Night Watch

No real Assassin would wear jewellery at work. It was dangerous and it shone. But Ferret wanted to be a big man. He probably checked himself in the mirror before he went out, to make sure he looked cool. He was the sort of little twerp that got a kick out of showing his dagger to women in bars.

Ferret, in short, had big dreams. Ferret had an imagination.

Well, that was fine.

The watchmen returned, and picked up the packages Vimes had prepared.

“Remember, we do it fast,” he said. “They're worried, they're tired, no one's come for them and they've just seen a very dead colleague. We don't want to give the first two time to think. Understand?”

They nodded.

“And we leave the little one until last. I want him to have lots of time…”

Ferret was considering his prospects. Regrettably, this didn't take long.

He'd already had a row with the other two. Some rescue team they'd been. They weren't even dressed right. But the brown-jobs hadn't done things as per spec. Everyone knew they backed away. They weren't supposed to fight back or show any kind of intelligence. They—

The main cell door was flung back.

“It's ginger beer time!” roared someone.

And a watchman ran through with a box of bottles, and disappeared into the rooms beyond.

There wasn't much light in here. Ferret cowered against the wall and saw two watchmen unlock the cell next door, drag the shackled occupant upright and out into the cellar and then hustle him around the corner.

The voices had a slight echo.

“Hold him down. Mind his legs!”

“Right! Let's have the bottle! Give it a proper shake, otherwise it won't work!”

“Okay, friend. Anything you want to tell us? Your name? No? Well, it's like this. Right now, we don't care a whole lot if you talk or not…”

There was a loud pop, a hiss and then…a scream, an explosion of agony.

After it had died away the trembling Ferret heard someone say, “Quick, get the next one, before the captain catches us.”

He cringed back as two watchmen rushed into the next cell, dragged out the struggling prisoner and hustled him into the darkness.

“All right. One chance. Are you going to talk? Yes? No? Too late!”

Once again the pop, once again the hiss, once again the scream. It was louder and longer this time, and ended in a kind of bubbling sound.

Ferret crouched against the wall, fingers in his mouth.

Around the corner, sitting in the light of one lantern, Colon nudged Vimes, wrinkled his nose and pointed down.

There was a gully that ran between all the cells, as a primitive sop to hygiene. Now a thin trickle was inching its way along it. Ferret was nervous.

Gotcha, thought Vimes. But a good imagination needs a little more time. He leaned forward, and the other two moved closer expectantly.

“So,” he said in a low whisper, “have you boys had your holidays yet?”

After a few minutes of very small talk he stood up, strode round to the last occupied cell, unlocked the door, and grabbed Ferret, who was trying to squeeze into a corner.

“No! Please! I'll tell you whatever you want to know!” the man yelled.

“Really?” said Vimes. “What's the orbital velocity of the moon?”

“What?”

“Oh, you'd like something simpler?” said Vimes, dragging the man out of the cell. “Fred! Waddy! He wants to talk! Bring a notebook!”

It took half an hour. Fred Colon wasn't a fast writer. And when the painful sound of his efforts concluded with the stab of his last full stop, Vimes said: “Okay, sir. And now you write down at the end: I, Gerald Leastways, currently staying at the Young Men's Pagan Association, am making this statement of my own free will and not under duress. And then you sign it. Or else. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The initials GL had been inscribed on the dagger. Vimes believed them. He'd met plenty of Leastwayses in his career, and they tended to spill their guts at the mere thought of spilling their guts. And when they did, you got everything. Anyone who had seen the ginger beer trick used on someone else would confess to anything.

“Well, now,” he said cheerfully, standing up. “Thank you for your co-operation. Want a lift to Cable Street?”

Ferret's expression, if not his mouth, said “huh?”

“We've got to drop off your friends,” Vimes went on, raising his voice slightly. “Todzy and Muffer. We'll drop the dead one off at the mortuary. Just a bit of paperwork for you.” He nodded at Colon. “One copy of your helpful statement. One certificate of death from the pox doctor for the late mystery man, and rest assured we'll try to track down his murderer. A chitty from Mossy about the ointment he put on Muffer's feet. Oh…and a receipt for six bottles of ginger beer.”

He put a hand on Ferret's shoulder and gently walked him round into the next cellar, where Todzy and Muffer were sitting gagged, bound and livid with rage. On a table near by was a box containing six flagons of ginger beer. The corks were heavily wired down.

Ferret stared at Vimes, who inserted a finger in his mouth, blew up his cheeks and flicked out the finger with a loud pop.

Waddy hissed between his teeth.

Fred Colon opened his mouth but Vimes clamped his hand over it.

“No, don't,” he said. “Funny thing, Gerald, but Fred here just screams out loud at times for no reason at all.”

“You tricked me!” Ferret wailed.

Vimes patted him on the shoulder. “Tricked?” he growled. “How so, Gerald?”

“You made me think you were doing the ginger beer trick!”

“Ginger beer trick?” said Vimes, his brow wrinkling. “What's that?”

“You know! You brought the stuff down here!”

“We don't drink alcohol on duty, Gerald,” said Vimes severely. “What's wrong with a little ginger beer? We don't know any tricks with the stuff, Gerald. What tricks do you know? Seen any good tricks lately, Gerald? Do tell!”

At last it dawned on Ferret that he should stop talking. It was about half an hour too late. The expressions on what could be seen of the faces of Todzy and Muffer suggested that they wanted a very personal word with him.

“I demand protective custody,” he managed.

“Just when I'm letting you go, Gerald?” said Vimes. “As you said in your statement…what was it, Fred? Something about just obeying orders? All that stuff about mixing with the mobs and throwing things at coppers and soldiers, you didn't want to do that, I know. You didn't like being round in Cable Street watching people being beaten up and being told what to confess to, 'cos it's plain to me that you're not that sort. You're small fry, I understand that. I say we call it quits, how about you?”

“Please! I'll tell you all I know!” Ferret squeaked.

“You mean you haven't?” Vimes roared. He spun round and grabbed a bottle.

“Yes! No! I mean, if I sit quiet I'm sure I'll remember some more!”

Vimes held his gaze for a moment, and then dropped the bottle back in the crate. “All right,” he said. “It'll be a dollar a day, meals extra.”

“Right you are, sir!”