Night Watch

“What's that you're reading?” he snapped. “Robertson, show me what the Dog-botherer is reading, will you? Come on, pass it up.”

The boy next to the one currently known as Dog-botherer snatched the book off the stand and threw it along the length of the table.

The reader sighed and sat back as Downey gave the pages a cursory flick.

“Well, look here, you fellows,” he said. “Dog-botherer is reading a picture book.” He held it open. “Colour it in yourself with your paints or crayons, did you, Dog-botherer?”

The former reader stared up at the ceiling. “No, Downey. It was hand-coloured to his instructions by Miss Emelia Jane, the sister of Lord Winstanleigh Greville-Pipe, the author. It says so on the frontispiece, you will note.”

“And here's a lovely picture of a tiger,” Downey ploughed on. “Why're you looking at pictures, Dog-botherer?”

“Because Lord Winstanleigh has some interesting theories on the art of concealment, Downey,” said the reader.

“Huh? Black and orange tiger in green trees?” said Downey, turning the pages roughly. “Big red ape in green forest? Black and white zebra in yellow grass? What's this, a manual on how not to do it?”

Again there was a round of chuckles, but they were forced. Downey had friends because he was big and rich, but sometimes he was embarrassing to have around.

“As a matter of fact Lord Winstanleigh also has an interesting point to make on the dangers of intuitive —”

“This a Guild book, Dog-botherer?” Downey demanded.

“No, Downey. It was privately engraved some years ago and I succeeded in tracing a copy in—”

Downey's hand shot out. The book whirled away, causing a table full of younger boys to scatter, and landed at the back of the fireplace. The diners on the top tables looked round, and then turned back in disinterest. Flames licked up. For a moment, the tiger burned brightly.

“Rare book, was it?” said Downey, grinning.

“I think it may now be said to be non-existent,” said the one known as Dog-botherer. “That was the only extant copy. Even the engraved plates have been melted down.”

“Don't you ever get upset, Dog-botherer?”

“Oh yes, Downey,” said the reader. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “And now, I believe, I will have an early night.” He nodded at the table. “Good evening, Downey, gentlemen…”

“You're a scag, Vetinari.”

“Just as you say, Downey.”

Vimes thought better when his feet were moving. The mere activity calmed him down and shook his thoughts into order.

Apart from the curfew and manning the gates, the Night Watch didn't do a lot. This was partly because they were incompetent, and partly because no one expected them to be anything else. They walked the streets, slowly, giving anyone dangerous enough time to saunter away or melt into the shadows, and then rang the bell to announce to a sleeping world, or at any rate a world that had been asleep, the fact that all was, despite appearances, well. They also rounded up the quieter sort of drunk and the more docile kinds of stray cattle.

They think I'm a spy for Winder? thought Vimes. Spying on the Treacle Mine Road Watch? It's like spying on dough.

Vimes had flatly refused to carry a bell. Young Sam had acquired a lighter one, but out of deference to Vimes's crisply expressed wishes, kept the clapper muffled with a duster.

“Is the wagon going out tonight, sarge?” said young Sam, as the twilight faded towards night.

“Yes. Colon and Waddy are on it.”

“Taking people to Cable Street?”

“No,” said Vimes. “I told them to take everyone to the Watch House and Snouty'll fine 'em half a dollar and take their name and address. Perhaps we'll have a raffle.”

“We'll get into trouble, sarge.”

“The curfew's just to frighten people. It doesn't mean much.”

“Our mum says there's going to be trouble soon,” said Sam. “She heard it in the fish shop. Everyone says it's going to be Snapcase at the palace. He listens to the people.”

“Yeah, right,” said Vimes. And I listen to the thunder. But I don't do anything about it.

“Our mum says everyone'll have a voice in the city when Snapcase is the Patrician,” Sam went on.

“Keep the voice down, kid.”

“The day'll come when the angry masses will rise up and throw off their shekels, the fishmonger says,” said Sam.

If I was a spy for Swing, that fishmonger would be gutted, Vimes thought. Quite the revolutionary, our mum.

He wondered if it was at all possible to give this idiot some lessons in basic politics. That was always the dream, wasn't it? “I wish I'd known then what I know now”? But when you got older you found out that you now wasn't you then. You then was a twerp. You then was what you had to be to start out on the rocky road of becoming you now, and one of the rocky patches on that road was being a twerp.

A much better dream, one that'd ensure sounder sleep, was not to know now what you didn't know then.

“What's your dad do?” he said, as if he didn't know.

“He passed away a long time ago, sarge,” said Sam. “When I was little. Run down by a cart when he was crossing the street, our mum said.”

What a champion liar she was, too.

“Sorry to hear that,” said Vimes.

“Er, our mum says you'd be welcome round to tea one night, what with you being all by yourself in a strange city, sarge.”

“Would you like me to give you another tip, lad?” said Vimes.

“Yes, sarge, I'm learning a lot.”

“Lance-constables do not invite their sergeants round to tea. Don't ask me why. It's one of those things that does not happen.”

“You don't know our mum, sarge.”

Vimes coughed. “Mums are mums, lance-constable. They don't like to see men managing by themselves, in case that sort of thing catches on.”

Besides, I know she's been up in Small Gods these past ten years. I'd rather put one hand flat on the table and give Swing the hammer than walk down Cockbill Street today.

“Well,” said Sam, “she says she's going to make you some Distressed Pudding, sarge. She makes great Distressed Pudding, our mum.”

The best, thought Vimes, staring into the middle distance. Oh, gods. The very best. No one has ever done it better.

“That'd be…very kind of her,” he managed.

“Sarge,” said Sam after a while, “why are we patrolling Morphic Street? It's not our beat.”

“I switched beats. I ought to see as much of the city as possible,” said Vimes.

“Not a lot to see in Morphic Street, sarge.”

Vimes looked at the shadows.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “It's amazing what you see if you concentrate.”

He pulled Sam into a doorway.

“Just whisper, lad,” he said. “Now, look down there at the house opposite. See that doorway with the deeper shadow?”

“Yes, sarge,” whispered Sam.