Night Watch

melee and Vimes closed like a bull, knocking the sword up and grabbing Carcer by the throat.

“You're nicked, my ol' chum,” he said. And then it all went black.

He felt, later on, that there should have been more to it. There should have been rushing blue tunnels, or flashes, or the sun should have shot round and round the sky. Even pages tearing off a calendar and fluttering away would have been something.

But it was just the blackness of the deepest sleep, followed by pain as he hit the floor.

Vimes felt arms reach down and haul him to his feet. He shook them off as soon as he was upright, and focused, through the bleary mist, on the face of Captain Carrot.

“Good to see you, sir. Oh, dear—”

“I'm fine,” croaked Vimes, through a throat that felt stuffed with sand. “Where's Carcer?”

“You've got a nasty cut on—”

“Really? I'm amazed,” growled Vimes. “Now, where the hell is Carcer?”

“We don't know, sir. You just appeared in mid-air and landed on the floor. In a lot of blue light, sir!”

“Ah,” muttered Vimes. “Well, he's come back somewhere. Somewhere close, probably.”

“Right, sir, I'll tell the men to—”

“No, don't,” said Vimes. “He'll keep. After all, where's he going to go?”

He wasn't too sure of his legs. They felt as though they belonged to someone with a very poor sense of balance.

“How long was I…away?” he said. Ponder Stibbons stepped forward.

“About half an hour, your grace. Er, we have, er, hypothesized that there was some temporal disturbance, which, coupled with the lightning stroke and a resonance in the standing wave of the Library, caused a space-time rupture—”

“Yeah, it felt something like that,” said Vimes hurriedly. “Half an hour, did you say?”

“Did it feel longer?” said Ponder, taking out a notebook.

“A bit,” Vimes conceded. “Now, has anyone here got a pair of drawers I—”

I can see your house from up here…

That was Carcer. He liked you to stew, to use your imagination.

And Vimes had said: where's he going to go?

“Captain, I want you and every man you can spare, every damn man, to get up to my house right now, understand,” he said. “Just do it. Just do it now.” He turned to Ridcully. “Archchancellor, can you get me there faster?”

“The Watch wants magical assistance?” said the Archchancellor, taken aback.

“Please,” said Vimes.

“Of course, but you realize that you have no clothes on—”

Vimes gave up. People always wanted explanations. He set off, overruling the jelly in his legs, running out of the octangle and across the lawns until he reached the University's Bridge of Size, where he sped past Nobby and Colon who were drawn into the wake of watchmen running to keep up.

On the other side of the bridge was the garden known as the Wizard's Pleasaunce. Vimes ploughed through it, twigs whipping at his bare legs, and then he was out and on to the old towpath, mud splashing up over the blood. Then right and a left, past amazed bystanders, and then there were the catshead cobbles of Scoone Avenue under his feet and he found the wind to accelerate a little. He didn't slow until he reached the gravel drive, and almost collapsed at the front door, hanging on to the bell pull.

There were hurrying feet, and the door was wrenched open.

“If you're not Willikins,” growled Vimes, focusing, “there's going to be trouble!”

“Your grace! Whatever has happened to you?” said the butler, pulling him into the hall.

“Nothing!” said Vimes. “Just get me a fresh uniform, nice and quietly, and don't let Sybil know—”

He read everything in the way the butler's face changed.

“What's happened to Sybil?”

Willikins backed away. A bear would have backed away.

“Don't go up there, sir! Mrs Content says it's…all rather difficult, sir. Things aren't, um, happening quite right…”

“Is the child born?”

“No sir, a-apparently not, sir. It's rather…Mrs Content says she's trying everything but maybe we…ought to send for the doctors, sir.”

“For a childbirth?”

Willikins looked down. After twenty unflappable years as butler, he was shaking now. No one deserved a confrontation with Sam Vimes at a time like this.

“Sorry, sir…”

“No!” snapped Vimes. “Don't send for a doctor. I know a doctor! And he knows all about…this sort of thing! He'd better!”

He ran back outside in time to see a broomstick touch down on the lawn, piloted by the Archchancellor himself.

“I thought I'd better come along anyway,” said Ridcully. “Is there anything—”

Vimes swung himself on to it before the wizard could get off.

“Take me to Twinkle Street. Can you do that?” he said. “It's…important!”

“Hang on, your grace,” said Ridcully, and Vimes's stomach dropped into his legs as the stick climbed vertically. He made a small mental note to promote Buggy Swires and buy him the buzzard he'd always wanted. Anyone prepared to do this every day for the good of the city couldn't be paid too much.

“Try my left pocket,” said Ridcully, when they were well aloft. “There's something that belongs to you, I believe.”

Nervously, well aware of what a wizard's pocket might hold, Vimes pulled out a bunch of paper flowers, a string of flags of all nations…and a silver cigar case.

“Landed on the Bursar's head,” said the Archchancellor, steering around a seagull. “I hope it's not damaged.”

“It's…fine,” said Vimes. “Thank you. Er…I'll put it back for now, shall I? Don't seem to have any pockets on me at the moment.”

It found its way back, Vimes thought. We're home.

“And a suit of ornamental armour landed in the High Energy Magic building,” Ridcully went on, “and, I am happy to report, it is—”

“Very badly bent out of shape?” said Vimes. Ridcully hesitated. He was aware of Vimes's feelings of gilt.

“Excessively, your grace. Completely bent out of shape because of quantum thingummies, I suspect,” he said.

Vimes shivered. He was still naked. Even the hated formal uniform would have helped up here. But it didn't matter either way, now. Gilt and feathers and badges and feeling chilly…there were other things that mattered more, and always would.

He jumped off the stick before it had stopped, stumbled in a circle and fell against Dr Lawn's door, hammering on it with his fists.

After a while it opened a crack and a familiar voice, changed only a little with age, said “Yes?”

Vimes thrust the door fully open. “Look at me, Doctor Lawn,” he said.

Lawn stared. “Keel?” he said. In his other hand he was holding the world's biggest syringe.

“Can't be. They buried John Keel. You know they did,” said Vimes. He saw the huge instrument in the man's hand. “What the hell were you going to do with that?”