Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  “No swords?” Colon burst out. “But what if a bloody great mob comes round the corner and I'm not armed?”

  Vimes reached him in two swift strides and stood nose to nose.

  “And if you have got a sword, what will you do, eh? Against a bloody great mob? What do you want 'em to see? Now what I want 'em to see is Fatty Colon, decent lad, not too bright, I knew 'is dad, an' there's ol' Waddy, he drinks in my pub. 'cos if they just see a couple of men in uniform with swords you'll be in trouble, and if you draw those swords you'll be in real trouble, and if by any chance, corporal, you draw swords tonight without my order and survive then you'll wish you hadn't done either because you'll have to face me, see? And then you'll know what trouble is, 'cos everything up until then will look like a bleedin' day at the soddin' seaside. Understand?”

  Fred Colon goggled at him. There was no other word for it.

  “Don't let my sugary sweet tones lead you to believe that I'm not damn well giving you orders,” said Vimes, turning away. “Vimes?”

  “Yes, sarge?” said young Sam.

  “Have we got a saw in this place?”

  Snouty stepped forward. “I've got a toolbox, sarge.”

  “Nails, too?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Right. Rip the door off my locker and hammer a lot of nails right through it, will you? Then lay it down on the upstairs landing, points up. I'll take the saw, 'cos I'm going to the privy.”

  After the silence that followed, Corporal Colon obviously felt he had to make a contribution. He cleared his throat and said, “If you've got a problem in that area, sarge, Mrs Colon's got a wonderful medicine she—”

  “I won't be long,” said Vimes. In fact, he was four minutes.

  “All done,” he said, returning to the sound of hammering from the locker room. “Come with me, lance-constable. Time for a lesson in interrogation. Oh…and bring the toolbox.”

  “Fred and Waddy don't like being outside,” said Sam, as they went down the stone steps. “They say what if that bunch of Unmentionables turn up?”

  “They needn't worry. Our friends at Cable Street are not front-door kind of people.”

  He pushed open the door to the cells. The prisoner stood up and grabbed the bars.

  “Okay, they've come, now you let me out,” he said. “Come on, and I'll put in a good word for you.”

  “No one's come for you, sir,” said Vimes. He locked the main door behind him, and then unlocked the cell.

  “It's probably a busy time for them,” he added. “Been a bit of a riot over in Dolly Sisters. A few deaths. Might be a while before they get around to you.”

  The man eyed the toolbox that the lance-constable was holding. It was only a flicker, but Vimes saw the moment of uncertainty.

  “I get it,” said the prisoner. “Good Cop, Bad Cop, eh?”

  “If you like,” said Vimes. “But we're a bit short staffed, so if I give you a cigarette would you mind kicking yourself in the teeth?”

  “Look, this is a game, right?” said the prisoner. “You know I'm one of the Particulars. And you're new in town and want to impress us. Well, you have. Big laugh all round, haha. Anyway, I was only on stake-out.”

  “Yes, but that's not how it works, is it,” said Vimes. “Now we've got you, we can decide what you're guilty of. You know how it's done. Fancy a ginger beer?”

  The man's face froze.

  “Y'know,” said Vimes, “it turns out that after the riot this evening we've been warned to expect revolutionary attacks on the Watch Houses. Now personally I wouldn't expect that. What I'd expect is a bunch of ordinary people turning up, you know, because they've heard what happened. But—and you can call me Mr Suspicious if you like—I've got a feeling that there will be something a bit worse. You see, apparently we've got to be mindful of the curfew regulations. What that means, I suppose, is that if we get people coming to complain about unarmed citizens being attacked by soldiers, which personally I would consider to be Assault With A Deadly Weapon, we've got to arrest them. I find that rather—”

  There was a commotion from above. Vimes nodded to young Sam, who disappeared up the stairs.

  “Now that my impressionable assistant has gone,” said Vimes quietly, “I'll add if any of my men get hurt tonight then I'll see to it that for the rest of your life you scream at the sight of a bottle.”

  “I haven't done anything to you! You don't even know me!”

  “Yes. Like I said, we're doing it your way,” said Vimes.

  Sam reappeared, in a hurry. “Someone's fallen in the privy!” he announced. “They were climbing on the roof and it had been sawn through and gave way!”

  “It must be one of those revolutionary elements,” said Vimes, watching the prisoner's face. “We've been warned about them.”

  “He says he's from Cable Street, sarge!”

  “That's just the kind of thing I'd say, if I was a revolutionary element,” said Vimes. “All right, let's take a look at him.”

  Upstairs, the front door was still open. There were a few people outside, just visible in the lamplight. There was also Sergeant Knock inside, and he was not happy.

  “Who said we open up like this?” he was saying. “It looks nasty out on those streets! Very dangerous—”

  “I said we stay open,” said Vimes, coming up the stairs. “Is there a problem, sergeant?”

  “Well…look, sarge, I heard on the way over, they're throwing stones at the Dimwell Street House,” said Knock, deflating. “There's people in the streets! Mobs! I hate to think what's happening downtown.”

  “So?”

  “We're coppers! We should be getting prepared!”

  “What? To bar the doors and listen to the stones rattle off the roof?” said Vimes. “Or maybe we should go out and arrest everyone? Any volunteers? No? I'll tell you what, sergeant, if you want to do some coppering you can go and arrest the man in the privy. Do him for Breaking and Entering—”

  There was a scream from upstairs.

  Vimes glanced up.

  “And I reckon if you go up on to the attic landing you'll find there's a man who dropped through the skylight right on to a doorful of nails that was accidentally left there,” he went on. He looked at Knock's puzzled face. “It's the Cable Street boys, sergeant,” he said. “They thought they could come across the roofs and scare the dumb brownjobs. Chuck 'em both in the cells.”

  “You're arresting Unmentionables?”

  “No uniform. No badge. Carrying weapons. Let's have a bit of law around here, shall we?” said Vimes. “Snouty, where's that cocoa?”

  “We'll get into trouble!” Knock shouted.

  Vimes let Knock wait until he'd lit a cigar. “We're in trouble anyway, Winsborough,” he said, shaking out the match. “It's just a case of deciding what kind we want. Thanks, Snouty.”

  He took the mug of cocoa from the jailer and nodded at Sam. “Let's take a stroll outside,” he said.

  He was aware of the sudden silence in the room, except for the whimpering coming from upstairs and the distant yelling from the privy.

  “What're you all standing around for, gentlemen?” he said. “Want to ring your bells? Anyone fancy shouting out that all's well?”

  With those words hanging in the room all big and pink, Vimes stepped out into the evening air.

  There were people hanging around out there, in little groups of three or four, talking among themselves and occasionally turning to look at the Watch House.

  Vimes sat down on the steps, and took a sip of his cocoa.

  He might as well have dropped his breeches. The groups opened up, became an audience. No man drinking a nonalcoholic chocolate beverage had ever been the centre of so much attention.

  He'd been right. A closed door is an incitement to bravery. A man drinking from a mug, under a light, and apparently enjoying the cool night air, is an incitement to pause.

  “We're breaking curfew, you know,” said a young man, with a quick dart forward, dart back movement
.

  “Is that right?” said Vimes.

  “Are you going to arrest us, then?”

  “Not me,” said Vimes cheerfully. “I'm on my break.”

  “Yeah?” said the man. He pointed to Colon and Waddy. “They on their break too?”

  “They are now.” Vimes half turned. “Brew's up, lads. Off you go. No, no need to run, there's enough for everyone. And come back out when you've got it…”

  When the sound of pounding boots had died away, Vimes turned back and smiled at the group again.

  “So when do you come off your break?” said the man.

  Vimes paid him some extra attention. The stance was a giveaway. He was ready to fight, even though he didn't look like a fighter. If this were a bar room, the bartender would be taking the more expensive bottles off the shelf, because amateurs like that tended to spread the glass around. Ah, yes…and now he could see why the words “bar room” had occurred to him. There was a bottle sticking out of the man's pocket. He'd been drinking his defiance.

  “Oh, around Thursday, I reckon,” said Vimes, eyeing the bottle. There was laughter from somewhere in the growing crowd.

  “Why Thursday?” said the drinker.

  “Got my day off on Thursday.”

  There were a few more laughs this time. When the tension is drawing out, it doesn't take much to snap it.

  “I demand you arrest me!” said the drinker. “Come on, try it!”

  “You're not drunk enough,” said Vimes. “I should go home and sleep it off, if I was you.”

  The man's hand grasped the neck of the bottle. Here it comes, thought Vimes. By the look of him, the man had one chance in five…

  Fortunately, the crowd wasn't too big yet. What you didn't need at a time like this was people at the back, craning to see and asking what was going on. And the lit-up Watch House was fully illuminating the lit-up man.

  “Friend, if you take my advice you'll not consider that,” said Vimes. He took another sip of his cocoa. It was only lukewarm now, but along with the cigar it meant that both his hands were occupied. That was important. He wasn't holding a weapon. No one could say afterwards that he had a weapon.

  “I'm no friend to you people!” snapped the man, and smashed the bottle on the wall by the steps.

  The glass tinkled to the ground. Vimes watched the man's face, watched the expression change from drink-fuelled anger to agonizing pain, watched the mouth open…

  The man swayed. Blood began to ooze from between his fingers and a low, thin animal sound escaped from between his teeth.

  That was the tableau, under the light—Vimes sitting down with his hands full, the bleeding man several feet away. No fight, no one had touched anyone…he knew the way rumour worked, and he wanted this picture to fix itself in people's minds. There was even ash still on the cigar.

  He stayed very still for a few seconds, and then stood up, all concern.

  “Come on, one of you help me, will you?” he said, tugging off his breastplate and the chain-mail shirt underneath it. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and tore off a long strip.

  A couple of men, jerked into action by the voice of command, steadied the man who was dripping blood. One of them reached for the hand.

  “Leave it,” Vimes commanded, tightening the strip of sleeve around the man's unresisting wrist. “He's got a handful of broken glass. Lay him down as gently as you can before he falls over but don't touch nothing until I've got this tourniquet on. Sam, go into the stable and pinch Marilyn's blanket for the boy. Anyone here know Doctor Lawn? Speak up!”

  Someone among the awed bystanders volunteered that they did, and was sent running for him.

  Vimes was aware of the circle watching him; a lot of the watchmen were peering around the doorway now.

  “Saw this happen once,” he said aloud, and added mentally “in ten years' time. It was in a bar fight. Man grabbed a bottle, didn't know how to smash it, ended up with a hand full of shards and the other guy reached down and squeezed.” There was a satisfying groan from the crowd. “Anyone know who this man is?” he added. “Come on, someone must…”

  A voice in the crowd volunteered that the man could well be Joss Gappy, an apprentice shoemaker from New Cobblers.

  “Let's hope we can save his hand, then,” said Vimes. “I need a new pair of boots.”

  It wasn't funny at all but it got another of those laughs, the ones people laugh out of sheer frightened nervousness. Then the crowd parted as Lawn came through.

  “Ah,” he said, kneeling down by Gappy. “You know, I don't know why I own a bed. Trainee bottle fighter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like you've done the right things but I need light and a table,” said Lawn. “Can your men take him into the Watch House?”

  Vimes had hoped it wouldn't come to that. Oh well, you had to make the best of it…

  He pointed randomly at figures in the crowd. “You and you and you and you and you too, lady,” he said. “You can help Fred and Waddy take this young man inside, okay? And you're to stop with him, and we'll leave the doors open, right? All you lot out here'll know what's going on. We've got no secrets here. Everyone understand?”

  “Yeah, but you're a copper—” a voice began.

  Vimes darted forward and hauled a frightened young man out of the crowd by his shirt.

  “Yeah, I am,” he said. “And see that lad over there? He's a copper, too. His name's Sam Vimes. He lives in Cockbill Street with his mum. And that's Fred Colon, just got married, got a couple of rooms in Old Cobblers. And Exhibit C there is Waddy, everyone round here knows Waddy. Billy Wiglet there, he was born in this street. Have I asked you your name?”

  'N-no…' the man mumbled.

  “That's 'cos I don't care who you are,” said Vimes, letting the man go and looking round at the crowd. “Listen to me, all of you! My name's John Keel! No one gets taken into this Watch House without me knowing why! You're all here as witnesses! Those of you I pointed out, you come on inside to see fair play all round. Do the rest of you want to hang around to see what happens to Gappy? Fine, I'll get Snouty to bring you out some cocoa. Or you can go home. It's a cold night. You ought to be in your beds. I know I'd like to be in mine. And, yes, we know about Dolly Sisters and we don't like it any more than you do. And we've heard about Dimwell Street and we don't like that, either. And that's all I've got to say tonight. Now…anyone who still wants to take a swing at a copper can step right up, if they want to. I've got my uniform off. We'll have a go, here and now, fair and square, in front of everyone. Anyone?”

  Something brushed his shoulder and clattered on the Watch House steps. Then there was the sound of slipping tiles from a roof on the other side, and a man fell off the roof and into the pool of light. There were gasps from the crowd, and one or two short screams.

  “Looks like you got a volunteer,” said someone. There was the horrible nervous sniggering again. The crowd parted to let Vimes view the sudden arrival.

  The man was dead. If he hadn't been when he fell off the roof he was after he'd hit the ground, because no neck normally looked like that. A crossbow had fallen down with him.

  Vimes remembered the draught across his shoulder, and went back to the Watch House steps. It didn't take long to find the arrow, which had broken into several pieces.

  “Anyone know this man?” he said.

  The crowd, even those members of it who hadn't been able to get a good look at the fallen bowman, indicated definite ignorance.

  Vimes went through the man's pockets. Every single one was empty, which was all the evidence of identification he needed.

  “Looks like it's going to be a long night,” he said, signalling Colon to take this body inside, too. “I've got to get on with my work, ladies and gentlemen. If anyone wants to stay, and frankly I'll be obliged if you do, I'll send some lads out to build a fire. Thank you for your patience.” He picked up his mail and breastplate and went back inside.

  “What're they doing?” he said t
o Sam, without turning round.

  “Some of them are wandering off but most of 'em are standing around, sarge,” said Sam, peering around the door. “Sarge, one of them shot at you!”

  “Really? Who says the man on the roof was one of them? That's an expensive bow. And he didn't have anything in his pockets. Nothing. Not so much as a used hanky.”

  “Very odd, sarge,” said Sam loyally.

  “Especially since I was expecting a piece of paper saying something like ‘I am definitely a member of a revolutionary cadre, trust me on this’,” said Vimes, looking carefully at the corpse.

  “Yes, that'd tell us he was a revolutionary all right,” said Sam.

  Vimes sighed and stared at the wall a moment. Then he said: “Anyone notice anything about his bow?”

  “It's the new Bolsover A7,” said Fred Colon. “Not a bad bow, sarge. Not an Assassin's weapon, though.”

  “That's true,” said Vimes, and twisted the dead man's head so they could see the tip of the little metal dart behind the ear. “But this is. Fred, you know everyone. Where can I get some ginger beer at this time of night?”

  “Ginger beer, sarge?”

  “Yes, Fred.”

  “Why do—” Colon began.

  “Don't ask, Fred. Just get half a dozen bottles, all right?”

  Vimes turned to the desk on which, surrounded by a fascinated crowd, Dr Lawn was at work on the stricken Gappy.

  “How's it going?” said Vimes, pushing through.

  “Slower than it'd go if people got out of the damn light,” said Lawn, carefully moving his tweezers to a mug by Gappy's hand and dropping a bloody fragment of glass therein. “I've seen worse on a Friday night. He'll keep the use of his fingers, if that's what you want to know. He just won't be making any shoes for a while. Well done.”

  There was general crowd approval. Vimes looked around at the people and the coppers. There were one or two muted conversations going on; he heard phrases like “bad business” and “they say that—” above the general noise.

  He'd played the cards well enough. Most of the lads here lived within a street or two. It was one thing to have a go at faceless bastards in uniform, but quite another to throw stones at old Fred Colon or old Waddy or old Billy Wiglet, who you'd known since you were two years old and played Dead Rat Conkers with in the gutter.