‘Well, you know what they say,’ said Carter. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my enemy.’

‘I think you got that wrong,’ said Trev. ‘But I know what you mean.’

Trev stared at nothing, utterly aghast. The subjects of that litany of names were Faces. Hugely influential in the world of the teams and, more importantly, among the supporters. They owned the Shove. Pepe had been right. Vetinari thought the captains were in charge and the captains were not in charge. The Shove was in charge and the Faces ran the Shove[18].

‘There’s going to be a team put together for tomorrow and they’ll try to get as many of them in as possible,’ Carter volunteered.

‘Yeah, I heard.’

‘They’re going to show Vetinari what they think of his new football.’

‘I didn’t hear the name of the Stollops there,’ Trev said.

‘I hear their dad’s got them doing choir practice every night,’ said Carter.

‘The captains did sign up,’ said Trev, ‘so it’ll look bad for them. But ’ow much do you think Andy and his little chums care ’bout that?’ He leaned forward. ‘Vetinari’s got the Watch, though, ’asn’t he? And you know about the Watch. Okay, so there’s some decent bastards among ’em when you get ’em by theirselves, but if it all goes wahoonie-shaped they’ve got big, big sticks and big, big trolls and they’ve not got to bother too much about who they hit because they’re the Watch, which means it’s all legal. And, if you get ’em really pissed off, they’ll add a charge of damaging their truncheons with your face. And talking of faces, exactly ’ow come you’re a quarter-inch away from being a candidate for a white stick?’

‘I told Andy I didn’t think it was a good idea,’ said Carter.

Trev couldn’t hide his surprise. Even that much bravery was alien to Carter. ‘Well, as it ’appens, it might be a blessin’ in disguise. You just stay here in bed and you won’t end up stuck between the Old Sam and Andy.’

He stopped because of a rustling noise.

Since Carter glued pages of his used magazines to the walls with flour-and-water paste, the attic was home to some quite well fed mice, and for some reason, one of them had just gnawed its way to freedom via the chest of last year’s Miss April, thus giving her a third nipple, which was, in fact, staring at Trev and wobbling. It was a sight to put anyone off their tea.

‘What’re you goin’ to do?’ said Carter.

‘Anything I can,’ said Trev.

‘You know Andy’s out to get you? You and that weird bloke.’

‘I’m not afraid of Andy,’ said Trev. As a statement, this was entirely true. He was not frightened of Andy. He was mortally terrified to his boots and back again, with a visceral fear that dripped off his ribs like melting snow.

‘Everyone’s afraid of Andy, Trev. If they’re smart,’ said Carter.

‘Hey, Fartmeister, I’m Trevor Likely!’

‘I think you’re goin’ to need a lot more than that.’

I am going to need a lot more than that, thought Trev, travelling at speed across the city. If even Pepe knew there was something on the boil, then surely the Old Sam would know too? Oops.

He sprinted quickly to the horse bus’s rear platform and landed in the road before the conductor was anywhere near. If they didn’t catch you on the bus then they couldn’t catch you at all, and while they were issued with those big shiny choppers to deter non-paying passengers, everyone knew that a) they were too scared to use them and b) the amount of trouble they would get into if they actually whacked a respectable member of society did not bear thinking of.

He darted through the alley into Cockbill Street, spotted another bus plodding its way in the right direction, jumped on to the running board and held on. He was lucky this time. The conductor gave him a look and then very carefully did not see him.

By the time he reached the big junction known as Five Ways, he had travelled almost the width of the city at an average speed faster than walking pace and had hardly had to run very far at all. A near perfect result for Trev Likely, who wouldn’t walk if he could ride.

And there, right in front of him, was the Hippo. It used to be a racetrack until all that was moved up to the far end of Ankh. Now, it was just a big space that every large town needs for markets, fairs, the occasional insurrection and, of course, the increasingly popular cart-tail sales, which were very fashionable with people who wanted to buy their property back.

It was full today, without even a stolen shovel to be seen. All over the field, people were kicking footballs about. Trevor relaxed a little. There were pointy hats in the distance and no one seemed to be doing any murder.

‘Wotcher, howya doing?’

He adjusted his eyeline down a little bit. ‘How’s it goin’, Throat?’

‘I’m hearing you’re kind of associated with Unseen Academicals,’ said Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the city’s most enterprising but inexplicably least successful businessman.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to sell pies?’

‘Nah, nah, nah,’ said Dibbler. ‘Too many amateurs here today. My pies aren’t just knocked up out of rubbish for a load of drunken old football fans.’

‘So your pies are for—?’ Trev left the question hanging in the air with a noose on the end of it.

‘Anyway, pies are so yesterday,’ said Dibbler dismissively. ‘I am on the ground floor of football memorabilityness.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Like genuine autographed team jerseys and that sort of thing. I mean, look here.’ Dibbler produced from the large tray around his neck a smaller version of what one of the new gloing! gloing! footballs would be if it were about a half of the size and had been badly carved out of wood. ‘See those white patches? That’s so they can be signed by the team.’

‘You’re goin’ to get them signed, are you?’

‘Well, no, I think people would like to get that done themselves. The personal touch, you know what I mean?’

‘So they’re actually just painted balls of wood and nothin’ else?’ said Trev.

‘But authentic!’ said Dibbler. ‘Just like the shirts. Want one? Five dollars to you, and that’s cutting me own throat.’ He produced a skimpy red cotton item and waved it enticingly.

‘What’s that?’

‘Your team colours, right?’

‘Two big yellow Us on the front?’ said Trev. ‘That’s wrong! Ours has got two little Us interlocked on the left breast like a badge. Very stylish.’

‘Pretty much the same,’ said Dibbler airily. ‘No one’ll notice. And I had to keep the price down for the kiddies.’

He leaned closer. ‘Anything you can tell me about the game tomorrow, Trev? Looks like the teams are putting together a tough squad. Vetinari’s not going to get it all his own way for once?’

‘We’ll play a good game, you’ll see,’ said Trev.

‘Right! Can’t lose with a Likely playing, right?’

‘I just help around the place. I’m not playin’. I promised my ol’ mum after Dad died.’

Dibbler looked around at the crowded stadium of the Hippo. He appeared to have something else on his mind other than the need for the next dollar. ‘What happens if your lot lose?’ he said.

‘It’s only a game,’ said Trev.

‘Ah, but Vetinari’s got his reputation based on it.’

‘It’s a game. One side wins, one side loses. Just a game.’

‘A lot of people aren’t thinking like that,’ said Dibbler. ‘Things always come out well for Vetinari,’ he went on, staring at the sky. ‘And that’s the magic, see? Everyone thinks he always gets it right. What do you think will happen if he gets things wrong?’

‘It’s just a game, Throat, only a game… Be seein’ you.’ Trev wandered onwards. People were putting up tiers of wooden stands on one side of the arena, and because this was Ankh-Morpork, when two or more people gathered together thousands turned up just to wonder why.

And there was Mr Ponder Stibbons, sitting at a long table with some of the football captains. Oh, yes, the Rules Committee. There had been talk about that. Even with the rules written down, and half of them as old as the game itself, there were a few things that had to be made clear. He arrived in time to hear Ponder say, ‘Look, you can’t have a situation in the new game where people hang around right next to the other team’s goal.’