Night Watch

Care to tell me where you were last night? Morphic Street, maybe?”

“Day off,” muttered Ned, rubbing his jaw.

“Right, right. None of my business. Seems to me we've failed to hit it off, Ned.”

“'sright.”

“You think I'm some kind of spy.”

“I know you're not John Keel.”

Vimes kept his face perfectly impassive—which was, he realized, a complete giveaway in itself.

“Why d'you say that?” he said.

“I don't have to tell you. You ain't a Watch sergeant, either. And you were lucky just now, and that's all I'm saying.” Ned got to his feet as the other watchmen filed out into the yard again.

Vimes let him go, and turned his attention to the men.

None of them had ever been taught anything. They'd learned, to a greater or usually a lesser extent, from one another. And Vimes knew where that road went. On that road coppers rolled drunks for their small change and assured one another that bribes were just perks, and it got worse.

He was all for getting recruits out on the street, but you had to train them first. You needed someone like Detritus bellowing at them for six weeks, and lectures about duty and prisoners' rights and the “service to the public”. And then you could hand them over to the street monsters who told them all the other stuff, like how to hit someone where it wouldn't leave a mark and when it was a good idea to stick a metal soup-plate down the front of your trousers before attending to a bar brawl.

And if you were lucky and they were sensible, they found somewhere between impossible perfection and the Pit where they could be real coppers—slightly tarnished, because the job did that to you, but not rotten.

He formed them into twos and set them attacking and defending. It was dreadful to watch. He let it go on for five minutes.

“All right, all right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Very good indeed. When the circus comes to town I'll definitely recommend you.” The men sagged, and grinned sheepishly as he went on: “Don't you know any of the moves? The Throat Slam, the Red Hot Poker, the Ribrattler? Say I'm coming at you with a big, big club…what do you do?”

“Run away, sarge,” said Wiglet. There was laughter.

“How far can you run?” said Vimes. “Got to fight sometime. Lance-Corporal Coates?”

Ned Coates had not been taking part. He'd been leaning against the wall in a sort of stationary swagger, watching the sad show with disdain.

“Sarge?” he said, propelling himself upright with the minimum of effort.

“Show Wiglet how it's done.”

Coates pulled out his truncheon. It was, Vimes saw, custom-made, slightly longer than the general issue. He took up station in front of the constable, with his back very expressively towards Vimes.

“What do you want me to do, sarge?” he said, over his shoulder.

“Show him a few decent moves. Take him by surprise.”

“Right you are, sarge.”

Vimes watched the desultory clatter of sticks. One, two, three…

–and around Ned came, truncheon whistling through the air.

But Vimes ducked under the blow and caught the man's arm in both hands, twisting it up behind his back and bringing his ear into immediate conjunction with Vimes's mouth.

“Not quite unexpected, sunshine,” he whispered. “Now, we'll both keep grinning because the lads are laughing at our Ned, isn't he a card, who keeps having another go at the ol' sarge, and we don't want to spoil their fun. I'm letting you go now, but you try it on one more time and you'll have to use both hands to pick up a spoon and you'll need to pick up a spoon, Ned, 'cos of living off soup by reason of having no damn teeth!” He relaxed his grip. “Who taught you all this stuff, anyway?”

“Sergeant Keel, sarge,” said Ned.

“You're doing a good job. Sergeant Keel!”

Vimes turned to see Captain Swing advancing across the yard.

He was smaller and slimmer in daylight and he looked like a clerk, and a clerk who was only erratically careful about his appearance; his hair was lank, and the thick black strands plastered across a central bald spot suggested that the man either had no mirror or completely lacked a sense of humour.

His coat, in the light, was old-fashioned but well cared for, but his buckled shoes were scuffed and generally downtrodden. Vimes's mother would have had something to say about that. A man ought to look after his boots, she always said. You could tell a man by the shine of his shoes.

Swing also carried a walking stick or, rather, an opera cane. It was just possible that he thought it made him look sophisticated rather than, say, like a man carrying an unnecessary length of wood. It was certainly a swordstick, because it rattled when it hit the pavement, and it did so now as he primly picked his way through the old targets and straw debris.

“Keeping the men up to scratch, I see,” he said. “Very well done. Is your captain here?”

“I believe not,” said Vimes, letting Coates go, “sir.”

“Ah? Well, perhaps you will give him this, Sergeant Keel.” Swing gave him a faint smile. “You had a successfulnight…I am given to understand.”

“We had a few visitors,” said Vimes, “sir.”

“Ah, yes. Misplaced zeal. It does not payto…underestimate you, sergeant. You are a man of resource. Alas, the other Houses were not so—”

“—resourceful?”

“Ah. Yes. I am afraid, sergeant, that some of my keener men feel you are anobstacle…to our very needful work. I, onthecontrary…believe that you are a man of iron adherence to the law and, while this hasledto…elements of friction because of your lack of full understanding of the exigencies of the situation, I know that you are a man after my own heart.”

Vimes considered the anatomical choices.

“That would be broadly correct, sir,” he said, “although I would not aspire that high.”

“Capital. I lookforwardto…our future co-operation, sergeant. Your new captain willundoubtedly…inform you of other matters, as he sees fit. Good day.”

Swing swivelled, and walked his jerky walk back to the gate. His men turned to follow him but one of them, who was wearing a plaster cast on one arm, made a gesture.

“Morning, Henry,” said Vimes.

He examined the letter. It was quite thick, and had a big embossed seal. But Vimes had spent too much time in the company of bad men, and knew exactly what to do with a sealed envelope.

He also knew how to listen. New captain. So…it was starting.

The men were watching him.

“They calling in more, hnah, soldiers, sarge?” said Snouty.

“I expect so,” said Vimes.

“They gave Captain Tilden the push, didn't they…”

“Yes.”

“He was a good captain!” Snouty protested.

“Yes,” Vimes said. No, he thought. He wasn't. He was a decent man and he did his best, that's all. He's well out of it now.

“What're we gonna do now, sarge?” said Lance-Constable Vimes.

“We'll patrol,” said Vimes. “Close in. Just these few streets.”

“What good'll that do?”

“More good than if we didn't, lad. Didn't you take the oath when you joined up?”

“What oath, sarge?”

He didn't, Vimes remembered. A lot of them hadn't. You just got your uniform and your bell and you were a member of the Night Watch.

A few years ago Vimes wouldn't have bothered about the oath either. The words were out of date and the shilling on a string was a joke. But you needed something more than the wages, even in the Night Watch. You