Night Watch

Oneness.

“Well, commander?” he said.

“Are you really like…policemen, for time?” said Vimes.

“Well, in a way,” said Sweeper.

“So…you make sure the good stuff happens?”

“No, not the good stuff. The right stuff,” said Sweeper. “But frankly, these days, we have our work cut out making sure anything happens. We used to think time was like a river, you could row up and down and come back to the same place. Then we found it acted like a sea, so you could go from side to side as well. Then it turned out to be like a ball of water; you could go up and down too. Currently we think it's like…oh, lots of spaces, all rolled up. And then there are time jumps and time slips and humans mess it up too, wasting it and gaining it. And then there's quantum, of course.” The monk sighed. “There's always bloody quantum. So what with one thing and another, we think we're doing well if yesterday happens before tomorrow, quite frankly. You, Mister Vimes, got caught up in a bit of…an event. We can't put it right, not properly. You can.”

Vimes sat back. “I've got no choice, have I?” he said. “As my old sergeant used to say…you do the job that's in front of you.” He hesitated. “And that's going to be me, isn't it? I taught me all I know…”

“No. I explained.”

“I didn't understand it. But perhaps I don't have to.”

Sweeper sat down.

“Good. And now, Mister Vimes, I'll take you back inside and I'll give you some background on the sergeant and we'll work out what you need to know from all this, and we can set up a little loop so that you can tell yourself what you need to know. No addresses, though!”

“And what'll happen to me?” said Vimes. “The me sitting here now? The…er…other me walks away and me, this me, you understand…Well, what happens?”

Sweeper gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Y'know,” he said, “it's very hard to talk quantum using a language originally designed to tell other monkeys where the ripe fruit is. Afterwards? Well, there will be a you. As much you as you are now, so who can say it's not you? This meeting will be…a sort of loop in time. In one sense, it will never end. In a way, it'll be—”

“Like a dream,” said Vimes wearily.

Sweeper brightened. “Very good! Yes! Not true, but a very, very good lie!”

“You know, you could've just told me everything,” said Vimes.

“No. I wouldn't be able to tell you everything and you, Mister Vimes, aren't in the mood for games like that. This way, a man you trust—that's you—will tell you all the truth you need to know. Then we'll do a little of what the younger acolytes call ‘slicing and glueing’, and Mister Vimes will go back to Treacle Mine Lane a little wiser.”

“How are you going to get hi—me back to the Watch House? Don't even think about giving me some kind of potion.”

“No. We'll blindfold you, twirl you round, take you the long way, and walk you back. I promise.”

“Any other advice?” said Vimes gloomily.

“Just be yourself,” said Sweeper. “See it through. There'll come a time when you'll look back and see how it all made sense.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn't lie. It'll be a perfect moment. Believe me.”

“But…” Vimes hesitated.

“Yes?”

“You must know there's another little problem if I'm going to be Sergeant Keel. I've remembered what day this is. And I know what's going to happen.”

“Yes,” said Sweeper. “I know, too. Shall we talk about that?”

Captain Tilden blinked. “What happened there?” he said.

“Where?” said Vimes, trying to fight down nausea. Time coming back had left him with a horrible sensation that he was really two people and neither of them was feeling at all well.

“You blurred, man.”

“Perhaps I'm a bit tired of this,” said Vimes, pulling himselves together. “Listen, captain, I am John Keel. I can prove it, okay? Ask me some questions. You've got my papers there, haven't you? They were stolen!”

Tilden hesitated for a moment. He was a man whose mind was ponderous enough to have momentum; it was quite hard for his thoughts to change direction.

“Who is Commander of the Pseudopolis Watch, then?” he said.

“Sheriff Macklewheel,” said Vimes.

“Aha! Wrong! Fallen at the very first fence, what? In fact, you fool, it's Sheriff Pearlie—”

“Hnah, excuse me, sir…” said Snouty nervously.

“Yes? What?”

“Hnah, it is Macklewheet, sir. Pearlie died last week. Heard it in the, hnah, pub.”

“Fell into the river when drunk,” said Vimes helpfully.

“That's what I heard, hnah, sir,” said Snouty.

Tilden looked furious. “You could've known that, what?” he said. “It doesn't prove anything!”

“Ask me something else, then,” said Vimes. “Ask me what Macklewheet said about me.” And I just hope I've got the answers right.

“Well?”

“Said I was the best officer on his force and he was sorry to see me go,” said Vimes. “Said I was of good character. Said he wished he could pay me the twenty-five dollars a month I was going to get here—”

“I never offered you—”

“No, you offered me twenty dollars and now that I've seen the mess here I'm not taking it!” Vimes rejoiced. Tilden hadn't even learned how to control a conversation. “If you pay Knock twenty dollars he owes you nineteen dollars change! The man couldn't talk and chew gum at the same time. And look at this, will you?”

Vimes dumped his handcuffs on the desk. The gaze of Snouty and Tilden swung to them as if magnetic.

Oh dear, thought Vimes, and stood up and lifted the crossbow out of Snouty's hands. It was all in the movement. If you moved with authority, you got a second or two extra. Authority was everything.

He fired the bow at the floor, then handed it back.

“A kid could open those cuffs and while Snouty here keeps a very clean jail he's completely drawers at being a guard,” said Vimes. “This place needs shaking up.” He leaned forward, knuckles on the captain's desk, with his face a few inches from the trembling moustache and the milky eyes.

“Twenty-five dollars or I walk out that door,” he said. It was probably a phrase never ever said before by any prisoner anywhere on any world.

“Twenty-five dollars,” murmured Tilden, hypnotized.

“And the rank will be sergeant-at-arms,” said Vimes. “Not sergeant. I'm not going to be given orders by the likes of Knock.”

“Sergeant-at-arms,” said Tilden distantly, but Vimes saw the hint of approval. It was a good military–sounding title, and it was still on the books. In fact it was a pretty ancient pre- coppering term, back in the days when a court employed a big man with a stick to drag miscreants in front of it. Vimes had always admired the simplicity of that arrangement.

“Well, er, Sheriff Macklewheet, er, certainly gave you a most glowing reference,” said the captain, shuffling the papers. “Very glowing. Things have been a little difficult since we lost Sergeant Wi—”

“And I'll be paid my first month in advance, please. I need clothes and a decent meal and somewhere to sleep.”