Night Watch

“Baste a turkey, as a matter of fact. Look, who are you, then, because you look like—”

“Grab all your midwifing stuff and come with me now,” said Vimes. “All those funny tools you said worked so well. Bring 'em all. Right now. And I'll make you the richest doctor that ever lived,” said Vimes, a man wearing nothing but mud and blood.

Lawn gestured weakly towards the kitchen. “I'll just have to take the turkey out—”

“Stuff the turkey!”

“I already—”

“Come on!”

The broomstick did not fly well with three on board, but it was faster than walking and Vimes at this point knew he'd be incapable of anything else. He was out of breath and strength by the time he got home the first time. Now merely standing upright was a test of endurance. It was the broomstick or crawling.

It lumbered down out of the sky and landed unsteadily on the lawn.

“Lady upstairs, big bedroom on left,” said Vimes, pushing vaguely at the doctor. “Midwife there, not got a clue. All the money you want. Go on.”

Lawn hurried off. Vimes, helped by Ridcully, followed rather more stiffly, but as they reached the door the doctor came out walking backwards very slowly. It became apparent, as he emerged, that this was because Detritus's huge crossbow was pressed against his nose.

When Vimes spoke his voice was slightly muffled, because he was lying flat on the ground.

“Put the bow down, sergeant,” he managed.

“He come rushin' in, Mister Vimes,” rumbled Detritus.

“That's because he's the doctor, sergeant. Let him go upstairs. That is an order, thank you.”

“Right, Mister Vimes,” said Detritus, stepping aside with reluctance and shouldering the bow. At which point, the bow discharged.

When the thunder had died away Vimes got up and looked around. He hadn't actually liked the shrubbery very much. That was just as well. Nothing remained but some tree trunks, and they were all stripped of bark down one side. There were a few small fires.

“Er, sorry about that, Mister Vimes,” said the troll.

“What did I tell you about Mister Safety Catch?” said Vimes weakly.

“When Mister Safety Catch Is Not On, Mister Crossbow Is Not Your Friend,” recited Detritus, saluting. “Sorry, sir, but we all a bit tense at dis time.”

“I certainly am,” said Ridcully, picking himself off the lawn and pulling twigs out of his beard. “I may not walk properly for the rest of the day. I suggest, sergeant, that we pick the doctor up, bring him round under the pump, and take him upstairs—”

The things that happened next were a waking dream for Vimes. He moved like a ghost through his own house, which was full of watchmen. No one wanted to be anywhere else.

He shaved himself very slowly, concentrating on every stroke. He was aware of noises off, which arrived via the pink clouds in his head.

“—he says he wants them boiled, the nasty horrid things! What's that for, to make them softer?”

“—trolls and dwarfs on tonight, every door and window covered and I mean covered–”

“—stood over me and said damn well boil them for twenty minutes! Like they were cabbage–”

“—now he's asked for a small brandy–”

“—Mrs Content stormed out and he said not to let her in again–”

“—Igor came and offered to help and Lawn took one look and said only if he's been boiled for twenty minutes–”

“—pox doctor, when all's said and done–”

“—old Stoneface'll cover him with gold if it all turns out right–”

“—yeah, and if it turns out wrong?”

Vimes got dressed in his street uniform, moving slowly and willing every limb into position. He brushed his hair. He went out into the hall. He sat down on an uncomfortable chair with his helmet on his knees, while ghosts both living and dead hurried around him.

Usually—always—there was a part of Vimes that watched the other parts, because he was at heart a policeman. This time it wasn't there. It was in here with the rest of him, staring at nothing, and waiting

“—someone take up more towels–”

“—now he's asked for a large brandy!”

“—he wants to see Mister Vimes!”

Vimes's brain lit up from whatever little pilot light of thought had been operating at the most basic level. He walked up the stairs, helmet under his arm, like a man going to take a statement. He knocked at the door.

Lawn opened it. He was holding a brandy glass in his other hand, and moved aside with a smile.

Sybil was sitting up. He saw, through the mist of exhaustion, that she was holding something wrapped in a shawl.

“He's called Sam, Sam,” she said. “And no argument.”

The sun came out.

“I'll teach him to walk!” beamed Vimes. “I'm good at teaching people to walk!” And he fell asleep before he hit the carpet.

It was a pleasant stroll in the early evening air. Vimes trailed cigar smoke behind him as he walked down to Pseudopolis Yard, where he acknowledged the cheers and congratulations and thanked people for the lovely flowers.

His next stop was at Dr Lawn's house where he sat and spoke for a while, about such things as memory and how tricky it can be, and forgetfulness, and how profitable it could prove.

Then, with the doctor, he went to his bank. This institution was, not surprisingly, willing to open outside normal hours for a man who was a Duke, and the richest man in the city, and the Commander of the City Watch and, not least, quite prepared to kick the door down. There he signed over one hundred thousand dollars and the freehold of a large corner site in Goose Gate to one Dr J. Lawn.

And then, alone, he went up to Small Gods. Legitimate First, whatever his private feelings, knew enough not to shut the gates on this night, and he'd filled the lamps.

Vimes strolled over the moss-grown gravel. In the twilight, the lilac blooms seemed to shine. Their scent hung in the air like fog.

He waded through the grass and reached the grave of John Keel, where he sat on the headstone, taking care not to disturb the wreaths; he had a feeling that the sergeant would understand that a copper sometimes needed to take the weight off his feet. And he finished his cigar, and stared into the sunset.

After a while he was aware of a scraping noise to his left and could just make out the turf starting to sag on one of the graves. A grey hand was thrust out of the ground, clutching a shovel. A few pieces of turf were pushed aside and, with some effort, Reg Shoe rose from the grave. He was halfway out before he noticed Vimes, and nearly fell back.

“Oh, you frightened the life out of me, Mister Vimes!”

“Sorry, Reg,” said Vimes.

“Of course, when I say you frightened the life out of me—” the zombie began, gloomily.

“Yes, Reg, I understood you. Quiet down there, was it?”

“Very peaceful, sir, very peaceful. I think I'll have to get myself a new coffin before next year, though. They don't last any time at all these days.”

“I suppose not that many people look for durability, Reg,” said Vimes.

Reg slowly shovelled the soil back into place. “I know everyone thinks it's a bit odd, but I think I owe it to them really,” he said. “It's only one day a year, but it's like…solidarity.”