Night Watch

“After that fall?” said Vimes. “He must've been limping, at least! Look, I've got to get—”

And then he noticed all the other things. He'd been picking them up all the time, but only now did his subconscious present the list.

He wasn't wearing his own clothes…

“What happened to my uniform?” he said, and he noticed the I-told-you-so expression the woman gave the doctor.

“Whoever attacked you stripped you down to your drawers and left you lying in the street,” she said. “I found you some spare clothes at my place. It's amazing what people leave behind.”

“Who took my armour?”

“I never know names,” said the woman. “I saw a bunch of men running off carrying stuff, though.”

“Ordinary thieves? Didn't they leave a receipt?”

“No!” she said, laughing. “Why should they?”

“And are we allowed to ask questions?” said the doctor, tidying his tools.

None of this was right…

“Well, I mean…thank you, yes,” said Vimes.

“What's your name?”

Vimes's hand stopped halfway to his face again.

“You mean you don't know me?” he said.

“Should we?” said the doctor.

None of this was right…

“This is Ankh-Morpork, isn't it?” said Vimes.

“Er, yes,” said the doctor, and turned to the woman. “There was a blow to the head,” he said, “but I wouldn't have thought it was that bad—”

“Look, I'm wasting time,” said the woman. “Who are you, mister?”

Everyone in the city knew Vimes, surely? The Guild of Seamstresses certainly did. And the doctor didn't look stupid. Perhaps this was not the right time to be totally truthful. He might just be somewhere where being a copper wasn't a good thing to be. It might be dangerous to be Vimes and, right now, he wasn't well enough to deal with it.

“Keel,” he said. The name just dropped into his mind; it had been bubbling under the surface of his thoughts all day, ever since the lilac.

“Yeah, right,” said the woman, smiling. “Want to make up a first name?”

“John,” said Vimes.

“Appropriate. Well…John, it's like this. Men lying flat out and naked around here aren't that uncommon. And, it's a funny thing, but they don't usually want anyone to know their real name, or where they live. You won't be the first one Doctor Lawn here has patched up. My name's Rosie. And now there's a little fee, you understand? For both of us.”

“All right, all right, I know how this goes,” said Vimes, holding up his hands. “This is the Shades, right?” They both nodded. “Okay, then. Thank you. I haven't got any money, obviously, but once I've got home—”

“I'll escort you, shall I?” said the woman, handing him a badly styled coat and a pair of antique boots. “I wouldn't like you to be attacked by anything. A sudden loss of memory, for example.”

Vimes snapped, but very gently. His face hurt and there were plenty of other bruises everywhere, and he was dressed in a suit that smelled like a privy. He'd go up the Watch House, get cleaned and changed and make a quick report, and head on home. And this young lady could spend a night in the cells and then be handed over to the Seamstresses' Guild. They came down heavily on extortion like this. It was bad for trade.

“All right,” he said. And pulled the boots on. The soles were made of thin, damp cardboard, and they were too tight.

Dr Lawn waved his hands in a general gesture of dismissal. “He's all yours, Rosie. You leave that patch on for a few days, Mr Keel, and with any luck you'll have a working eye. Someone took a slash at you with a sharp knife. I've done the best I can and the stitching is good, but you're going to have a nasty scar.”

Vimes raised his hand to his cheek yet again.

“And don't pick at it!” Lawn snapped.

“Come on…John,” said Rosie. “Let's get you home where you belong.”

They stepped out. Water was dripping from the eaves, but the rain had eased.

“I live up past Pseudopolis Yard,” said Vimes.

“Lead on,” said Rosie.

They hadn't reached the end of the street before Vimes was aware that a couple of dark figures had fallen in behind them. He was about to turn, but Rosie clamped a hand on his arm.

“Don't bother them, and they won't bother you,” she said. “They're just coming with us for protection.”

“Whose? Yours or mine?”

Rosie laughed. “Both,” she said.

“Yes, you just keep on walking, kind sir, and we'll be as quiet as little mice,” said a shrill voice behind him. A slightly deeper one said, “That's right, dearie. Just be a good boy and Aunty Dotsie won't have to open her handbag.”

“That's Dotsie and Sadie!” said Vimes. “The Agony Aunts! Well, they bloody well know who I am!”

He turned.

The dark figures, both wearing old-fashioned black straw hoods, stepped back. In the gloom there were a number of metallic noises, and Vimes forced himself to relax a little. Even though they were, more or less, on the same side as the Watch, you never quite knew where you were with the Agony Aunts. Of course, that's what made them so useful. Any customer disturbing the peace in one of the local houses of good repute feared the threat of the Aunts far more than he did the Watch. The Watch had rules. And the Watch didn't have Dotsie's handbag. And Sadie could do terrible things with a parrot-headed umbrella.

“Come on,” he said. “Dotsie? Sadie? Let's not mess about, eh?”

Something prodded him in the chest. He looked down. The thing had a carved parrot head on it.

“You must keep walking, kind sir,” said a voice.

“While you've still got toes, dearie,” said another voice.

“Probably a good idea,” said Rosie, tugging Vimes's arm. “But I can tell you've impressed them.”

“How?”

“You're not bent double and making bubbling noises. Come along, mystery man.”

Vimes stared ahead, looking out for the blue light of Pseudopolis Yard. Somehow, it'd all make sense there.

But, when he got there, there was no blue light over the archway. There were just a few lights upstairs.

Vimes hammered on the door until it opened a crack.

“What the hell's going on here?” he demanded, to the nose and one eye that was the visible totality of the occupant. “And get out of the way!”

He pushed the door back and strode in.

It wasn't the Watch House, not inside. There were the familiar stairs, right enough, but there was a wall right across the charge room, and carpets on the floor, and tapestries on the wall…and a housemaid holding a tray, and staring, and dropping the tray, and screaming.

“Where are all my officers?” Vimes yelled.

“You leave this minute, d'you hear? You can't just come in like that! You get out of here!”

Vimes turned, and confronted the old man who'd opened the door. He looked like a butler, and had picked up a cudgel. Perhaps because of nerves, or maybe just because of general elderly tremors, the tip of the cudgel waved and weaved under his nose. Vimes snatched it and threw it on the floor.

“What is going on?” he demanded. The old man looked as bewildered as he was.

Vimes felt an odd, hollow terror welling up inside him. He darted back through the open door and into the