Night Watch

day.

“Well done. Now Sergeant Keel's, please, Ned.”

Knock's friendly beam fixed on Vimes as the policeman fumbled with the lock. Vimes stared back, face blank as a slate, as the door creaked open.

“Oh dear, what have we here?” said Knock, without even bothering to look.

“It's a sack, sarge,” said Coates. “Something heavy in it, too.”

“Oh dear me,” said Knock, still staring at Vimes. “Open it up, lad. Gently. We don't want anything to get damaged, eh?”

There was a rustle of hessian, and then:

“Er…it's half a brick,” Ned reported.

“What?”

“A half brick, sir.”

“I'm saving up for a house,” said Vimes. There were one or two sniggers from the assembled men, but some of the faster thinkers were suddenly looking worried.

They know, thought Vimes. Well, lads, welcome to Vimes's Roulette. You spun the wheel and now you've got to guess where the ball is going to go…”

“Are you sure?” said Knock, turning to the open locker.

“It's just a sack, sarge,” said Ned. “And half a brick.”

“Is there a loose panel or something?” said Knock desperately.

“What, in a sack, sarge?”

“Well, that seems to be our lockers,” said Vimes, rubbing his hands together. “Who's next, Sergeant Knock?” Round and round the little ball goes, and where it stops, nobody knows…

“Y'know, person'ly, I think the captain's right, I don't think any of the men would—” Knock began, and faltered. Vimes's stare could have hammered rivets.

“I believe, sergeant, that since we have begun this, it should be concluded,” said Tilden. “That is only fair.”

Vimes took a couple of steps towards Coates and held out his hand. “Keys,” he said.

Coates glared at him.

“The keys, lance-corporal,” said Vimes.

He snatched them from Coates's hand, and turned to the line of lockers.

“Right,” he said. “Let's start with the well-known arch-criminal, Lance-Constable Vimes…”

Door after door was opened. The lockers, while possibly of interest to anyone studying the smells of unwashed clothing and the things that could grow on neglected socks, failed to produce a single silver inkstand.

It did turn up The Amorous Adventurs of Molly Clapper in Corporal Colon's locker, however. Vimes stared at the crude and grubby engravings like a long-lost friend. He remembered that book; it had gone around the Watch House for years, and as a young man he had learned a lot from some of the illustrations, although a good deal of what he'd learned had turned out to be wrong.

Fortunately, Captain Tilden's view was blocked and Vimes shoved the greasy book back on the shelf and said to the red-eared Colon: “Studying theory, eh, Fred? Good man. Practice makes perfect.”

Then he turned, at last, to Coates's locker. The man was watching him like a hawk.

The scratched door creaked open. Every neck craned to see. There was a stack of old notebooks, some civilian clothing and a small sack of what, when it was tipped out on to the floor, turned out to be laundry.

“Surprised?” said the lance-corporal.

Not half as much as you, Vimes thought.

He winked at Coates, and turned away. “Can I have a word with you in your office, captain?”

“Yes, sergeant, I suppose so,” said Tilden, looking around. “Oh, dear…”

Vimes gave the man some time to climb the stairs, then followed him into his office and tactfully closed the door.

“Well, sergeant?” said Tilden, collapsing into his chair.

“Have you looked everywhere, sir?” said Vimes.

“Of course, man!”

“I mean, sir, perhaps you put it in a desk drawer? Or the safe, perhaps?”

“Certainly not! I sometimes put it in the safe at weekends, but I'm…sure I didn't do that last night.”

Vimes noted the subtle uncertainty. He was doing a bad thing, he knew. Tilden was nearly seventy. At a time like that, a man learned to treat his memory as only a rough guide to events.

“I find, sir, that when a busy man has a lot on his plate he can do things that subsequently slip his mind,” he said. I know I do, he added to himself. I could put my house keys down in a bare room and not find them thirty seconds later.

“We've all been under a lot of pressure lately,” he added, knowing that Tilden frequently fell asleep during the afternoon until Snouty coughed very loudly outside the door before taking him his cocoa.

“Well, that's true,” said Tilden, turning desperate eyes to him. “All this curfew business. Very…unsettling. Forget my own head if it wasn't nailed on, what?”

He turned and looked at the green safe.

“Only had it a couple of months,” he muttered. “I suppose I…look the other way, will you, sergeant? May as well sort this out.”

Vimes obligingly turned his back. There was some clicking, and a creak, and then an intake of breath.

Tilden got to his feet, holding the silver inkstand. “I believe I've made a fool of myself, sergeant,” he said.

No, I've made a fool of you, thought Vimes, fervently wishing he hadn't. I'd intended to drop it into Coates's locker, but I couldn't…

…not after what I found in there.

“Tell you what, sir,” he volunteered, “we could say it was a kind of test.”

“I don't tell lies as a rule, Keel!” said the captain, but added, “I appreciate the suggestion, nevertheless. Anyway, I know I'm not as young as I was. Perhaps it's time to retire,” he sighed. “I have to say I've been considering it for some time.”

“Oh, don't talk like that, sir,” said Vimes, far more jovially than he felt. “I can't see you retiring.”

“Yes, I suppose I should see things through,” Tilden mumbled, walking back to his desk. “Do you know, sergeant, that some of the men think you are a spy?”

“Who for?” said Vimes, reflecting that Snouty delivered more than cocoa.

“Lord Winder, I assume,” said Tilden.

“Well, we all work for him, sir. But I don't report to anyone but you, if that's any help.”

Tilden looked up at him and shook his head sadly. “Spy or not, Keel, I don't mind telling you that some of the orders we've been getting lately have…not been thought out properly, in my opinion, what?”

He gave Vimes a glare as if defying him to produce the red-hot thumbscrews there and then.

Vimes could see how much the admission that abduction and torture and conspiracy to criminalize honest citizens might not be acceptable government policy was costing the old man. Tilden hadn't been brought up to think like that. He'd ridden off under the flag of Ankh-Morpork to fight the Cheese-Eaters of Quirm or Johnny Klatchian or whatever enemies had been selected by those higher up the chain of command with never a second thought about the Tightness of the cause, because that sort of thinking could slow a soldier down.

Tilden had grown up knowing that the people at the top were right. That was why they were at the top. He didn't have the mental vocabulary to think like a traitor, because only traitors thought like that.

“Haven't been here long enough to comment, sir,” said Vimes. “Don't know how you do things here.”

“Not like we used to,” mumbled Tilden.

“Just as you say, sir.”

“Snouty says you know your way around remarkably well, sergeant. For someone new to the city.”

That was a sentence with a hook on the end, but Tilden was an inexperienced angler.