Night Watch

And he'd said: “How can we tell they're a decent sort, corp?”

“Well, see how much they can afford.”

“You mean we let 'em go if they're rich?”

“Way of the world, lad, way of the world. No reason why we shouldn't get our share, eh? Did you see his moneybag? Five dollars should do it. Four for me and one for you, 'cos you're learning. That's nearly three days' pay, it'll cheer up your ol' mum no end, and where's the loser?”

“But suppose he's nicked the money, corp?”

“Suppose the moon was made of cheese? Would you like a slice?”

“I think it was five dollars, corporal,” said Vimes, and watched the man's lizard eyes flash towards the young lance-constable.

“No, the man in the cell talked,” lied Vimes. “Told me I was an idiot not to buy my way out. So, Mister Quirke, it's like this. They're crying out for good men in the Day Watch, but if you don't stand too close to the light you might pass. Get along there right now!”

“Everybody does it!” Quirke burst out. “It's perks!”

“Everybody?” said Vimes. He looked around at the squad. “Anyone else here take bribes?”

His glare ran from face to face, causing most of the squad to do an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronized Observation Team. Only three members met his gaze. There was Lance- Corporal Colon, who could be a little slow. There was a certain lance-constable, whose face was a mask of terror. And there was a dark-haired, round-faced constable who seemed to be puzzled, as if he was trying to remember something, but who nevertheless stared back with the firm steady gaze of the true liar.

“Apparently not,” said Vimes.

Quirke's finger shot out and vibrated in the direction of the young Sam Vimes.

“He shared it! He shared it!” he said. “You ask him!”

Vimes felt the shock run round the squad. Quirke had just committed suicide. You hung together against officers, fair enough, but when the jig was up you did not Drop Someone In The Cacky. They'd laugh at the idea of a watchman's honour, but it did exist in a blackened, twisty way. You Did Not Drop Your Mates In The Cacky. And especially you did not do it to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who wouldn't know any better.

Vimes turned, for the first time, to the young man he'd been avoiding.

Gods, was I ever that skinny? he thought. Did I ever have that much Adam's apple? Did I really try to polish rust?

The young man's eyes were almost back in his head, only the whites showing.

“Lance-Constable Vimes, isn't it?” he said quietly.

“Yessir!” said Sam hoarsely.

“At ease, lance-constable. Did you in fact take a share of the bribe?”

“Yessir! A dollar, sir!”

“At the instigation of Corporal Quirke?”

“Er…sir?”

“Did he offer it to you?” Vimes translated.

Vimes watched his own agony. You Did Not Drop Someone In The Cacky.

“All right,” he said at last. “I'll talk to you later on. Oh, you still here, Quirke? If you want to complain to the captain, that's fine by me. But if you don't get your stuff out of your locker in ten minutes I'll damn well charge you rent!”

Quirke looked around for immoral support, and found none. He'd gone too far. Besides, the Watch could see a storm of cacky when it was right overhead and were in no mood to stick their necks out for something like Quirke.

“I will,” he said. “I will complain to the captain. You'll see. You'll see. I've got four years' good conduct, I have—”

“No, that was four years' Not Found Out,” said Vimes. “Clear off.”

When Quirke's footsteps had died away Vimes glared at the squad.

“Good afternoon, lads, my name's John Keel,” he said. “We bloody well better get along fine. Now shine up, captain's inspection in two minutes, off you go…Sergeant Knock, a word, please.”

The men dispersed hurriedly. Knock stepped forward, not quite managing to conceal his nervousness. After all, his immediate superior now was a man who, last night, he had kicked in the nadgers. People could hold a grudge about a thing like that. And he'd had time to think.

“I'd just like to say, sir, about last night—” he began.

“I'm not bothered about last night,” said Vimes.

“You're not?”

“Would you recommend Fred Colon for corporal? I'd value your judgement.”

“You would?”

“Certainly. He looks a solid lad.”

“He is? I mean, yes, he is. Very thorough,” said Knock, relief rising off him like steam. “Doesn't rush into things. Wants to join one of the regiments.”

“Well, we'll give him a try while we've still got him. That means we'll need another lance-corporal. Who was that lad next to Colon?”

“Coates, sir. Ned Coates. Bright lad, sometimes thinks he knows better, but we were all like that, eh?”

Vimes nodded. His expression completely failed to give away the fact that, as far as he was concerned, there were things clinging to the underside of high branches that knew better than Sergeant Knock.

“A taste of responsibility might do him some good, then,” he said. Knock nodded, because at that point he would have agreed to absolutely anything. And his body language was saying: we're all sergeants together, right? We're talking about sergeanty things, like sergeants do. We're not bothered about anyone being kicked in the nadgers, eh? Not us! 'cos we're sergeants.

His eyes widened, and he saluted as Tilden entered the office. There was some half-hearted saluting among the squad, too. The captain acknowledged them stiffly, and looked nervously at Vimes.

“Ah, sergeant;” he said. “Settling in?”

“Yessir. No problems.”

“Well done. Carry on.”

When the man had disappeared up the creaking stairs Vimes turned back to Knock.

“Sergeant, we don't hand over prisoners without a receipt, understand? Never! What happens to them afterwards? Do you know?”

“They get questioned,” said Knock. “We takes 'em up there for questioning.”

“What kind of questions? How long it takes two men to dig half a hole?”

“What?” Knock's brow knitted.

“From now on, someone at Cable Street signs for prisoners or we bring them right back here,” said Vimes. “It's bloody elementary, sergeant. You hand 'em over, you get a docket. Don't you do that down at the Tanty?”

“Well, yeah, obviously, but…well, Cable Street…I mean, you don't know what it's like here, I can see that, but with the Unmentionables round at Cable Street it's best not to—”

“Listen, I'm not telling you to kick the door down and shout ‘put down those thumbscrews!’” said Vimes. “I'm telling you we keep track of prisoners. When you arrest a man, you sign him over to Snouty, don't you? When he leaves, Snouty or the orderly man signs him out, doesn't he? It's basic custody discipline, man! So if you hand a prisoner over to Cable Street, someone there gives you a signature. Understand? No one just disappears.”

Knock's face showed a man contemplating an immediate future that contained fewer opportunities for personal gain and a greatly raised risk of being shouted at.

“And just to make sure everyone understands, I'll ride the wagon tonight,” said Vimes. “But first I'll take that lad Vimes out for a stroll and shake him up a bit.”

“He could do with it,” said Knock. “Can't get his mind right. Good with his hands but you have to tell him