‘Don’t you ever get upset, Dogbotherer?’
‘Oh yes, Downey,’ said the reader. He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘And now, I believe, I will have an early night.’ He nodded at the table. ‘Good evening, Downey, gentlemen…’
‘You’re a scag, Vetinari.’
‘Just as you say, Downey.’
Vimes thought better when his feet were moving. The mere activity calmed him down and shook his thoughts into order.
Apart from the curfew and manning the gates, the Night
Watch didn’t do a lot. This was partly because they were incompetent, and partly because no one expected them to be anything else. They walked the streets, slowly, giving anyone dangerous enough time to saunter away or melt into the
shadows, and then rang the bell to announce to a sleeping world, or at any rate a world that had been asleep, the fact that all was, despite appearances, well. They also rounded up the quieter sort of drunk and the more docile kinds of stray cattle.
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They think I’in a spy for Winder? thought Vimes. Spying on the Treacle Mine Road Watch? It’s like spying on dough.
Vimes had flatly refused to carry a bell. Young Sam had acquired a lighter one, but out of deference to Vimes’s crisply expressed wishes, kept the clapper muffled with a duster.
Is the wagon going out tonight, sarge?’ said young Sam, as the twilight faded towards night.
‘Yes. Colon and Waddy are on it.’
‘Taking people to Cable Street?’
‘No,’ said Vimes. ‘I told them to take everyone to the Watch House and Snouty’ll fine ’em half a dollar and take their name and address. Perhaps we’ll have a raffle.’
‘We’ll get into trouble, sarge.’
‘The curfew’s just to frighten people. It doesn’t mean much.’
‘Our mum says there’s going to be trouble soon,’ said Sam.
‘She heard it in the fish shop. Everyone says it’s going to be Snapcase at the palace. He listens to the people.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Vimes. And I listen to the thunder. But I don’t do anything about it.
‘Our mum says everyone’ll have a voice in the city when Snapcase is the Patrician,’ Sam went on.
‘Keep the voice down, kid.’
‘The day’ll come when the angry masses will rise up and throw off their shekels, the fishmonger says,’ said Sam.
If I was a spy for Swing, that fishmonger would be gutted, Vimes thought. Quite the revolutionary, our mum.
He wondered if it was at all possible to give this idiot some lessons in basic politics. That was always the dream, wasn’t it? ‘I wish I’d known then what I know now’? But when you got older you found out that you now wasn’t you then. You then was a twerp. You then was what you had to be to start out on the rocky
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road of becoming you now, and one of the rocky patches on that road was being a twerp.
A much better dream, one that’d ensure sounder sleep, was not to know now what you didn’t know then.
‘What’s your dad do?’ he said, as if he didn’t know.
‘He passed away a long time ago, sarge,’ said Sam. ‘When I was little. Run down by a cart when he was crossing the street, our mum said.’
What a champion liar she was, too.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Vimes.
‘Er, our mum says you’d be welcome round to tea one night, what with you being all by yourself in a strange city, sarge.’
‘Would you like me to give you another tip, lad?’ said Vimes.
‘Yes, sarge, I’in learning a lot.’
‘Lanceconstables do not invite their sergeants round to tea.
Don’t ask me why. It’s one of those things that does not happen.’
‘You don’t know our mum, sarge.’
Vimes coughed. ‘Mums are mums, lanceconstable. They don’t like to see men managing by themselves, in case that sort of thing catches on.’
Besides, I know she’s been up in Small Gods these past ten years. I’d rather put one hand flat on the table and give Swing the hammer than walk down Cockbill Street today.
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘she says she’s going to make you some Distressed Pudding, sarge. She makes great Distressed Pudding, our mum.’
The best, thought Vimes, staring into the middle distance. Oh, gods. The very best. No one has ever done it better.
‘That’d be… very kind of her,’ he managed.
‘Sarge,’ said Sam after a while, ‘why are we patrolling Morphic Street? It’s not our beat.’
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‘I switched beats. I ought to see as much of the city as possible,’ said Vimes.
‘Not a lot to see in Morphic Street, sarge.’
Vimes looked at the shadows. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing what you see if you concentrate.’ He pulled Sam into a doorway. ‘Just whisper, lad,’ he said. ‘Now, look down there at the house opposite. See that doorway with the deeper shadow?’
‘Yes, sarge,’ whispered Sam.
‘Why’s it such a deep shadow, d’you think?’
‘Dunno, sarge.’
‘ ‘cos someone in black is standing in it, that’s why. So we’re going to walk a little further and then we’ll just turn around and go back round the corner. We’re heading back to the station like good boys because our cocoa’s getting cold, see?’
‘Right, sarge.’
They ambled back around the corner, and Vimes let them
walk sufficiently far up the street that the footsteps died away naturally.
‘Okay, this is far enough,’ he said.
Give Sam his due, Vimes thought, he knew how to stand still.
He’d have to teach him how to unfocus himself, too, so that you could very nearly fade out of sight on a cloudy day. Had Keel taught him that? After a certain age, memory was indeed an untrustworthy thing…
The city’s clocks chimed the threequarterhour.
‘What time’s curfew?’ Vimes whispered.
‘Nine o’clock, sarge.’
‘Must be nearly that now,’ said Vimes.
‘No, it’s only just gone a quarter to nine, sarge.’
‘Well, it’s going to take me a few minutes to get back. I want you to sneak back after me and wait at the corner. When it starts,
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you come running and banging that bell of yours.’
‘When what starts, sarge? Sarge?’
But Vimes was walking noiselessly down the road. He made a note to tip Snouty a dollar. These boots were like foot gloves.
Torches spluttered on the junction, destroying the night vision of anyone who looked in that direction. Vimes padded around its dark penumbra and sidled along the buildings on the far wall until he was level with the door. Then he swung around the frame and shouted.
‘You’re nicked, chum!’
‘–!’ said the shadow.
‘And that’s offensive language, sir, such as I would not wish my young lanceconstable to hear!’
Behind him he heard Lance-Constable Vimes advancing at a run, ringing his bell madly and shouting, ‘Nine o’clock and all’s not well at all!’ And there were other sounds, too, the ones Vimes had been halflistening for, of doors slamming and distant footsteps hurrying away.
. ‘You bloody fool!’ said the struggling figure in black. ‘What the hell are you playing at!’ He pushed at Vimes, who
nevertheless tightened his grip.
‘That, sir, is assault upon a Watch officer,’ said Vimes.
‘I’in a Watch officer too, you damn flatfoot! From Cable Street!’
‘Where’s your uniform?’
‘We don’t wear uniforms!’
‘Where’s your badge!’
‘And we don’t carry badges!’
‘Hard to see why I shouldn’t think you is a common thief then, sir. You was casing that house over there,’ said Vimes, happy in the role of big, thick, but horribly unshakeable copper. ‘We seen
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you.’
‘There was going to be a meeting of dangerous anarchists!’
‘What kind of a religion is that, sir?’ Vimes patted the man’s belt. ‘Oh, dear, what have we here? A very nasty dagger. See this, Lance-Constable Vimes? A weapon, no doubt about it!
That’s against the law. Carried after dark, which is even more against the law! And it’s a concealed weapon!’
‘What do you mean, concealed?’ screamed the twisting
prisoner. ‘It was in a bloody sheath!’
‘Bloody, eh? Used it already, have you, sir?’ said Vimes. He thrust a hand into a pocket of the man’s black coat. ‘And… what’s this? A little black velvet roll with, I do believe, a complete set of lock picks? That’s Going Equipped for Burglary, that is.’
‘They’re not mine and you know it!’ the man snarled.
‘Are you sure, sir?’ said Vimes.
‘Yes! Because I keep mine in my inside pocket, you bastard.’
‘That’s Using Language liable to cause a Breach of the Peace,’
said Vimes.
‘Huh? You idiots have scared everyone away! Who’s going to be offended?’
‘Well, I might be. I’in sure you don’t want that, sir.’
‘You’re that stupid sergeant we’ve been told about, aren’t you,’
growled the man. ‘Too thick to see what’s going on, right? Well, this is where you find out, mister…’
He twisted out of Vimes’s grip, and there were a couple of sliding, metallic noises in the gloom. Wrist knives, thought Vimes. Even Assassins think they’re an idiot’s weapon.