Unseen Academicals - Terry Pratchett [146]
‘I thought you were just someone who made clothes?’ said Trev.
‘Just. Someone. Who. Made. Clothes. Just someone?! I am not anyone. I am Pepe and I don’t make clothes. I create gorgeous works of art that just happen to require a body to show them off as they should be seen. Tailors and dressmakers make 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’t say I’ve got any time for the wizards, myself. Snooty lot. But it’s not going to be a game out there tomorrow, it’s going to be a war. Do you know a bloke called 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 done what he wanted. He’s broken the football, but that’s leaving a lot of sharp bits, 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 is going 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 this city 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 last thing you’ll want to see tomorrow is an edge. I’ll give you something that’s much 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 hide the disdain. ‘And you think that makes any difference, do you? You’ve got a star 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. You can 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’m not doing it for you. I’m protecting my investment and, on the way, that means protecting 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 absolute bastards if they felt like it, but Sam Vimes had no use for coppers that couldn’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 of dwarfs, and now he lived in the attic, which baked in the summer and froze in the winter. Carter survived because the walls were insulated with copies of Bows & Ammo, Back Street Pins, Stanley Howler’s Stamp Monthly, Giggles, Girls and Garters, Golem Spotter Weekly, and Fretwork Today. These were only the top layer. In self-defence against the elements, he glued old copies over the larger cracks and holes in the roof. As far as Trev knew, Carter had never persevered beyond a week with any of the hobbies indicated by his rather embarrassing library except, possibly, the one notoriously associated with the centrefolds of Giggles, Girls and Garters.
Mrs Carter opened the door to him and indicated the stairs with all the hearty welcome and hospitality that mothers extend to their sons’ no-good street friends. ‘He’s been ill,