Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  “That actually sounded convincing,” said Rosie. “Off you go, then. We're past curfew now. But why don't I think you'll be bothered by that?”

  As he disappeared in the gloom Dotsie sidled up to Rosie.

  “You want we should follow him, dearie?”

  “Don't bother.”

  “You should have let Sadie give him a little prod, dear. That slows them down.”

  “I think it takes quite a lot to slow that man down. And we don't want trouble. Not at a time like this. We're too close.”

  “You don't want to be out at a time like this, mister.”

  Vimes turned. He'd been hammering on the closed gates of the University.

  There were three watchmen behind him. One of them was holding a torch. Another was holding a bow. The third had clearly decided that activities for tonight would not include heavy lifting.

  Vimes raised his hands slowly.

  “I expect he wants to be in a nice cold cell for the night,” said the one with the torch.

  Oh dear, thought Vimes. It's the Comedian of the Year contest. Coppers really oughtn't to try this, but they still did.

  “I was just visiting the University,” he said.

  “Oh, yes?” said the one without either torch or bow. He was portly, and Vimes could make out the tarnished gleam of a sergeant's stripes. “Where d'you live?”

  “Nowhere,” said Vimes. “I've just arrived. And shall we move right along? I don't have a job and I don't have any money. And neither of those is a crime.”

  “Out after curfew? No visible means of support?” said the sergeant.

  “I got my legs,” said Vimes.

  “At the moment, hur, hur,” said one of the men. He stopped when Vimes looked at him.

  “I want to make a complaint, sergeant,” said Vimes.

  “What about?”

  “You,” said Vimes. “And the Brothers Grin here. You're not doing it right. If you're going to arrest someone, you take charge right away. You've got a badge and a weapon, yes? And he's got his hands up, and a guilty conscience. Everyone's got a guilty conscience. So he's wondering what you know and what you're going to do, and what you do is fire off the questions, sharply. You don't make silly jokes 'cos that makes you too human and you keep him off balance so he can't quite think a clear sentence and above all you don't let him move like this and grab your arm and pull it up so it almost breaks like this and grab your sword and hold it to your throat like this. Tell your men to lower those swords, will you? The way they're waving them around, they could hurt someone.”

  The sergeant gurgled.

  “Right,” said Vimes. “Oh, sergeant…this is a sword? Ever sharpen it? What do you use it for, bludgeoning people to death? Now, what you're going to do is, you're all going to put your weapons on the ground over there, and then I'm going to let the sarge go and I'll leg it up that alley, okay? And by the time you've got your weapons back in your hands, and believe me I'd advise you to get hold of weapons before coming after me, I'll be well away. End of problem all round. Any questions?”

  All three watchmen were silent. Then Vimes heard a very faint, very close noise. It was the sound of the hairs in his ears rustling as, with great care, the tip of a crossbow bolt gently entered his ear.

  “Yes, sir, I have a question,” said a voice behind him. “Do you ever listen to your own advice?”

  Vimes felt the pressure of the crossbow against his skull, and wondered how far the arrow would go if the trigger was pulled. An inch would be too much.

  Sometimes you just had to take the lumps. He dropped the sword with great and exaggerated care, released his grip on the sergeant, and stepped away meekly while the fourth watchman maintained his aim.

  “I'll just stand with my legs apart, shall I?” he said.

  “Yeah,” growled the sergeant, turning round. “Yeah, that'll save us a bit of time. Although for you, mister, we've got all night. Well done, lance-constable. We'll make a watchman of you yet.”

  “Yeah, well done,” said Vimes, staring at the young man with the bow. But the sergeant was already taking his run-up.

  It was later. Pain had happened.

  Vimes lay on the hard cell bed and tried to make it go away. It hadn't been as bad as it might be. That mob hadn't even been able to organize a good seeing-to. They didn't understand how a man could roll with the punches and half the time they were getting in their own way.

  Was he enjoying this? Not the pain. He'd pass on the pain. In fact he'd passed out on the pain. But there was that small part of him he'd heard sometimes during strenuous arrests after long chases, the part that wanted to punch and punch long after punching had already achieved its effect. There was a joy to it. He called it the beast. It stayed hidden until you needed it and then, when you needed it, out it came. Pain brought it out, and fear. He'd killed werewolves with his bare hands, mad with anger and terror and tasting, deep inside, the blood of the beast…and it was sniffing the air.

  “'ullo, Mister Vimes, haha. I was wondering when you'd wake up.”

  He sat up sharply. The cells were barred on the corridor side, but also between cells as well, on the basis that those caged ought to know they were in a cage. And in the next cell, lying with his hands behind his head, was Carcer.

  “Go on,” said Carcer cheerfully. “Make a grab for me through the bars, eh? Want to see how long it takes before the guards arrive?”

  “At least they got you too,” said Vimes.

  “Not for long, not for long. I smell of roses, me, haha. Visitor to the city, got lost, very helpful to the Watch, so sorry to have bothered them, here's a little something for their trouble…You shouldn't of stopped the Watch taking bribes, Mister Vimes. It means an easier life all round, haha.”

  “Then I'll nail you some other way, Carcer.”

  Carcer inserted a finger in his nose, wiggled it around, withdrew it, inspected its contents critically and flicked them towards the ceiling.

  “Well, that's where it all goes runny, Mister Vimes. You see, I wasn't dragged in by four coppers. I didn't go around assaulting watchmen, or trying to break into the University—”

  “I was knocking on the door!”

  “I believe you, Mister Vimes. But you know what coppers are like. You look at 'em in a funny way, and the buggers'll fit you up for every crime in the book. Terrible, what they can pin on an honest man, haha.”

  Vimes knew it. “So you got some money,” he said.

  “O'course, Mister Vimes. I'm a crook. And the best part is, it's even easier to be a crook when no one knows you're a crook, haha. But coppering depends on people believing you're a copper. A turn-up for the books, eh? You know we're back in the good old days, haha?”

  “It seems that way,” Vimes admitted. He didn't like talking to Carcer, but right now he seemed to be the only real person around.

  “Where did you land, if I may ask?”

  “In the Shades.”

  “Me too. Couple of blokes tried to mug me where I lay. Me! I ask you, Mister Vimes! Still, they had some money on them, so that worked out all right. Yes, I think I'm going to be very happy here. Ah, here comes one of our brave lads…”

  A watchman walked along the passage, swinging his keys. He was elderly, the kind of copper who gets given the jobs where swinging keys is more likely than swinging a truncheon, and his most distinguishing feature was a nose twice the width and half the length of the average nose. He stared at Vimes for a moment, and then passed on to Carcer's cell. He unlocked the door.

  “You. Hop it,” he said.

  “Yessir. Thank you, sir,” said Carcer, hurrying out. He pointed to Vimes. “You wanna watch that one, sir. He's an animal. Decent people shouldn't be locked up in the same cells, sir.”

  “Hop it, I said.”

  “Hopping it, sir. Thank you, sir.” And Carcer, with a leery wink at Vimes, hopped it.

  The jailer turned to Vimes. “And what's your name, hnah, mister?”

  “John Keel,” said
Vimes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, and I've had my kicking. Fair's fair. I'd like to go now.”

  “Oh, you'd like to go, would you? Hnah! You'd like me to hand over these keys, hnah, and give you five pence from the poor box for your, hnah, trouble, eh?”

  The man was standing very close to the bars, with the grin of one who mistakenly thinks he's a wit when he's only half a one. And if Vimes's reflexes were quicker, and he'd bet they were even now, it'd be the work of a second to pull the old fool forcibly into the bars and spread his nose even further across his face. No doubt about it, the psychopaths had it the easy way.

  “Just freedom would do,” he said, resisting temptation.

  “You ain't going anywhere, hnah, 'cept to see the captain,” said the jailer.

  “That'd be Captain Tilden?” said Vimes. “Have I got that right? Smokes like a bonfire? Got a brass ear and a wooden leg?”

  “Yeah, an' he can have you shot, hnah, how d'you like them bananas?”

  The cluttered desk of Vimes's memory finally unearthed the inadvertent coffee mat of recollection from under the teacup of forgetfulness.

  “You're Snouty,” he said. “Right? Some bloke broke your nose and it never got set properly! And your eyes water all the time which is why they gave you permanent jail duty—”

  “Do I know you, mister?” said Snouty, peering at Vimes through suspicious, running eyes.

  “Me? No. No!” said Vimes hastily. “But I've heard people talk about you. Practically runs the Watch House, they said. Very fair man, they said. Firm but fair. Never spits in the gruel, never widdles in the tea. And never confuses his fruit, either.”

  The visible parts of Snouty's face contorted into the resentful scowl of someone who can't quite keep up with the script.

  “Oh yeah?” he managed. “Well, hnah, I've always kept a clean cell, that's very true.” He looked a little nonplussed at the development, but managed another scowl. “You stay there, mister, and I'll go an' tell the captain you woke up.”

  Vimes went back and lay on the bunk, staring at the badly spelled and anatomically incorrect graffiti on the ceiling. For a while there was a raised voice from upstairs, with an occasional intrusive “hnah!” from Snouty.

  Then he heard the jailer's footsteps on the stairs again.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, with the tone of someone looking forward to seeing a third party get what was coming to them. “Turns out the captain wants to see you right away. Now, are you gonna let me shackle you, hnah, or do I call the lads down?”

  Gods protect you, Vimes thought. Maybe it was true that the blow that had spread Snouty's nose across his face had scrambled his brain. You had to be a special kind of idiot to try to handcuff a dangerous prisoner all by yourself. If he'd tried it with Carcer, for example, he'd have been a dead idiot five minutes ago.

  The jailer opened the door. Vimes stood up and presented his wrists. After a second's hesitation, Snouty handcuffed him. It always paid to be nice to a jailer; you might not get handcuffed behind your back. A man with both hands in front of him had quite a lot of freedom.

  “You go up the stairs first,” said Snouty, and reached down and picked up an efficient looking crossbow. “And if you even try to walk fast, mister, I'll shoot you, hnah, where you die slow.”

  “Very fair,” said Vimes. “Very fair.”

  He walked up the steps very carefully, hearing Snouty's heavy breathing right behind him. Like many people of limited intellectual scope, Snouty took what he could do very seriously. He'd show a refreshing lack of compunction about pulling that trigger, for one thing.

  Vimes reached the top of the stairs and remembered to hesitate.

  “Hnah, turn left, you,” said Snouty behind him. Vimes nodded to himself. And then first on the right. It was all coming back to him, in a great wave. This was Treacle Mine Road. This was his first Watch House. This was where it all began.

  The captain's door was open. The tired-looking old man behind the desk glanced up.

  “Be seated,” said Tilden coldly. “Thank you, Snouty.”

  Vimes had mixed memories of Captain Tilden. He had been a military man before being given this job as a kind of pension, and that was a bad thing in a senior copper. It meant he looked to Authority for orders and obeyed them, whereas Vimes found it better to look to Authority for orders and then filter those orders through a fine mesh of common sense, adding a generous scoop of creative misunderstanding and maybe even incipient deafness if circumstances demanded, because Authority rarely descended to street level. Tilden set too great a store by shiny breastplates and smartness on parade. You had to have some of that stuff, that was true enough. You couldn't let people slob around. But although he'd never voice the view in public, Vimes liked to see a bit of battered armour around the place. It showed that someone had been battering it. Besides, when you were lurking in the shadows you didn't want to gleam…

  There was an Ankh-Morpork flag pinned to one wall, the red faded to threadbare orange. Rumour had it that Tilden saluted it every day. There was also a very large silver inkstand, with a gilt regimental crest on it, occupying quite a lot of the desk; Snouty polished it every morning and it shone. Tilden had never quite left the army behind.

  Still, Vimes retained a soft spot for the old man. He'd been a successful soldier, as these things went; he'd generally been on the winning side, and had killed more of the enemy by good if dull tactics than his own men by bad but exciting ones. He'd been, in his own way, kind and reasonably fair; the men of the Watch had run rings around him, without his ever noticing.

  Now Tilden was giving him the Long Stare With Associated Paperwork. It was supposed to mean: we know all about you, so why don't you tell us all about yourself? But he really wasn't any good at it.

  Vimes returned it blankly.

  “What is your name again?” said Tilden, aware that Vimes was the better starer.

  “Keel,” said Vimes. “John Keel.” And…what the hell… “Look,” he said, “you've only got one piece of paper there that means anything, and that's the report from that sergeant, assuming he can write.”

  “As a matter of fact I have two pieces of paper,” said the captain. “The other one concerns the death of John Keel, what?”

  “What? For a scrap with the Watch?”

  “In the current emergency, that would be quite sufficient for the death penalty,” said Tilden, leaning forward. “But, ha, perhaps it won't be necessary in this case, because John Keel died yesterday. You beat him up and robbed him, what? You took his money but you didn't bother with the letters, because your sort can't read, what? So you wouldn't have known that John Keel was a policeman, what?”

  “What?”

  Vimes stared at the skinny face with its triumphantly bristling moustache and the little faded blue eyes.

  And then there was the sound of someone industriously sweeping the floor in the corridor outside. The captain looked past him, growled, and hurled a pen.

  “Get him out of here!” he barked. “What's the little devil doing here at this time of night, anyway?”

  Vimes turned his head. There was a skinny, wizened-looking man standing in the doorway, bald as a baby. He was grinning stupidly, and holding a broom.

  “He's cheap, sir, hnah, and it's best if he comes in when it's, hnah, quiet,” Snouty murmured, grabbing the little man by a stick-thin elbow. “C'mon, out you get, Mister Lousy—”

  So now the crossbow wasn't pointing at Vimes. And he had several pounds of metal on his wrists or, to put it another way, his arms were a hammer. He went to stand up…

  Vimes woke up and stared at the ceiling. There was a deep rumbling somewhere near by. Treadmill? Watermill?

  It was going to be a corny line, but some things you had to know.

  “Where am I?” he said. And then he added: “This time?”

  “Well done,” said a voice somewhere behind him. “Consciousness to sarcasm in five seconds!”

  The ro
om was large, by the feel of the air, and the play of light on the walls suggested there were candles alight behind Vimes.

  The voice said: “I'd like you to think of me as a friend.”

  “A friend? Why?” said Vimes. There was a smell of cigarette smoke in the air.

  “Everyone ought to have a friend,” said the voice. “Ah, I see you've noticed you're still handcuffed—”

  The voice said this because in one movement Vimes had swung himself off the table and plunged forward—

  Vimes woke up and stared at the ceiling. There was a deep rumbling somewhere near by. Treadmill? Watermill? Then his thoughts knotted themselves most unpleasantly.

  “What,” he said, “just happened?”

  “I thought you might like to try that again, lad,” said the invisible friend. “We have little tricks here, as you will learn. Just sit up. I know you've been through a lot, but we don't have time for messing about. This is sooner than I'd like, but I thought I'd better get you out of there before it went really runny…Mister Vimes.”

  Vimes froze. “Who are you?” he said.

  “It's Lu-Tze officially, Mister Vimes. But you can call me Sweeper, since we're friends.”

  Vimes sat up carefully and looked around.

  The shadowy walls were covered with…writing, it must be writing, he thought, but the Hubland type of writing which is only one step away from being little pictures.

  The candle was standing on a saucer. Some way behind it, just visible in the shadows, were two cylinders, each as wide as a man and twice as long, set in massive horizontal bearings, one above the other. Both were turning slowly, and both gave the impression of being a lot bigger than their mere dimensions suggested. Their rumble filled the room. There was a strange violet haze around them.

  Two yellow-robed figures tended the cylinders, but Vimes's eye was drawn to the skinny little bald man sitting on an upturned crate by the candle. He was smoking a foul roll-up of the sort favoured by Nobby, and looked like a foreign monk. In fact, he looked exactly the kind Vimes occasionally saw with begging bowls in the street.