Night Watch

of power and responsibility. Incidentally, they say he can read the street through the soles of his boots and keeps them very thin for that purpose.”

“Hmm. There are plenty of different surfaces, that's true, but…”

“You're always so solemn about these things, Havelock. Not at all like your late father. Think… mythologically. He can read the street. He can hear its voice, take its temperature, read its mind; it talks to him through his boots. Policemen are just as superstitious as other people. Every other Watch House was attacked tonight. Oh, Swing's people egged it on, but it was malice and stupidity that did the most damage. But not in Treacle Mine Road. No. Keel opened the doors and let the street inside. I wish I knew more about him. I'm told that in Pseudopolis he was considered to be slow, thoughtful, sensible. He certainly seems to have bloomed here.”

“I inhumed a man who attempted to nip him in the bud.”

“Really? That doesn't sound like Swing. How much do I owe you?”

The young man called Havelock gave a shrug. “Call it a dollar,” he said.

“That's very cheap.”

“He wasn't worth more. I should warn you, though. Soon you may want me to deal with Keel.”

“Surely someone like him wouldn't side with people like Winder and Swing?”

“He's a side all by himself. He is a complication. You may think it best if he…ceased to complicate.”

The rattling of the coach underlined the silence this remark caused. It was moving through a richer part of the city now, where there was more light and the curfew, being for poorer people, was less rigorously observed. The figure opposite the Assassin stroked the cat on her lap.

“No. He'll serve some purpose,” said Madam. “Everyone is telling me about Keel. In a world where we all move in curves he proceeds in a straight line. And going straight in a world of curves makes things happen.”

She stroked the cat. It yowled softly. It was ginger and had an expression of astonishing smugness, although periodically it scratched at its collar.

“On a different subject,” she said, “what was that business with the book? I did not like to take too much notice.”

“Oh, it was an extremely rare volume I was able to track down. On the nature of concealment.”

“That stupid hulk of a boy burned it!”

“Yes. That was a piece of luck. I was afraid he might try to read it, although,” Havelock smiled wanly, “someone would have had to help him with the longer words.”

“Was it valuable?”

“Priceless. Especially now it has been destroyed.”

“Ah. It contained information of value. Possibly involving the colour dark green. Will you tell me?”

“I could tell you,” Havelock smiled again. “But then I would have to find someone to pay me to kill you.”

“Then don't tell me. But I do think Dog-botherer is an unpleasant nickname.”

“When your name is Vetinari, Madam, you're happy enough if it's merely Dog-botherer. Can you drop me off a little way from the Guild, please? I'll go in via the roof. I have a tiger to attend to before I go up to…you know.”

“A tiger. How exciting.” She stroked the cat again. “You've found your way in yet?”

Vetinari shrugged. “I've known my way for years, Madam. But now he has half a regiment around the palace. Four or five guards on each door, with irregular patrols and spot checks. I can't get through them. Only let me get inside, please, and the men there are no problem.”

The cat pawed at its collar.

“Is it possible that he is allergic to diamonds?” said Madam. She held up the cat. “Is oo allergic to diamonds, den?”

Havelock sighed, but inwardly, because he respected his aunt. He just wished she was a bit more sensible about cats. He felt instinctively that if you were going to fondle a cat while discussing matters of intrigue, then it should be a long-haired white one. It shouldn't be an elderly street tom with irregular bouts of flatulence.

“What about the sergeant?” he said, shifting along the seat as politely as possible.

The lady all in lilac lowered the cat gently on to the seat. There was a distressing smell.

“I think I should meet Mr Keel as soon as possible,” she said. “Perhaps he can be harnessed. The party is tomorrow night. Uh…do you mind opening the window?”

A little later that night, Downey was walking unsteadily back to his study after a convivial time in the Prefects' Common Room when he noticed that a torch had gone out.

With a swiftness that might have surprised someone who saw no further than his flushed face and unsteady walk, he pulled out a dagger and scanned the corridor. He glanced up at the ceiling, too. There were grey shadows everywhere, but nothing more than that. Sometimes, torches did go out all by themselves.

He stepped forward.

When he woke up in his bed next morning he put the headache down to some bad brandy. And some scag had painted orange and black stripes on his face.

It started to rain again. Vimes liked the rain. Street crime went down when it rained. People stayed indoors. Some of the best nights of his career had been rainy, when he'd stood in the shadows in the lee of some building, head tucked in so that there was barely anything showing between his helmet and his collar, and listened to the silvery rustle of the rain.

Once he'd been standing so quietly, so withdrawn, so not there that a fleeing robber, who'd evaded his pursuers, had leaned against him to catch his breath. And, when Vimes put his arms around him and whispered “Gotcha!” into his ear, the man had apparently done in his trousers what his dear mother, some forty years before, had very patiently taught him not to do.

The people had gone home. The sewn-up Gappy had been escorted to New Cobblers, where Fred Colon had patiently explained events to the man's parents with his round red face radiating honesty. Lawn was possibly getting some use out of his bed.

And the rain gurgled in the downpipes and gushed from the gargoyles and swirled in the gutters and deadened all sound.

Useful stuff, rain.

Vimes picked up the bottle of Mrs Arbiter's best ginger beer. He remembered it. It was as gassy as hell and therefore hugely popular. A young boy could, with encouragement and training, eventually manage to belch the whole first verse of the national anthem after just one swig. This is an important social attribute when you're eight years old.

He'd chosen Colon and Waddy for this task. He wasn't going to involve young Sam. It wasn't that what he was planning was illegal, as such, it was just that it had the same colour and smell as something illegal and Vimes didn't want to have to explain.

The cells were old, much older than the building above them. The iron cages were fairly new, and didn't take up all the space. There were other cellars beyond an arch, containing nothing more than rats and rubbish but, importantly, they couldn't be seen from the cages.

Vimes got the men to carry the dead bowman through. Nothing wrong with that. It was the middle of the night, filthy weather, no sense in waking up the people at the mortuary when there was a nice cold cellar.

He watched through the spy hole in the door as the body was taken past the cells. It caused a certain stir, especially in the first man he'd brought in. The other two had the look of men who'd seen a lot of bad stuff in the name of making money; if they were hired to steal or murder or be a copper it was all the same to them, and they'd learned not to react too readily to deaths that were not their own.

The first man, though, was getting nervous.

Vimes had nicknamed him Ferret. He was the best-dressed of the three, all in black; the dagger had been expensive and, Vimes had noticed, he had a silver Death's Head ring on one finger. The other two had dressed nondescript and their weapons had been workmanlike, nothing much to look at but well used.