Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

“I pay! I pay protection! One month, no trouble!”

  Vimes grunted and set off along another narrow, cloth-lined tunnel.

  A glint of glass caught his eye, and he sidled crabwise up a choked aisle until he found a counter. It was piled with more hopeless merchandise, but there was a bead-curtained doorway behind it. He half clambered, half swam over the piles and scrambled into the tiny room beyond.

  Mr Soon pushed his way to an ancient tailor's dummy; it was so scratched, chipped and battered it looked like something dug up from the volcanic ash of an ancient city.

  He pulled on an arm, and the eyes lit up.

  “Number Three here,” he said, into its ear. “He's just gone through. And boy, is he angry…”

  The back door was locked but yielded under the weight of Vimes's body. He staggered into the yard, looked up at the wall separating this greasy space from the temple's garden, jumped, scrabbled his boots on the brickwork and dragged himself on to the top, feeling a couple of bricks crumble away underneath him.

  He landed on his back, and looked up at a thin, robed figure sitting on a stone seat.

  “Cup of tea, commander?” said Sweeper cheerfully.

  “I don't want any damn tea!” shouted Vimes, struggling to his feet.

  Sweeper dropped a lump of rancid yak butter in the tea bowl beside him.

  “What do you want, then, Mister Vimes with the very helpful feet?”

  “I can't deal with this! You know what I mean!”

  “You know, some tea really would calm you down,” said Sweeper.

  “Don't tell me to be calm! When are you going to get me home?”

  A figure stepped out of the temple. He was a taller, heavier man than Sweeper, white-haired and with the look of a good-natured bank manager about him. He held out a cup.

  Vimes hesitated a moment, and then took the cup and poured the tea out on to the ground.

  “I don't trust you,” he said. “There could be anything in this.”

  “I can't imagine what we could put in tea that would make it any worse than the way you normally drink it,” said Sweeper calmly. “Sit down, your grace. Please?”

  Vimes sagged on to the seat. The rage that had been driving him sank a little, too, but he could feel it bubbling. Automatically, he pulled out a half-smoked cigar and put it in his mouth.

  “Sweeper said you'd find us, some way or other,” said the other monk, and sighed. “So much for secrecy.”

  “Why should you worry?” said Vimes, lighting the stub. “You can just play around with time and it won't have happened, right?”

  “We don't intend to do that,” said the other monk.

  “What could I do, anyway? Go around telling everyone that those loony monks you see in the streets are some kind of time shifters? I'd get locked up! Who are you, anyway?”

  “This is Qu,” said Sweeper, nodding at the other monk. “When the time comes, he'll get you back. But not yet.”

  Vimes sighed. The anger had drained, leaving only a hopeless, empty feeling. He stared blankly at the strange rockery that occupied most of the garden. It looked oddly familiar. He blinked.

  “I've been talking to people today who are going to die,” he said. “How do you think that makes me feel? Do you know what that feels like?”

  The monks gave him a puzzled look.

  “Er…yes,” said Qu.

  “We do,” said Sweeper. “Everyone we talk to is going to die. Everyone you talk to is going to die. Everyone dies.”

  “I've been changing things,” said Vimes, and added defensively: “Well, why shouldn't I? Carcer is! I have no idea how things are going to turn out! I mean, doesn't it change history even if you just tread on an ant?”

  “For the ant, certainly,” said Qu.

  Sweeper waved a hand. “I told you, Mister Vimes. History finds a way. It's like a shipwreck. You're swimming to the shore. The waves will break whatever you do. Is it not written: ‘The big sea does not care which way the little fishes swim’? People die in their due time—”

  “Keel didn't! Carcer mugged the poor devil!”

  “His due time in this present, commander,” said Qu. “But he will play his part in the other one, Mister Vimes. Eventually. You'll reach the shore. You must. Otherwise—”

  “—there's no shore,” said Sweeper.

  “No,” said Vimes. “There's got to be more. I'm not swimming, I'm drowning. It was fun, d'you know? At first? Like a boys' night out? Feeling the street under my boots again? But now…what about Sybil? Are my memories real? What I know is she's a girl living with her dad. Is there somewhere where she's my wife, having my child? I mean, really? Is it all in my mind? Can you prove it? Is it happening? Will it happen? What is real?”

  The monks were silent. Sweeper glanced at Qu, who shrugged. He glanced rather more meaningfully and, this time, Qu made that dismissive little wave of the hand which is someone signifying “all right, all right, against my better judgement…”

  Then Sweeper said: “Ye-es,” very slowly. “Yes, I think we can help, commander. You want to know there's a future waiting. You want to hold it in your hand. You want to feel the weight of it. You want one point to navigate by, one point to steer for. Yes. I think we can help you there…but…”

  “Yes?”

  “But you climb back over that wall and Sergeant Keel plays his part. He sees it through to the end. He gives the orders he feels are right, and they will be the right orders. He holds the line. He does the job.”

  “He's not the only one,” said Vimes.

  “Yes, Commander Vimes has a job in hand, too.”

  “Don't worry, I'm not leaving Carcer behind,” growled Vimes.

  “Good. We'll be in touch.”

  Vimes tossed the stump of his cigar aside, and looked up at the wall.

  “All right,” he said. “I'll see it through. But when the time comes—”

  “We will be ready,” said Sweeper. “Just so long as you—”

  He stopped. There was another subtle sound, scaly in its way, a sort of silicon slither.

  “My goodness,” said Qu.

  Vimes looked down.

  The cigar butt still smouldered. But around it the Garden of Inner City Tranquillity was moving, pebble sliding over tiny pebble. A large, water-rounded rock floated gently around, spinning. And then Vimes became aware that the whole garden was spinning, turning on the little wisp of smoke. A spent match sailed past, rolling from stone to stone like a scrap of food passed from ant to ant.

  “Is it meant to do that?” he said.

  “In theory, yes,” said Sweeper. “I should leave right now, Mister Vimes.”

  Vimes took one last look at the moving garden, shrugged, and then heaved himself over the wall.

  The two monks stared. The tide of little stones was gently pushing the stub into the centre.

  “Astonishing,” said Qu. “He's part of the pattern now. I don't know how you manage it.”

  “I'm not doing it,” said Sweeper. “Qu, can we—”

  “No more time shifting,” said Qu. “It's caused enough trouble.”

  “Fair enough,” said Sweeper. “Then I'll need to send out search parties. The fences, the bent jewellers, the pawnshops…we'll find it. I understand our friend. The job's not enough. He needs one real thing. And I know what it is.”

  They looked again at the turning, shifting garden, and felt the fingers of history spreading out and into the world.

  Vimes tried not to run back to the Watch House, because too many people were standing around in nervous groups and even a running uniform could be risky.

  Besides, you didn't run for officers. He was a sergeant. Sergeants walked with a measured tread.

  To his mild surprise, the men were still out in the yard. Someone had even hung up the swordsmanship targets, which would certainly be helpful if the watchmen were faced with an enemy who was armless and tied to a pole.

  He climbed the stairs. The captain's door was open, and he saw that the ne
w man had repositioned his desk so that he could see out on to the landing and down the stairs. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all. An officer shouldn't see what was going on, he should rely on his sergeants to tell him what was going on. That way things ran smoothly.

  This man was keen. Oh, dear…

  The new captain looked up. Oh, good grief, Vimes thought. It's bloody Rust this time round! And it was indeed the Hon. Ronald Rust, the gods' gift to the enemy, any enemy, and a walking encouragement to desertion.

  The Rust family had produced great soldiers, by the undemanding standards of “Deduct your own casualties from those of the enemy, and if the answer is a positive number, it was a glorious victory” school of applied warfare. But Rust's lack of any kind of military grasp was matched only by his high opinion of the talent he in fact possessed only in negative amounts.

  It hadn't been Rust last time. He vaguely remembered some other dim captain. All these little changes…what would they add up to?

  I bet he's only just been made a captain, thought Vimes. Just think of the lives I could save by accidentally cutting his head off now. Look at those blue eyes, look at that stupid curly moustache. And he's only going to get worse.

  “Are you Keel?” The voice was a bark.

  “Yessir.”

  “I sent an order for you to come up here an hour ago, man.”

  “Yessir. But I've been on duty all night and morning and there's been rather a lot to attend to—”

  “I expect an order to be obeyed promptly, sergeant.”

  “Yessir. So do I, sir. That's why—”

  “Discipline starts at the top, sergeant. The men obey you, you obey me, I obey my superiors.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir.” Rust had the same firm grip of common politeness, too.

  “What is all that going on in the yard?”

  Vimes steered according to the prevailing wind…

  “A bit of morale building, sir. Instilling a bit of esprit de corps.”

  …and hit a reef. Rust raised his eyebrows.

  “Why?” he said. “The men's job is to do what they are told, as is yours. A group hug is not part of the arrangement, is it?”

  “A bit of camaraderie helps the job along, sir. In my experience.”

  “Are you eyeballing me. Keel?”

  “No, sir. I am wearing an expression of honest doubt, sir. ‘Eyeballing’ is four steps up, right after ‘looking at you in a funny way’, sir. By standard military custom and practice, sir, sergeants are allowed to go all the way up to an expression of acute—”

  “What's that pip over your stripes, man?”

  “Means sergeant-at-arms, sir. They were a special kind of copper.”

  The captain grunted, and glanced at the papers in front of him. “Lord Winder has received an extraordinary request that you be promoted to lieutenant, sergeant. It has come from Captain Swing of the Particulars. And his lordship listens to Captain Swing. Oh, and he wants you to be transferred to the Particulars. Personally, I think the man is mad.”

  “I'm one hundred per cent behind you there, sir.”

  “You do not wish to be a lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. Too long for Dick and too short for Richard, sir,” said Vimes, focusing on a point a few inches above Rust's head.

  “What?”

  “Neither one thing nor t'other, sir.”

  “Oh, so you'd like to be a captain, eh?” said Rust, grinning evilly.

  “Nosir. Don't want to be an officer, sir. Get confused when I see more'n one knife and fork on the table, sir.”

  “You certainly don't look like officer material to me, sergeant.”

  “Nosir. Thank you, sir.” Good old Rust. Good young Rust. The same unthinking rudeness masquerading as blunt speaking, the same stiff-neckedness, the same petty malice.

  Any sergeant worth his salt would see how to make use of that.

  “Wouldn't mind transferring to the Particulars though, sir,” he volunteered. It was a bit of a gamble, but not much. Rust's mind was reliable.

  “I expect you would like that, Keel,” said Rust. “No doubt you ran rings round that old fool Tilden and don't fancy the idea of a captain with his finger on the pulse, eh? No, you can damn well stay here, understand?”

  Wonderful, thought Vimes. Sometimes it's like watching a wasp land on a stinging nettle: someone's going to get stung and you don't care.

  “Yessir,” he said, eye still staring straight ahead.

  “Have you shaved today, man?”

  “Excused shaving, sir,” Vimes lied. “Doctor's orders. Been sewn up onna face, sir. Could shave one half, sir.”

  He remained at eye front while Rust grudgingly stared at him. The cut was still pretty livid, and Vimes hadn't dared look under the patch yet.

  “Hit yourself in the face with your own bell, did you?” grunted the captain.

  Vimes's fingers twitched. “Very funny, sir,” he said.

  “Now go and get the men fell in, Keel. Look sharp. I shall inspect them in a moment. And tell that idiot with the flat nose to clear the stable.”

  “Sir?”

  “My horse will be arriving shortly. I don't want to see that disgusting screw in there.”

  “What, turn out Marilyn, sir?” said Vimes, genuinely shocked.

  “That was an order. Tell him to jump to it.”

  “What do you want us to do with her, sir?”

  “I don't care! You are a sergeant, you've had an order. Presumably there are knackermen? People around here must eat something, no doubt?”

  Vimes hesitated for a moment. Then he saluted.

  “Right you are, sir,” he said.

  “Do you know what I saw on the way here, sergeant?”

  “Couldn't say, sir,” said Vimes, staring straight ahead.

  “People were building barricades, sergeant.”

  “Sir?”

  “I know you heard me, man!”

  “Well, it's to be expected, sir. It's happened before. People get jumpy. They hear rumours of mobs and out-of-control soldiers. They try to protect their street—”

  “It is a flagrant challenge to government authority! People can't take the law into their own hands!”

  “Well, yes. But these things generally run their course—”

  “My gods, man, how did you manage to get promoted?”

  Vimes knew he should leave it at that. Rust was a fool. But at the moment he was a young fool, which is more easily excused. Maybe it was just possible, if caught early enough, that he could be upgraded to idiot.

  “Sometimes it pays to—” he began.

  “Last night every Watch House in the city was mobbed,” said Rust, ignoring him. “Except this one. How do you account for that?” His moustache bristled. Not being attacked was definite proof of Vimes's lack of moral fibre.

  “It was just a case of—”

  “Apparently a man attempted an assault on you. Where is he now?”

  “I don't know, sir. We bandaged him up and took him home.”

  “You let him go?”

  “Yessir. He was—” But Rust was always a man to interrupt an answer with a demand for the answer he was in fact interrupting.

  “Why?”

  “Sir, because at that time I thought it prudent to—”

  “Three watchmen were killed last night, did you know that? There were gangs roaming the streets! Well, martial law has been declared! Today we're going to show them a firm hand! Get your men together! Now!”

  Vimes saluted, turned about, and walked slowly down the stairs. He wouldn't have run for a big clock.

  A firm hand. Right. Gangs roaming the streets. Well, we sure as hell never did anything when they were criminal gangs. And when you've got madmen and idiots on either side, and everything hangs in the balance…well, trouble is always easy to find, when you have enough people looking for it.

  One of the hardest lessons of young Sam's life had been finding out that the people in charge weren't in charge. It had been
finding out that governments were not, on the whole, staffed by people who had a grip, and that plans were what people made instead of thinking.

  Most of the watchmen were clustered around the stairs. Snouty was quite good at internal communications of the worrying kind.

  “Tidy yourselves, lads,” said Vimes. “Captain'll be down in a few minutes. Apparently it's time for a show of strength.”

  “What strength?” said Billy Wiglet.

  “Ah, Billy, what happens is, the vicious revolutionaries take one look at us and scuttle off back to their holes,” said Vimes. He was immediately sorry he'd said that. Billy hadn't learned irony.

  “I mean we just give the uniforms an airing,” he translated.

  “We'll get cheesed,” said Fred Colon.

  “Not if we stick together,” said Sam.

  “Right,” said Vimes. “After all we're heavily armed men going on patrol among civilians who are, by law, unarmed. If we're careful, we shouldn't get too badly hurt.”

  Another bad move. Dark sarcasm ought to be taught in schools, he thought. Besides, armed men could get into trouble if the unarmed civilians were angry enough, especially if there were cobblestones on the streets.

  He heard the distant clocks strike three. Tonight, the streets would explode.

  According to the history books it would be one shot that did it, round about sunset. One of the foot regiments would be assembled in Hen and Chickens Field, awaiting orders. And there would be people watching them. Troops always drew an audience: impressionable kids, the inevitable Ankh-Morpork floating street crowd and, of course, the ladies whose affection was extremely negotiable.

  The crowd shouldn't have been there, people said afterwards.

  But where should they have been? The field was a popular spot. It was the only vaguely green space in that part of the city. People played games there and, of course, there was always the progress of the corpse on the gibbet to inspect. And the men were troops, ordinary foot soldiers, people's sons and husbands, taking a bit of a rest and having a drink.

  Oh, that was right—afterwards, it was said that the troops were drunk. And that they shouldn't have been there. Yep, that was the reason, Vimes reflected. No one should have been there.

  But they were, and when that captain got an arrow in his stomach and was groaning on the ground, some of the crossbow-men fired in the direction of the shot. That's what the history books said. They fired at the house windows, where people had been watching. Perhaps the shot had come from one of them.