‘Cor, this takes me back and so it does,’ said a voice. ‘I reckon I can stillremember every back alley in this place.’

‘I know you, it’s Pepe, isn’t it? You’re a dwarf?’ said Trev, trying not toturn round.

‘Sort of a dwarf,’ said Pepe.

‘But I don’t have no argument with you, do I?’ said Trev.

Something small and shiny appeared on the edge of Trev’s vision. ‘Sample pieceof moonsilver,’ said Pepe’s voice. ‘I could do more damage with a brokenchampagne bottle–and I have, believe you me. I wouldn’t threaten a bloke likeyou with a knife, not with that little girl doting on you like she is. Sheseems very happy with you and I’d like to keep her happy.’

‘Somethin’s goin’ down on the street,’ said Trev.

‘What, the whole street? Sounds like fun.’

‘Somethin’s gone wrong, ’asn’t it?’ said Trev.

Only now did Pepe enter his field of view. ‘Not really my problem at all,’ hesaid. ‘But there’re some kinds of people I just don’t like. I’ve seen too manyof ’em, bullies and bastards. If you want to learn athletics very quickly, beborn around here with a talent for design and maybe a few other littlepreferences. Lord Vetinari has got it all wrong. He thought he could take onthe football and it’s not working. It’s not like the Thieves’ Guild, see. Hehad it easy with the Thieves’ Guild. That’s because the Thieves’ Guild isorganized. Football ain’t organized. Just because he’s won over the captainsdon’t mean that everyone’s going to meekly get into line after them. There wasfights all over the place last night. Your chums with their shiny new footballand their shiny new jerseys are going to get creamed tomorrow. No, worse thancreamed–cheesed.’

‘I thought you were just someone who made clothes?’ said Trev.

‘Just. Someone. Who. Made. Clothes. Just someone?! I am not anyone. I am Pepeand I don’t make clothes. I create gorgeous works of art that just happen torequire a body to show them off as they should be seen. Tailors and dressmakersmake clothes. I forge history! Have you heard about micromail?’

‘Got yer. Yep,’ said Trev.

‘Good,’ said Pepe. ‘Now, what have you heard about micromail?’

‘Well, it doesn’t chafe.’

‘It’s got one or two other little secrets, too… ’ said Pepe. ‘Anyway, I can’tsay I’ve got any time for the wizards, myself. Snooty lot. But it’s not goingto be a game out there tomorrow, it’s going to be a war. Do you know a blokecalled Andy? Andy Shank?’

Trev’s heart sank. ‘What’s he gotta do with it?’

‘I just heard the name, but I reckon I know the type. Lord Vetinari has donewhat he wanted. He’s broken the football, but that’s leaving a lot of sharpbits, if you get my meaning.’

‘The Watch’ll be there tomorrow,’ said Trev.

‘What’s this? What’s this? A street face like you being glad that the Watch isgoing to be anywhere?’

‘There’ll be a lot of people watching.’

‘Yeah, won’t that be fun?’ said Pepe. ‘And, you know, there’s people in thiscity that would watch a beheading and hold their kiddies up for a better view.So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m not going to give you an edge, the lastthing you’ll want to see tomorrow is an edge. I’ll give you something that’smuch better than an edge. After all, you’re Dave Likely’s lad.’

‘I’m not playing,’ said Trev. ‘I promised my ol’ mum.’

‘You promised your old mum?’ said Pepe. There wasn’t even any attempt to hidethe disdain. ‘And you think that makes any difference, do you? You’ve got astar in your hand, lad. You’ll play, all right, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do.You come along and see me round the back entrance of Shatta, sorry about that,it sounds better in Dwarfish, and kick on the door round about midnight. Youcan bring a chum with you if you like, but you better bloody well come.’

‘Why do I ’ave to kick the door?’ said Trev.

‘Because you’ll have a bottle of best brandy in each hand. Don’t thank me. I’mnot doing it for you. I’m protecting my investment and, on the way, that meansprotecting yours as well. Off you go, boy. You’re late for training. And me?I’m a soddin’ genius!’

Trev noticed more watchmen around as he headed onwards. They could be absolutebastards if they felt like it, but Sam Vimes had no use for coppers thatcouldn’t read the streets. The Watch was jumpy.

Carter used to live in his mum’s cellar until she rented it out to a family ofdwarfs, and now he lived in the attic, which baked in the summer and froze inthe winter. Carter survived because the walls were insulated with copies ofBows & Ammo, Back Street Pins, Stanley Howler’s Stamp Monthly, Giggles, Girlsand Garters, Golem Spotter Weekly, and Fretwork Today. These were only the toplayer. In self-defence against the elements, he glued old copies over thelarger cracks and holes in the roof. As far as Trev knew, Carter had neverpersevered beyond a week with any of the hobbies indicated by his ratherembarrassing library except, possibly, the one notoriously associated with thecentrefolds of Giggles, Girls and Garters.

Mrs Carter opened the door to him and indicated the stairs with all the heartywelcome and hospitality that mothers extend to their sons’ no-good streetfriends. ‘He’s been ill,’ she announced, as if it were a matter of interestrather than concern.

This turned out to be an understatement. One of Carter’s eyes was a technicolormess and there was a livid scar on his face. It took some time for Trev to findthis out because Carter kept telling him to go away, but since the ramshackledoor was held shut with a piece of string, the application of Trev’s shoulderhad seen to that, at least.

Trev stared at the boy, who shrank back into his unspeakably dreadful bed as ifhe was expecting to be hit. He didn’t like Carter. No one liked Carter. It wasimpossible. Even Mrs Carter, who in theory at least should entertain somelukewarm affability to her son, didn’t like Carter. He was fundamentallyunlikeable. It was a sad thing to have to say, but Carter, farting orotherwise, was a wonderful example of charisntma. He could be fine for a day ortwo and then some utterly stupid comment or off-key joke or entirelyinappropriate action would break the spell. But Trev put up with him, seeing inhim, perhaps, what Trev might have been had he not been, in fact, Trev. Maybethere was a bit of Carter the Farter in every bloke at some time in his life hehad thought, but with Carter it wasn’t just a bit, it was everything.

‘What ’appened?’ Trev said.

‘Nuffin’.’

‘This is Trev. I know about nothin’ ’appenin’. You need to get to the hospitalwith that.’

‘It’s worse than it looks,’ Carter moaned.

Trev cracked. ‘Are you bloody stupid? That cut’s a quarter of an inch from youreye!’

‘It was my fault,’ Carter protested. ‘I upset Andy.’

‘Yeah, I can see where that’d have been your fault,’ Trev said.

‘Where were you last night?’ said Carter.

‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Well, it was a bloody war, that’s what it was.’

‘I found it necessary to spend a little time down the Lat. There was fightin’,wasn’t there?’

‘The clubs ’ave signed up to this new football and some people ain’t ’appy.’

Trev said, ‘Andy?’ and looked at the livid, oozing scar again. Yep, that lookedlike Andy being unhappy.

It was hard to feel sorry for someone as basically unlikeable as Carter, butjust because he had been born with Kick Me Up The Arse tattooed on to his soulwas no reason for doing it. Not to Carter. That was like pulling wings offflies.

‘Not just Andy,’ said Carter. ‘There’s Tosher Atkinson and Jimmy the Spoon andSpanner.’

‘Spanner?’ said Trev.

‘And Mrs Atkinson.’

‘Mrs Atkinson?’

‘And Willy Piltdown, Harry Capstick and the Brisket Boys.’

‘Them? But we hate them. Andy hates them. They hate Andy. One foot on theirturf and you get sent home in a sack!’