‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Ridcully. ‘Saw the problem, sorted it out. Well done that man.’

‘Do you think I could be allowed an evil chuckle, sir?’

Ridcully brushed himself down. ‘No. We shall forgo the whistle, Mister Stibbons. And now, gentlemen, let the game commence.’

And thus, after a certain amount of bickering, Unseen University’s first football match in decades began. Instantly, from Ponder Stibbons’s point of view, various problems arose. The most pressing one was that all the wizards were dressed as wizards, which was to say alike. Ponder ordered the teams to play hats on and hats off, which caused another row. And that particular problem was exacerbated further because there were so many collisions that even the officially hatted kept losing theirs. And then the game was paused because it was declared that the statue commemorating Archchancellor Scrubbs’s discovery of blit was in fact three inches narrower than the venerable statue of Archchancellor Flanker discovering the Third Breakfast, thus giving an unfair advantage to the hatless squad.

But all these problems, foreseeable and inescapable, paled into insignificance compared with the problem of the ball. It was an official ball–Ponder had made certain of that. But pointy shoes, even if they have a very long point, cannot absorb the impact of the human foot kicking what is, when all is said and screamed, a piece of wood with a thin cloth and leather wrapping. Eventually, as another wizard was helped away with a sprained ankle, even Ridcully was moved to say, ‘This is damn nonsense, Stibbons! There has got to be something better than this.’

‘Bigger boots?’ suggested the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

‘The kind of boots you need for kicking this would slow you right down,’ said Ponder.

‘Besides, the men on the urn had nothing at all on their feet. I suggest we consider this research. What do we need, Stibbons?’

‘A better ball, sir. And some attempt at running about. And a general consensus that it is not a good idea to stop to re-light your pipe in the middle of play. A more sensible type of goal, because running into a stone statue is painful. Some grasp, however small, of the notion of teamwork in a gaming situation. A resolution not to run away if a member of the opposing team is rushing towards you. An understanding of the fact that you do not handle the ball in any circumstances; may I remind you that I gave up stopping play because of this since you gentlemen, when you were excited, persisted in picking it up and, in one case, hiding it behind your back, and standing on it. I would like to point out at this juncture that a sense of direction is worth cultivating vis-à-vis the goal that is yours and the goal that is theirs; inviting as it may be, there is no point in kicking the ball into your own goal, and nor should you congratulate and pat on the back anyone who achieves this feat. Out of the three goals scored in our match, the number scored by players into their own goal was’-he paused and looked down at his clipboard-‘three. This is a commendably high level of scoring, compared with football as currently played, though once again I must stress that issues of direction and goal ownership are of pivotal importance. A tactic, which I admit looked promising, was for the players to cluster thickly around their own goal so there was no possibility of anything getting past them. I regret, however, that if both teams do this you do not have a game so much as a tableau. A more promising tactic, which seemed to be adopted by one or two of you, was to lurk near the opponents’ goal so that if the ball came in your direction you would be ideally placed to get it past the custodian of the goal. The fact that in some cases you and the opposing custodian leaned companionably against the goal, sharing a cigarette and watching the play up-field, showed a decent spirit and may possibly be a good starting point for some more advanced tactics, but I do not think this should be encouraged. On this general topic, I have to assume that retiring from the field of play for the call of nature or a breather is acceptable, but doing so for a snack is not. My feeling, Archchancellor, is that our colleagues’ general desire to be never more than twenty minutes from some savouries may be satisfactorily catered for by a pause in the middle of the game. Happily, if they changed ends at that point, that would satisfy the complaints about one goal being larger than the other. Yes?’ This was to the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

‘If we change ends,’ said the Chair, who had put his hand up, ‘will that then mean that the goals that were scored into our own goal will now become goals scored against the opposing team since that goal is now physically theirs?’

Ponder considered the metaphysics of answering this one and settled for, ‘No, of course not. I have a whole list of other notes, Archchancellor, and regrettably they add up to us not being very good at football.’

The wizards fell silent. ‘Let’s start with the ball,’ said Ridcully. ‘I’ve got an idea about the ball.’

‘Yes, sir. I thought you would.’

‘Then come and see me after dinner.’

Juliet had been sucked into the manic circus that was the backstage area of Shatta, and no one was paying Glenda any attention whatsoever. Just for now, she was a hindrance, surplus, no use to anyone, an obstruction to be worked around, an onlooker in the game. A little way away, a handsome young dwarf with a double ponytail beard was waiting patiently while a temporary rivet was put into what looked like a silver cuirass. She was surrounded by workers in much the same way as a knight is when his vassals must dress him for combat. Standing a little apart from them were two taller dwarfs, whose weaponry looked slightly more functional than beautiful. They were male. Glenda knew this simply because any female of any sapient species knows the look of a man who has nothing very much to do in an environment that, for this time, is clearly occupied by and totally under the control of females. It looked as though they were on guard.

Propelled by the sherry, she wandered over. ‘That must cost a lot of money,’ she said to the nearest guard. He looked slightly embarrassed by the approach.

‘You’re telling me. Moonsilver, they call it. We’re even having to walk down the catwalk with her. They say it’s the coming thing, but I dunno. It won’t take an edge and it wouldn’t stop a decent blade. You need Igors to help you smelt it, too. They say it’s worth even more than platinum. Looks good, though, and they say you hardly know you’re wearing it. It’s not what my granddad would have called a metal, but they say that we have to move with the times. Personally, I wouldn’t even hang it on the wall, but there you go.’

‘Girl’s armour,’ said the other guard.

‘What about this micromail stuff?’ said Glenda.

‘Ah, different pocketful of rats entirely, miss,’ said the first guard. ‘I hear they set up and forge it right here in the city, ’cos the best craftsmen are here. Just the job, eh? Chain mail as fine as cloth and strong as steel! It’ll get cheaper, too, they say, and most of all it doesn’t—’

‘Wotcher, Glendy, guess who?’

Someone tapped Glenda on the shoulder. She turned round and saw a vision of heavily but tastefully armoured beauty. It was Juliet, but Glenda only knew this because of the milky-blue eyes. Juliet was wearing a beard.

‘Madame says I’d better wear this,’ she said. ‘It’s not dwarf if it don’t include a beard. What d’you think?’

This time the sherry got in first.

‘It’s actually rather attractive,’ said Glenda, still in mild shock. ‘It’s very–silvery.’

It was a female beard, she could tell. It looked styled and stylish and didn’t have bits of rat in it.

‘Madame says there’s a place saved for you in the front row,’ said Juliet.