Unseen Academicals

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’ — Ridcully paused, then went on — ‘or like the most complicated game you can imagine. The city works, not perfectly, but better than it has ever done. I think it’s time for football to change too.’ He smiled at her expression. ‘What is your job, young lady? Because you are wasted in it.’

It was probably meant as a compliment, but Glenda, her head so bewilderingly full of the Archchancellor’s words that they were trickling out of her ears, heard herself say, ‘I’m certainly not wasted, sir! You’ve never eaten better pies than mine! I run the Night Kitchen!’

The metaphysics of real politics were not a subject of interest to most of those present, but they knew where they were with pies. She was the centre of attention already, but now it blazed with interest.

‘You do?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘We thought it was the pretty girl.’

‘Really?’ said Glenda brightly. ‘Well, I run it.’

‘So who does that wonderful pie you send up here sometimes, with the cheese pastry and the hot pickle layer?’

‘The Ploughman’s Pie? Me, sir. My own recipe.’

‘Really? How do you manage to get the pickled onions to stay so hard and crispy in the baking? It’s just amazing!’