Night Watch

wet night. Rosie and the Aunts had melted away in the darkness, as night people do when trouble looms, but Vimes ran on and into Kings Way, pushing aside other pedestrians and dodging the occasional carriage.

He was getting a second wind when he reached Scoone Avenue and turned into the driveway of his house. He wasn't sure what he'd find, but the place looked normal and there were torches burning on either side of the door. Familiar gravel crunched under his feet.

He went to hammer on the door, but steeled himself not to, and rang the bell instead.

After a moment the door was opened by a butler.

“Thank goodness!” said Vimes. “It's me, man. Been in a fight. Nothing to worry about. How is—”

“What do you want?” said the butler coldly. He took a step back, bringing him more fully in the light of the hall lamps. Vimes had never seen him before.

“What's happened to Willikins?” said Vimes.

“The scullery boy?” Now the butler's tone was icy. “If you are a relative, I suggest you enquire round at the tradesmen's entrance. You ought to know better than to come to the front door.”

Vimes tried to think how to deal with this, but his fist didn't bother to wait. It laid the man out quite cleanly.

“No time for this,” said Vimes, stepping over him. He stood in the middle of the big hall and cupped his hands.

“Mrs Content? Sybil?” he yelled, feeling the terror twist and knot inside him.

“Yes?” said a voice from what Vimes had always called The Ghastly Pink drawing room, and Sybil stepped out.

It was Sybil. The voice was right, and the eyes were right, and the way she stood was right. But the age wasn't right. This was a girl, far too young to be Sybil…

She looked from him to the prone butler. “Did you do that to Forsythe?” she said.

“I…er…I…it's…there's been a mistake…” Vimes murmured, backing away. But Sybil was already pulling a sword off the wall. It wasn't there for show. Vimes couldn't remember if his wife had ever learned to fence, but several feet of edged weapon is quite threatening enough when wielded by an angry amateur. Amateurs sometimes get lucky.

He backed away hurriedly. “It's been a mistake…wrong house…mistaken identity…” He almost tripped over the fallen butler but managed to turn this into a staggering run through the doorway and down the steps.

Wet leaves brushed against him as he blundered through the shrubbery to the gateway, where he leaned against the wall and gulped for air.

That bloody Library! Hadn't he heard something, once, about how you could walk through time or something there? All those magical books pressed together did something strange.

Sybil had been so young. She'd looked sixteen! No wonder there wasn't a Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard! They'd only moved in there a few years ago!

The water was soaking through the cheap clothes. Back home…somewhere…was his huge leather greatcoat, heavy with oil, warm as toast…

Think, think, don't let the terror take control…

Perhaps he could go and explain things to Sybil. After all, she was still Sybil, wasn't she? Kind to bedraggled creatures? But even the softest heart would be inclined to harden when a rough, desperate man with a fresh scar and bad clothes barged into the house and said he was going to be your husband. A young woman could get quite the wrong idea, and he wouldn't want that, not while she was holding a sword. Besides, Lord Ramkin was probably still alive and he'd been a bloodthirsty old devil, as far as Vimes could recall.

He slumped against the wall and reached for a cigar and the I terror twisted him again.

There was nothing in his pocket. Nothing at all. No Pantweed's Slim Panatellas but, more importantly, no cigar case…

It had been specially made. It had a slight curve. It had always nestled in his pocket since the day Sybil had given it to him. It was as near part of him as any thing could be.

“We are here, and this is now.” Constable Visit, a strict believer in the Omnian religion, occasionally quoted that from their holy book. Vimes understood it to mean, in less exalted copper speak, that you have to do the job that is in front of you.

I am here, Vimes thought, and this is then. And less conscious parts of his brain added: you have no friends here. No home here. No purpose here. You are alone here.

No…not alone, said a part that was much, much deeper even than the terror, and was always on watch.

Someone was watching him.

A figure detached itself from the damp shadows of the street, and walked towards him. Vimes couldn't make out the face, but that didn't matter. He knew it would be smiling that special smile of the predator who knows he has the prey under his paw, and knows that the prey knows this too, and also knows that the prey is desperately going to act as if they're having a perfectly friendly conversation, because the prey wants, so much, for this to be the case…

You don't want to die here, said the deep dark part of Vimes's soul.

“Got a light, mister?” said the predator. He didn't even bother to wave an unlit cigarette.

“Why, yes, of course,” said Vimes. He went as if to pat his pocket but swung around, arm outstretched, and caught a man creeping up behind him right across the ear. Then he leapt for the light-seeker in front of him and bore him to the ground with an arm across his throat.

It would have worked. He knew, afterwards, that it really would have worked. If there hadn't been two more men in the shadows, it would have worked. As it was, he managed to kick one of them on the kneecap before he felt the garrotte go round his neck.

He was pulled upright, the scar screaming pain as he tried to clutch at the rope.

“You hold him right there,” said a voice. “Look what he did to Jez. Damn! I'm gonna kick him in—”

The shadows moved. Vimes, struggling for breath, his one good eye watering, was only vaguely aware of what was happening. But there were some grunts, and some soft, strange noises, and the pressure on his neck was abruptly released.

He fell forward, and then, reeling a little, struggled to his feet. A couple of men were lying on the ground. One was bent double, making little bubbling noises. And, far off and getting further, there were running footsteps.

“Lucky we found you in time, kind sir,” said a voice right behind him.

“Not lucky for some, dearie,” said one right next to it.

Rosie stepped forward, out of the gloom. “I think you ought to come back with us,” she said. “You're going to get hurt, running around like this. Come on. Obviously I'm not taking you back to my place—”

“—obviously,” murmured Vimes.

“—but Mossy'll find you somewhere to lay your head, I expect.”

“Mossy Lawn!” said Vimes, suddenly light-headed. “That's him! The pox doctor! I remember!” He tried to focus one tired eye on the young woman. Yes, the bone structure was right. That chin. That was a no-nonsense chin. It was a chin that took people somewhere. “Rosie…you're Mrs Palm!”

“Mrs?” she said, coldly, while the Agony Aunts giggled their high-pitched giggle. “I think not.”

“Well, I mean—” Vimes floundered. Of course, only the senior members of the profession adopted “Mrs” as an honorific. She wasn't senior yet. There wasn't even a guild.

“And I've never seen you before,” said Rosie. “And neither have Dotsie and Sadie, and they have an amazing memory for faces. But you know us and you act as if you own the place, John Keel.”

“Do I?”

“You do. It's the way you stand. Officers stand like that. You eat well. Maybe a bit too well. You could lose a few pounds. And then there's the scars all over you. I saw 'em in Mossy's place. Your legs are tanned from the knees down, and that says ‘watchman’ to me, because they go bare-legged. But I know every watchman in the city and you're not one of them, so maybe you're a military man. You fight by instinct, and dirty, too. That means you're used to fighting for your life in a melee, and that's odd, because that says to me ‘foot soldier’, not officer. The word