into life.
'And four: Lord Vetinari is himself a trained Assassin, majoring in stealth and poisons. I am not sure he would share your opinion. And he is a Tyrant even if he has developed tyranny to such a point of metaphysical perfection that it is a dream rather than a force. He does not have to listen to you, you see. He doesn't even have to listen to me. He listens to the city. I don't know how he does, but he does. And he plays it like a violin'
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