Unseen Academicals

by Terry Pratchett

  ‘—of her cakes to poison people. And we always obeyed, too, because as you surely know, miss, no one likes to upset a good cook. Is she still with us?’

  ‘She passed on two years ago, sir.’

  ‘But since you are a Sugarbean, I assume you have acquired a few more grandmothers as a replacement? Your grandmother was always a stalwart in the community and you must take all those little dainties for someone?’

  ‘You can’t know that, you’re only guessing. But all right, they’re for all the old ladies that don’t get out much. Anyway, it’s a perk.’

  ‘Oh, but of course. Every job has its little perks. Why, I don’t expect Drumknott here has bought a paperclip in his life, eh, Drumknott?’

  The secretary, tidying papers in the background, gave a wan little smile.

  ‘Look, I only take leftovers—’ Glenda began, but this was waved away.

  ‘You are here about the football,’ said Vetinari. ‘You were at the dinner last night, but the university likes its serving girls to be tall and I have an eye for such things. Therefore, I assume you made it your business to be there without bothering your superiors. Why?’

  ‘You’re taking their football away from them!’

  The Patrician steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them while he looked at her.

  He’s trying to make me nervous, she thought. It’s working, oh, it’s working.

  Vetinari filled in the silence. ‘Your grandmother used to do people’s thinking for them. That trait runs in families, always on the female side. Capable women, scurrying about in a world where everyone else seems to be seven years old and keeps on falling over in the playground, picking them up and watching them run right out there again. I imagine you run the Night Kitchen? Too many people in the big one. You want spaces you can control, beyond the immediate reach of fools.’

  If he’d added ‘Am I right?’ like some windbag seeking applause, she would have hated him. But he was reading her from the inside of her head, in a calm, matter-of-fact way. She had to suppress a shiver, because it was all true.

  ‘I’m taking nothing from anybody, Miss Sugarbean. I am simply changing the playground,’ the man went on. ‘What skill is there in the mob pushing and shoving? It is nothing more than a way of bringing on a sweat. No, we must move with the times. I know the Times moves with me. The captains will moan, no doubt, but they are getting old. Dying in the game is a romantic idea when you are young, but when you are older the boot is in the other ear. They know this, even if they won’t admit it, and while they will protest, they will take care not to be taken seriously. In fact, far from taking, I am giving much. Acceptance, recognition, a certain standing, a gold-ish cup and the chance to keep what remains of their teeth.’

  All she could manage after this was, ‘All right, but you tricked them!’

  ‘Really? They did not have to drink to excess, did they?’

  ‘You knew they would!’

  ‘No. I suspected they might. They could have been more cautious. They should have been more cautious. I’d prefer to say that I led them along the correct path with a little guile rather than drove them along it with sticks. I possess many types of stick, Miss Sugarbean.’

  ‘And you’ve been spying on me! You knew about the dainties.’

  ‘Spying? Madam, it was once said of a great prince that his every thought was of his people. Like him, I watch over my people. I am just better at it, that’s all. As for the dainties business, that was a simple deduction from the known facts of human nature.’

  There was a lot that Glenda wanted to say, but in some very definite way she sensed that the interview – or at least the part of it that involved her opening her mouth – was over. Nevertheless, she said, ‘Why aren’t you drunk?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You must weigh about half of what they do and all of ’em went home in wheelbarrows. You drank as much as them and you look fresh as a daisy. What is the trick? Did you get the wizards to magic the beer out of your stomach?’

  She had stopped pushing her luck a long time ago. Now it was out of control, like a startled carthorse that can’t stop because of the huge load bouncing and rumbling along behind it.

  Vetinari frowned. ‘My dear lady, anyone drunk enough to let wizards, who themselves had just been partaking copiously of the fruit of the vine, I might add, take anything out of him would already be so drunk as to be dead. To forestall your next comment, the hop is also, technically, a vine. I am, in fact, drunk. Is this not so, Drumknott?’

  ‘You did indeed consume some twelve pints of very strong malted beverage, sir. Technically, you must be drunk.’

  ‘Idiosyncratically put, Drumknott. Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t act drunk!’

  ‘No, but I do act sober quite well, don’t you think? And I must confess that this morning’s crossword was something of a tussle. Procatalepsis and pleonasm in one day? I had to use the dictionary! The woman is a fiend! Nevertheless, thank you for coming, Miss Sugarbean. I recall your grandmother’s bubble and squeak with great fondness. If she had been a sculptress, it would have been an exquisite statue, with no arms and an enigmatic smile. It is such a shame that some masterpieces are so transitory.’

  The proud cook in Glenda rose unstoppably. ‘But she passed the recipe on to me.’

  ‘A legacy better than jewels,’ said Vetinari, nodding.

  Actually a few jewels would not have gone amiss, Glenda reflected. But there was a secret of Bubble and Squeak, of course, right out there in the open where everyone could miss it. And as for the Truth of Salmagundi . . .

  ‘I believe this audience is at an end, Miss Sugarbean,’ said Vetinari. ‘I have so much to do and so have you, I am sure.’ He picked up his pen and turned his attention to the documents in front of him. ‘Goodbye, Miss Sugarbean.’

  And that was it. Somehow, she was at the door, and it had almost closed behind her when a voice said, ‘And thank you for your kindnesses to Nutt.’

  The door clicked shut, nearly hitting her in the face as she spun round.

  ‘Was that a wise thing for me to have said, do you think?’ said Vetinari, when she had gone.

  ‘Possibly not, sir, but she will merely assume it is her that we are watching,’ said Drumknott smoothly.

  ‘Possibly we should. That’s a Sugarbean woman for you, Drumknott, little domestic slaves until they think someone has been wronged and then they go to war like Queen Ynci of Lancre, with chariot wheels spinning and arms and legs all over the place.’

  ‘And no father,’ observed Drumknott. ‘Not very good for a child in those days.’

  ‘Only served to make her tougher. One can only hope she doesn’t take it into her head to enter politics.’

  ‘Is that not what she is doing now, sir?’

  ‘Well noted, Drumknott. Do I appear drunk?’

  ‘In my opinion no, sir, but you seem unusually . . . talkative.’

  ‘Coherently?’

  ‘To the minutest scruple, sir. The Postmaster is waiting, sir, and some of the guild leaders want to talk to you urgently.’

  ‘I suspect they want to play football?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They intend to form teams. I cannot for the life of me understand why.’

  Vetinari put down his pen. ‘Drumknott, if you saw a ball lying invitingly on the ground, would you kick it?’

  The secretary’s forehead wrinkled. ‘How would the invitation be couched, sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Would it be, for example, a written note attached to the ball by person or persons unknown?’

  ‘I was rather inclining to the idea that you might perhaps feel simply that the whole world was silently willing you to give said ball a hearty kick?’

  ‘No, sir. There are too many variables. Possibly an enemy or japester might have assumed that I would take some action of the kind and made the ball out of concrete or similar material, in the hope I might do myself a serious or humorous injury. S
o, I would check first.’

  ‘And then, if all was in order, you would kick the ball?’

  ‘To what purpose or profit, sir?’

  ‘Interesting question. I suppose for the joy of seeing it fly.’

  Drumknott seemed to consider this for a while, and then shook his head. ‘I am sorry, sir, but you have lost me at this point.’

  ‘Ah, you are a pillar of rock in a world of changes, Drumknott. Well done.’

  ‘I was wondering if I could just add something, sir,’ said the secretary solemnly.

  ‘The floor is yours, Drumknott.’

  ‘I would not like it thought that I do not buy my own paperclips, sir. I enjoy owning my own paperclips. It means that they are mine. I thought it helpful I should tell you that in a measured and nonconfrontational way.’

  Vetinari looked at the ceiling for a few moments and then said: ‘Thank you for your frankness. I shall consider the record straightened and the matter closed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sator Square was where the city went when it was upset, baffled or fearful. People who had no real idea why they were doing so congregated to listen to other people who also did not know anything, on the basis that ignorance shared is ignorance doubled. There were clusters of people there this morning and several scratch teams, for it is written, or more probably scrawled on a wall somewhere, that wherever two or more are gathered together, at least one will have something to kick. Tin cans and tightly wound balls of rag were annoying adults on all sides, but as Glenda hurried nearer, the big doors of the university opened and Ponder Stibbons stepped out, somewhat inexpertly bouncing one of the wretched new leather balls. Gloing! Silence clanged, as rolling cans rattled on unheeded. All eyes were on the wizard and on the ball. He threw it down and there was a double gloing! as it bounced off the stones. And then he kicked it. It was a bit wussy as kicks went, that kick, but no one in the square had ever kicked anything even one tenth as far, and every male chased after it, propelled by ancient instinct.

  They’ve won, Glenda thought glumly. A ball that goes gloing! when others go clunk . . . Well, where’s the contest?

  She hurried on to the back entrance. In a world that was getting too complicated, where she could barge in on the black-hearted Tyrant and walk out unscathed, she needed a place to go that wasn’t spinning. The Night Kitchen was as familiar as her bedroom, her place, under her control. She could face anything there.

  There was a figure lounging against the wall by the rubbish bins, and for some reason she identified it right away, despite the heavy cloak and the hat pulled down over the eyes; no one she had ever met could relax as perfectly as Pepe.

  ‘Wotcher, Glenda,’ said a voice from under the hat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘Do you know how hard it is to find somebody in this city when you can’t tell anyone what they look like and aren’t really sure you can remember their name?’ said Pepe. ‘Where’s Jools?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen her since last night.’

  ‘It might be a good idea to find her before other people do,’ said Pepe.

  ‘What people?’ said Glenda.

  Pepe shrugged. ‘Everybody,’ he said. ‘They’re mostly looking in the dwarf districts right now, but it can only be a matter of time. We can’t move down at the shop for them and it was all I could do to sneak out.’

  ‘What are they after her for?’ said Glenda, panic rising. ‘I saw in the paper that people were trying to find her, but she hasn’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘I don’t think you exactly grasp what’s going on,’ said the (possible) dwarf. ‘They want to find her to ask her a lot of questions.’

  ‘Has this got anything to do with Lord Vetinari?’ said Glenda suspiciously.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Pepe.

  ‘What sort of questions, then?’

  ‘Oh, you know – What is your favourite colour? What do you like to eat? Are you an item with anybody? What advice do you have for young people today? Do you wax? Where do you get your hair done? What is your favourite spoon?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s got a favourite spoon,’ said Glenda, waiting for the world to make some sense.

  Pepe patted her on the shoulder. ‘Look, she’s on the front page of the paper, isn’t she? And the Times keeps on at us about wanting to do a lifestyle profile of her. That might not actually be a bad thing, but it’s up to you.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s got a lifestyle,’ said Glenda, a little bewildered. ‘She’s never said. And she doesn’t wax. She hardly even dusts. Anyway, just tell them all that she doesn’t want to talk to anybody.’

  Pepe’s expression went strange for a moment, then he said with care, like a man, or dwarf, struggling to be heard across a cultural divide, ‘Do you think I was talking about furniture?’

  ‘Well, what else? And I don’t think her housework is anyone else’s business.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? She’s popular, and the more we tell people they can’t talk to her, the more they want to, and the more you say no the more interested they become. People want to know all about her,’ said Pepe.

  ‘Like what her favourite spoon is?’ said Glenda.

  ‘I might have been a bit ironic,’ said Pepe. ‘But there’s newspaper writers all over the city looking for her and Bu-bubble want to do a two-page spread on her.’ He paused. ‘That means they’ll write about her and it’ll take two pages,’ he volunteered helpfully. ‘The Low King of the dwarfs has said that she is an icon for our times, according to Satblatt.’

  ‘What’s Satblatt ?’ said Glenda.

  ‘Oh, the dwarf newspaper,’ said Pepe. ‘You’ll probably never see it.’

  ‘But she was just in a fashion show!’ wailed Glenda. ‘She was just walking up and down! I’m sure she doesn’t want to get involved in all that sort of thing.’

  Pepe gave her a sharp look. ‘Are you?’ he said.

  And then she thought, really thought about Juliet, who would read Bu-bubble from cover to cover, wouldn’t generally go near the Times, but would absorb all kinds of rubbish about frivolous and silly people. People that glittered. ‘I don’t know where she is,’ she said. ‘I really haven’t seen her since yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, a mystery disappearance,’ said Pepe. ‘Look, we’re already learning about this sort of thing down at the shop. Can we go somewhere a bit more private? I hope none of them followed me up here.’

  ‘Well, I can smuggle you in through the back entrance, as long as there isn’t a bledlow around,’ said Glenda.

  ‘Fine by me. I’m used to that sort of thing.’

  She led him through the doorway and into the maze of cellars and yards that contrasted rather interestingly with the fine frontage of Unseen University.

  ‘Got anything to drink?’ said Pepe behind her.

  ‘Water!’ snapped Glenda.

  ‘I’ll drink water when fish climb out of it to take a piss, but thank you all the same,’ said Pepe.

  And then Glenda caught the smell of baking coming from the Night Kitchen. She was the only one who baked in her kitchen! No one else was supposed to bake in her kitchen. Baking was her responsibility. Hers. She ran up the steps with Pepe behind her and noted that the mystery cook had yet to master the second most important rule of cooking, which was to tidy things up afterwards. The place was a mess. There were even lumps of dough on the floor. In fact, it looked as though it had been possessed by some kind of frenzy. And in the middle of it all, curled up on Glenda’s battered and slightly rancid old armchair, was Juliet.

  ‘Just like Sleeping Beauty, ain’t it?’ said Pepe behind her.

  Glenda ignored him and hurried along the rows of ovens. ‘She’s been baking pies. What on earth did she want to come along and bake pies for? She’s never been any good at baking pies.’ That’s because I’ve never let her bake a pie, she told herself. That’s because as soon as she found anything difficu
lt you took it away and did it yourself, her inner voice scolded.

  Glenda opened oven door after oven door. They had arrived just in time. By the smell of it, a couple of dozen assorted pies were cooked to a turn.

  ‘How about a drink?’ said Pepe, in whom thirst sprang eternal. ‘I’m sure there’s brandy. Every kitchen has some brandy in it somewhere.’

  He watched as Glenda pulled the pies out, using her apron to protect her hands. Pepe regarded the pies with the indifference of a man who likes to drink his meals and listened to Glenda’s sotto voce monologue as pie after pie was laid out on the table.

  ‘I never told her to do this. Why did she do this?’ Because I did tell her to do this, sort of, that’s why. ‘And these are not half bad pies,’ she said more loudly. In surprise.

  Juliet opened her eyes, looked around blearily, and then her face contorted in panic.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve taken them all out,’ said Glenda. ‘Well done.’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do and Trev was busy with the footballing and I thought they would be wantin’ pies tomorrow and I thought I better do some,’ said Juliet. ‘Sorry.’

  Glenda took a step backwards. How to begin? she wondered. How to unravel it and then ravel it all back up again in a better shape because she had been wrong? Juliet hadn’t just walked up and down with clothes on, she had become some kind of a dream. A dream of clothes. Sparkling and alive and tantalizingly possible. And in Glenda’s memory of the fashion show, she literally shone, as if being lit from the inside. It was a kind of magic and it shouldn’t be making pies. She cleared her throat.

  ‘I’ve taught you a lot of things, haven’t I, Juliet?’ said Glenda.

  ‘Yes, Glenda,’ said Juliet.

  ‘And they’ve always been useful, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, Glenda. I remember it was you that said I should always keep my hand on my ha’penny and I’m very glad that you did.’

  There was a strange noise from Pepe, and Glenda, feeling her face go red, didn’t dare look at him.

  ‘Then I’ve got a bit more advice for you, Juliet.’

  ‘Yes, Glenda.’