‘What have they been drinking?’ she whispered to the nearest waiter.

‘Winkle’s Old Peculiar, Mages’ Special. It’s top stuff.’

‘What about his lordship?’

He grinned. ‘Ha. Funny thing, some of ’em have asked me that, too. Just the same as the guests. Poured out of the same flagon, just like for everyone else, so it’s—’ He stopped.

Lord Vetinari was on his feet again. ‘Gentlemen, who among you will accept the challenge? It need not be Dimwell, it need not be Dolly Sisters, it need not be the Nappers, it just has to be a team, gentlemen; the Unseen Academicals will take on the best of you, in the best traditions of sportsmanship. I have set the date of the game for Saturday. As far as the Academicals are concerned, you can watch them train and Mister Stibbons will give you all the advice you may need. This will be a fair match, gentlemen, you have my word on it.’ He paused. ‘Did I mention that when it is presented, the very nearly gold urn will be full of beer? The concept is quite popular, I gather, and I predict that for a reasonable period the golden cup will quite miraculously stay full of beer, no matter how many drink thereof. I shall personally see to it.’

This got a big cheer, too. Glenda felt embarrassed for the men, but angry at them too. They were being led by the nose. Or, more accurately, by the beer.

Vetinari didn’t need whips and thumbscrews; he just needed Winkle’s Old Peculiar, Mages’ Special, and he was leading them like little lambs-and matching them pint for pint. How could he manage that? Hey, look at me, he’s saying, I’m just like you, and he’s not like them at all. They can’t have someone killed-she paused the thought to allow consideration of some of the street fights when the pubs shut, and amended it to-and get away with it.

‘My friend the Archchancellor has just informed me that, of course, the Unseen Academicals will not on any account resort to magic! Nobody wants to see a team of frogs, I am sure!’

There was general laughter at this lame joke, but the plain fact was that right now they would have laughed at a paper bag.

‘This will be a proper football match, gentlemen, no trickery, only skills,’ said the Patrician, his voice sharp again. ‘And on that note I am decreeing a new code, based on the hallowed and traditional rules of football so recently rediscovered, but including many familiar ones of more recent usage. The office of referee is there to ensure obedience to the rules. There must be rules, my friends. There must be. There is no game without rules. No rules, no game.’

And there it was. No one else seemed to notice, through the fumes, the razor blade glittering for a moment in the candyfloss. Rules? thought Glenda. What are these new rules? I never knew there were rules. But Lord Vetinari’s assistant, whoever he was, was quietly putting a few sheets of paper in front of each man.

She remembered old Stollop’s bafflement when confronted with a mere envelope. Some of them could read, surely? But how many of them could read now?

His lordship had not finished. ‘Finally, gentlemen, I would like you to peruse and sign the copies of the rules Mister Drumknott has given you. And now I understand the Archchancellor and his colleagues are looking forward to seeing you in the Uncommon Room for cigars and, I believe, an exceptionally rare brandy!’

Well, that would about wrap it up, wouldn’t it? The footballers were used to just beer. To be fair, they were used to lots of just beer. Nevertheless, if she was any judge, and she was pretty good, they would now be very nearly falling-down drunk. Although some seasoned captains could stand up for some time while being, technically, falling-down drunk. And there is nothing more embarrassing than seeing a falling-down drunk except for when it is a falling-down drunk who is still standing up. And that was amazing: the captains were the type of men who drank in quarts, and could belch the national anthem and bend steel bars with their teeth, or even somebody else’s teeth. Okay, they had never had much in the way of schooling, but why did they have to be so dumb?

‘Tell me,’ murmured Ridcully to Vetinari as they watched the guests file out unsteadily, ‘are you behind the discovery of the urn?’

‘We have known one another for quite some time, Mustrum, have we not,’ said Vetinari, ‘and as you know, I would not lie to you.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘Well, of course I would lie to you in acceptable circumstances, but on this occasion I can truthfully say that the discovery of the urn came as a surprise to me as well, albeit a pleasant one. Indeed, I assumed that you gentlemen had had something to do with it.’

‘We didn’t even know it was there,’ said Ridcully. ‘Personally, I suspect that religion is involved.’

Vetinari smiled. ‘Well, of course, classically, gods play with the fates of men, so I suppose there is no reason why it shouldn’t be football. We play and are played and the best we can hope for is to do it with style.’

It might have been possible to cut the air in the Uncommon Room with a knife, had anyone been able to find a knife. Or hold a knife the right way if found. From the point of view of the wizards, it was business as usual, but while a number of captains were being wheeled away in a wheelbarrow, thoughtfully stationed there earlier in the evening, there were enough visitors still standing to make for a damp, hot hubbub. In an unregarded corner, the Patrician and the two Archchancellors had found a space where they could relax unheeded in the big chairs and settle a few matters.

‘You know, Henry,’ said Vetinari to the former Dean, ‘I think it would be a very good idea if you were to referee the match.’

‘Oh, come on! I think that would be most unfair,’ said Ridcully.

‘To whom, pray?’

‘Well, er,’ said Ridcully. ‘There could be a question of rivalry between wizards.’

‘But on the other hand,’ said Vetinari, his voice all smoothness, ‘it might also be said that, for political reasons, another wizard would have a vested interest in not allowing a fellow Archmage to be seen to be bested by people who, despite their often amazing talents, skills, features and histories, are nevertheless lumped together in the term ordinary people.’

Ridcully raised a very big brandy glass in the general direction of the edge of the universe. ‘I have every faith in my friend Henry,’ he said. ‘Even though he’s a little bit on the tubby side.’

‘Oh, unfair!’ snapped Henry. ‘A large man may be quite light on his feet. Is there any chance of me having the poisoned dagger?’

‘In these modern times,’ said Vetinari, ‘I’m sorry to say that a whistle of some sort will have to suffice.’

At which point someone tried to slap Vetinari on the back.

It happened with remarkable speed and ended possibly even faster than it began, with Vetinari still seated in his chair with his beer mug in one hand and the man’s wrist gripped tightly at head height. He let go and said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘You’re that Lord Veterinary, ain’t ya? I seed you on them postage stamps.’

Ridcully glanced up. Some of Lord Vetinari’s clerks were briskly heading towards them, along with some of the slurred speaker’s friends, who could be defined at this point as people who were slightly more sober than he was and right now were sobering up very, very fast, because when you have just slapped a tyrant on the back you need all the friends you can get.

Vetinari nodded at his gentlemen, who evaporated back into the crowd, and then he snapped his fingers at one of the waiters. ‘A chair here, please, for my new friend.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Ridcully, as a chair was pushed under the man who, by happy coincidence, was falling backwards in any case.

‘I mean,’ said the man, ‘everary one saysh you’re a bit of a wnacker, but I saysh you’re awright over thish football fing. ’Sno future in jus’ shlogging away. I should know, I got kicked inna head quite a few times.’