Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  He wandered around like a man in a museum. See the old helmet on a stick for archery practice! See Sergeant Knock's broken-springed armchair, where he used to sit out on sunny afternoons!

  And, inside, the smell: floor wax, stale sweat, armour polish, unwashed clothes, ink, a hint of fried fish and always, here, a taint of treacle.

  The Night Watch. He was back.

  When the first members of the Night Watch came in they found a man perfectly at ease, leaning back in a chair with his feet on a desk and leafing through paperwork. The man had sergeant's stripes and an air of an unsprung trap. He was also giving absolutely no attention to the newcomers. He particularly paid no heed to one gangly lance-constable who was still new enough to have tried to put a shine on his breastplate…

  They fanned out among the desks, with muttered conversations.

  Vimes knew them in his soul. They were in the Night Watch because they were too scruffy, ugly, incompetent, awkwardly shaped or bloody-minded for the Day Watch. They were honest, in that special policeman sense of the word. That is, they didn't steal things too heavy to carry. And they had the morale of damp gingerbread.

  He'd wondered last night about giving them some kind of pep talk by way of introduction, and decided against it. They might be very bad at it but they were coppers, and coppers did not respond well to the Happy Families approach: “Hello, chaps, call me Christopher, my door is always open, I'm sure if we all pull together we shall get along splendidly like one big happy family.” They'd seen too many families to fall for that rubbish.

  Someone cleared their throat with malice aforethought. Vimes glanced up and into the face of Sergeant “Knocker” Knock and, for a fraction of a second, had to suppress the urge to salute. Then he remembered what Knock was.

  “Well?” he said.

  “That's my desk you're sitting at, sergeant,” said Knock.

  Vimes sighed, and pointed to the little crown on his sleeve. “See this, sergeant?” he said. “It's what they used to call the hat of authority.”

  Knock's little weaselly eyes focused on the crown. And then they went back to Vimes's face, and widened in the shock of recognition.

  “Bloody hell,” breathed Knock.

  “That's ‘bloody hell, sir,’” said Vimes. “But ‘sarge’ will do. Most of the time. And this is your mob, is it? Oh dear. Well, let's make a start.”

  He swung his feet off the desk and stood up. “I've been looking at the feed bills for Marilyn,” he said. “Interesting reading, lads. According to my rough calculations a horse eating that much ought to be approximately spherical. Instead, she's so thin that with two sticks and some sheet music I could give you a tune.”

  Vimes put the papers down. “Don't think I don't know where the corn goes. I bet I know who's got the chickens and rabbits and pigeons,” he said. “And the pig. I bet the captain thinks they get fat on leftovers.”

  “Yeah, but—” a voice began.

  Vimes's hand slammed on the desk. “You lot even starve the damn horse!' he said. That stops right now! So will a lot of other things. I know how it works, see? Mumping free beer and a doughnut, well, that's part of being a copper. And who knows, there might even be a few greasy spoons in this town so happy to see a copper that they will spontaneously offer him a free nosh. Stranger things have happened. But nicking the oats from Marilyn, that stops now. And another thing. Says here that last night the hurry-up wagon had eight passengers,” he said. “Two of them I know about, 'cos one of them must've been me and I met the other man. The cells are empty this morning. What happened to the other six? Sergeant Knock?”

  The sergeant licked his lips nervously. “Dropped 'em off in Cable Street for questioning, o'course,” he said. “As per instructions.”

  “Did you get a receipt?”

  “A what?”

  “Your men hauled in six people who were staying out late and you handed them over to the Unmentionables,” said Vimes, with the calm that comes before a storm. “Did they sign for them? Do you even know their names?”

  “Orders is just to hand 'em over,” said Knock, trying a little defiance. “Hand 'em over and come away.”

  Vimes filed that for future reference and said: “Now, I didn't get taken there 'cos we had a bit of a…misunderstanding. And as you can see it was a bigger misunderstanding than you thought, because I'm not down in the Tanty counting cockroaches, Knock. No, indeed.” He took a few steps forward. “I am standing in front of you, Knock. Isn't that what I'm doing?”

  “Yes, sarge,” Knock muttered, pale with fear and fury.

  “Yes, sarge,” said Vimes. “But there was another man in the cells, and he's gone too. All I want to know is: how much, and who to? I don't want any looks of cherubic innocence, I don't want any ‘don't know what you're talking about, sir’, I just want to know: how much, and who to?”

  A cloud of red, resentful solidarity settled over the faces in front of him. But he didn't need telling. He could remember. Corporal Quirke always had a private income from bribes; he'd been like Nobby Nobbs without the latter's amiable incompetence. An efficient Nobby, in fact, and you could throw into the mix bullying and brown-nosing and a delight in small evils.

  Vimes's gaze fell on Quirke, and stayed there.

  “I know you were on the wagon last night, corporal,” he said. “You and Lance-Constable, er, Vimes, it says here.”

  “Not worth worrying anyone if they look a decent sort,” Quirke said.

  And he'd said: “How can we tell they're a decent sort, corp?”

  “Well, see how much they can afford.”

  “You mean we let 'em go if they're rich?”

  “Way of the world, lad, way of the world. No reason why we shouldn't get our share, eh? Did you see his moneybag? Five dollars should do it. Four for me and one for you, 'cos you're learning. That's nearly three days' pay, it'll cheer up your ol' mum no end, and where's the loser?”

  “But suppose he's nicked the money, corp?”

  “Suppose the moon was made of cheese? Would you like a slice?”

  “I think it was five dollars, corporal,” said Vimes, and watched the man's lizard eyes flash towards the young lance-constable.

  “No, the man in the cell talked,” lied Vimes. “Told me I was an idiot not to buy my way out. So, Mister Quirke, it's like this. They're crying out for good men in the Day Watch, but if you don't stand too close to the light you might pass. Get along there right now!”

  “Everybody does it!” Quirke burst out. “It's perks!”

  “Everybody?” said Vimes. He looked around at the squad. “Anyone else here take bribes?”

  His glare ran from face to face, causing most of the squad to do an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronized Observation Team. Only three members met his gaze. There was Lance-Corporal Colon, who could be a little slow. There was a certain lance-constable, whose face was a mask of terror. And there was a dark-haired, round-faced constable who seemed to be puzzled, as if he was trying to remember something, but who nevertheless stared back with the firm steady gaze of the true liar.

  “Apparently not,” said Vimes.

  Quirke's finger shot out and vibrated in the direction of the young Sam Vimes.

  “He shared it! He shared it!” he said. “You ask him!”

  Vimes felt the shock run round the squad. Quirke had just committed suicide. You hung together against officers, fair enough, but when the jig was up you did not Drop Someone In The Cacky. They'd laugh at the idea of a watchman's honour, but it did exist in a blackened, twisty way. You Did Not Drop Your Mates In The Cacky. And especially you did not do it to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who wouldn't know any better.

  Vimes turned, for the first time, to the young man he'd been avoiding.

  Gods, was I ever that skinny? he thought. Did I ever have that much Adam's apple? Did I really try to polish rust?

  The young man's eyes were almost back in his head, only the whites showing.

&nbs
p; “Lance-Constable Vimes, isn't it?” he said quietly.

  “Yessir!” said Sam hoarsely.

  “At ease, lance-constable. Did you in fact take a share of the bribe?”

  “Yessir! A dollar, sir!”

  “At the instigation of Corporal Quirke?”

  “Er…sir?”

  “Did he offer it to you?” Vimes translated.

  Vimes watched his own agony. You Did Not Drop Someone In The Cacky.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I'll talk to you later on. Oh, you still here, Quirke? If you want to complain to the captain, that's fine by me. But if you don't get your stuff out of your locker in ten minutes I'll damn well charge you rent!”

  Quirke looked around for immoral support, and found none. He'd gone too far. Besides, the Watch could see a storm of cacky when it was right overhead and were in no mood to stick their necks out for something like Quirke.

  “I will,” he said. “I will complain to the captain. You'll see. You'll see. I've got four years' good conduct, I have—”

  “No, that was four years' Not Found Out,” said Vimes. “Clear off.”

  When Quirke's footsteps had died away Vimes glared at the squad.

  “Good afternoon, lads, my name's John Keel,” he said. “We bloody well better get along fine. Now shine up, captain's inspection in two minutes, off you go…Sergeant Knock, a word, please.”

  The men dispersed hurriedly. Knock stepped forward, not quite managing to conceal his nervousness. After all, his immediate superior now was a man who, last night, he had kicked in the nadgers. People could hold a grudge about a thing like that. And he'd had time to think.

  “I'd just like to say, sir, about last night—” he began.

  “I'm not bothered about last night,” said Vimes.

  “You're not?”

  “Would you recommend Fred Colon for corporal? I'd value your judgement.”

  “You would?”

  “Certainly. He looks a solid lad.”

  “He is? I mean, yes, he is. Very thorough,” said Knock, relief rising off him like steam. “Doesn't rush into things. Wants to join one of the regiments.”

  “Well, we'll give him a try while we've still got him. That means we'll need another lance-corporal. Who was that lad next to Colon?”

  “Coates, sir. Ned Coates. Bright lad, sometimes thinks he knows better, but we were all like that, eh?”

  Vimes nodded. His expression completely failed to give away the fact that, as far as he was concerned, there were things clinging to the underside of high branches that knew better than Sergeant Knock.

  “A taste of responsibility might do him some good, then,” he said. Knock nodded, because at that point he would have agreed to absolutely anything. And his body language was saying: we're all sergeants together, right? We're talking about sergeanty things, like sergeants do. We're not bothered about anyone being kicked in the nadgers, eh? Not us! 'cos we're sergeants.

  His eyes widened, and he saluted as Tilden entered the office. There was some half-hearted saluting among the squad, too. The captain acknowledged them stiffly, and looked nervously at Vimes.

  “Ah, sergeant;” he said. “Settling in?”

  “Yessir. No problems.”

  “Well done. Carry on.”

  When the man had disappeared up the creaking stairs Vimes turned back to Knock.

  “Sergeant, we don't hand over prisoners without a receipt, understand? Never! What happens to them afterwards? Do you know?”

  “They get questioned,” said Knock. “We takes 'em up there for questioning.”

  “What kind of questions? How long it takes two men to dig half a hole?”

  “What?” Knock's brow knitted.

  “From now on, someone at Cable Street signs for prisoners or we bring them right back here,” said Vimes. “It's bloody elementary, sergeant. You hand 'em over, you get a docket. Don't you do that down at the Tanty?”

  “Well, yeah, obviously, but…well, Cable Street…I mean, you don't know what it's like here, I can see that, but with the Unmentionables round at Cable Street it's best not to—”

  “Listen, I'm not telling you to kick the door down and shout ‘put down those thumbscrews!’” said Vimes. “I'm telling you we keep track of prisoners. When you arrest a man, you sign him over to Snouty, don't you? When he leaves, Snouty or the orderly man signs him out, doesn't he? It's basic custody discipline, man! So if you hand a prisoner over to Cable Street, someone there gives you a signature. Understand? No one just disappears.”

  Knock's face showed a man contemplating an immediate future that contained fewer opportunities for personal gain and a greatly raised risk of being shouted at.

  “And just to make sure everyone understands, I'll ride the wagon tonight,” said Vimes. “But first I'll take that lad Vimes out for a stroll and shake him up a bit.”

  “He could do with it,” said Knock. “Can't get his mind right. Good with his hands but you have to tell him everything twice.”

  “Maybe I'll shout, then,” said Vimes. “Vimes!”

  Lance-Constable Vimes shivered to attention.

  “We're going to take a stroll, lad,” said Vimes. “Time you knew what's what,” he nodded to Knock, took his younger self by the shoulder, and marched out.

  “What d'you think, sarge?” said Coates, coming up behind Knock as the sergeant glared at the departing back.

  “He likes you,” said Knock bitterly. “Oh, yes. Apple of his eye, you are. You're his ol' pal. You're being bumped up to lance-corporal.”

  “Think he'll last?”

  “I'll give him a couple of weeks,” said Knock. “I've seen 'em like that before. Big men in little towns, coming here, thinking they're the bee's nose. We soon cut 'em down to size. What d'you think?”

  “Dunno, sarge,” said Coates. “Still thinking.”

  “Knows his coppering, mind you,” said Knock. “Bit too cocky though. He'll learn. He'll learn. There's ways. We'll show him. Take him down a peg. Teach him how we do things around here—”

  Vimes always preferred to walk by himself. And now there were two of him, walking by himself. It was a strange sensation, and gave him the impression that he was looking through a mask.

  “No, not like that,” he said. “I always have to teach people to walk. You swing the foot, like this. Get it right and you can keep going all day. You're not in a hurry. You don't want to miss things.”

  “Yes, sarge,” said young Sam.

  It was called proceeding. Vimes proceeded along Treacle Mine Road, and felt—magnificent. Of course there were lots of things to worry about, but right here and now all he had to do was patrol, and it felt fine. Not much paperwork in the old Watch; in fact, come to think of it he'd probably doubled it. All he had to do right now was his duty, as he'd been taught it. He had nothing to do but be himself.

  Young Sam wasn't saying much. That was good sense.

  “I see you've got a bell there, lad,” said Vimes, after a while.

  “Yes, sarge.”

  “Regulation bell?”

  “Yes, sarge. Sergeant Knock gave it to me.” I'll bet he did, thought Vimes.

  “When we get back, just you swap it for someone else's. Doesn't matter whose. No one'll say anything.”

  “Yes, sarge.” Vimes waited. “Why, sarge? A bell's a bell.”

  “Not that one,” said Vimes. “That's three times the weight of the normal bell. They give it to rookies to see what they do. Did you complain?”

  “No, sarge.”

  “That's the way. Keep quiet, and pass it on to some other sucker when we get back. That's the coppers' way. Why did you come into the job, lad?”

  “My mate Iffy joined last year. He said you got free food and a uniform and you could pick up the extra dollar here and there.”

  “That'd be Iffy Scurrick stationed over in the Dolly Sisters house, then,” said Vimes. “And you've been picking up the odd dollar, have you?”

  They walked in silence for a
moment. Then Sam said: “Have I got to give that dollar back, sarge?”

  “Are you worth a dollar?” said Vimes.

  “I gave it our mum, sarge.”

  “Did you tell her how you got it?”

  “I didn't want it!” Sam blurted out. “But Corporal Quirke said—”

  “Was he worth listening to?”

  “Dunno, sarge.”

  “You don't know? I bet your mum didn't bring you up to think like that,” said Vimes. No, she bloody well didn't, he thought. She'd tan your hide, copper or not, if she knew it was a dodgy dollar.

  “No, sarge. But they're all at it, sarge. I don't mean the lads, sarge, but you only have to look round the city. Our rent's going up, taxes go up, there's these new taxes all the time, and it's all just cruel, sarge, it's cruel. Winder sold us all to his mates, and that's a fact, sir.”

  “Hmm,” said Vimes. Oh, yes. Tax farming. What a clever invention. Good old Winder. He'd flogged the right to collect taxes to the highest bidders. What a great idea, nearly as good as banning people from carrying weapons after dark. Because a) you saved the cost of tax collectors and the whole revenue system b) you got a wagonload of cash up front. And c) the business of tax gathering then became the business of groups of powerful yet curiously reticent people who kept out of the light. However, they employed people who not only went out in the light but positively blocked it, and it was amazing what those people found to tax, up to and including Looking At Me, Pal. What was it Vetinari had said once? “Taxation is just a sophisticated way of demanding money with menaces”? Well, the tax farmers were very unsophisticated in the way they went about recouping their investment.

  He remembered those da—these days. The city had never seemed poorer, but by the gods there was a lot of tax being paid.

  Hard to explain to a kid like Sam why poncing a dollar when you got the chance was a bad thing to do.

  “Put it like this, lance-constable,” as they turned the corner. “Would you let a murderer off for a thousand dollars?”

  “No, sir!”

  “A thousand dollars'd set your mum up in a nice place in a good part of town, though.”