Vimes stepped out into the rainy night, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then took a few experimental steps.
Corner of Easy and Treacle Mine. A mix of flat-top cobbles and old bricks. Yeah.
He went home.
Madam stared at the closed door for a while, and then turned as the candles flickered slightly.
“You really are very good,” she said. “How long have you been here?”
Havelock Vetinari stepped out of the shadow in the corner. He wasn't wearing official Assassin's black, but loose clothes that were…no real colour at all, just nondescript shades of grey.
“I've been here quite long enough,” he said, sprawling into the chair that Vimes had vacated.
“Not even the Aunts noticed you?”
“People look but don't see. The trick is to help them see nothing. But I think Keel would have seen me, if I hadn't been over here. He stares into shadows. Interesting.”
“He is a very angry man,” said Madam.
“You just made him angrier.”
“I believe you'll get your diversion,” said Madam.
“Yes. I believe so, too.”
Madam leaned over and patted him on the knee.
“There,” she said, “your aunty thinks of everything…” She stood up. “I'd better go and entertain my guests. I am a very entertaining person. By tomorrow night, Lord Winder will not have many friends.” She drained her mug of champagne. “Doctor Follett is such a charming man, don't you think? Is that his own hair, do you know?”
“I have not sought the opportunity to find out,” said Havelock. “Is he trying to get you drunk?”
“Yes,” said Madam. “You have to admire him.”
“They say he can play a mean lute,” said Havelock.
“Fascinating,” said Madam.
She set her face into a genuine smile of pleasure and opened the big double doors at the other end of the room.
“Ah, doctor,” she said, stepping into the haze of smoke. “A little more champagne?”
Vimes slept in a corner, standing up. It was an old trick, shared by night watchmen and horses. It wasn't exactly sleep, you'd die if you tried to keep it up for more than a few nights, but it took some of the tiredness away.
A few of the other men had already mastered the trick. Others made use of tables or benches. No one seemed inclined to go home, even when a sort of dawn suffused the rain and Snouty came in with a cauldron of fearsome porridge.
Vimes opened his eyes.
“Mug of tea, sarge?” said Snouty. “Stewed for an hour and two sugars.”
“You're a lifesaver, Snouty,” said Vimes, clasping it like the elixir of life.
“An' there's some kid outside says he's got to speak to you, hnah, specially,” Snouty went on. “Shall I give him a clip alongside the head?”
“What does he smell like?” said Vimes, sipping the scalding, corrosive tea.
“Bottom of a baboon's cage, sarge.”
“Ah, Nobby Nobbs. I'll go out and see him. Bring him a big bowl of porridge, will you?”
Snouty looked uncomfortable about this. “If you'll, hnah, take my advice, sarge, it don't pay to encourage kids like—”
“See these stripes, Snouty? Well done. A big bowl.”
Vimes took his tea out into the damp yard, where Nobby was lurking against a wall.
There were hints that it was going to be a sunny day. That should bring things on, after the overnight rain. The lilacs, for example…
“What's happening, Nobby?”
Nobby waited a moment to see if a coin was forthcoming.
“Pretty bad everywhere, sarge,” he said, giving up for now but remaining hopeful. “A constable got killed in Lobbin Clout. Hit by a stone, people say. Someone got their ear cut off 'cos of the fighting in Nap Hill. Cavalry charge, sarge. Running fights everywhere. All the Watch Houses got hit bad—”
Vimes listened gloomily to the list. It was the usual bloody business. Angry, frightened people on both sides, all crushed up together. It could only get worse. Nap Hill and Dolly Sisters sounded like war zones already.
…see the little angels rise up high…
“Anything happen in Cable Street?” he said.
“Just a few people,” said Nobby. “A bit of shouting and running away, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” said Vimes. Even a mob wasn't that stupid. It was still only the kids and the hotheads and the drunks now. It'd get worse. You'd have to be really mad to attack the Unmentionables.
“There's bad stuff happening everywhere,” said Nobby. “Except here, o'course. We're well out of it.”
No, thought Vimes. It'll pivot on us in the end.
Snouty emerged from the Watch House's rear door, carrying a big bowl of porridge with a spoon stuck in it. Vimes nodded towards Nobby, and the bowl was handed over with extreme reluctance.
“Sarge?” said Snouty, keeping his eye on the spoon as the boy ate or, more correctly, gobbled the stuff.
“Yes, Snouty?”
“Have we got any orders?”
“I don't know. Is the captain here?”
“That's it, sarge,” said Snouty. “A runner come last night with an envelope for the captain, and I took it up and there was the captain waiting, so I thought, this is funny, haha, I thought, he's not normally in this early—”
“Faster please, Snouty,” said Vimes, as the man started to watch the oscillating spoon again.
“Well, when I took him up his cocoa later on he was jus' sittin' there, hnah, starin' right at nothing. He said ‘thank you, Snouty’ when I give him the cocoa, hnah, though. Always very polite in that, hnah, respect. But when I went up just now he was gone.”
“He's an old man, Snouty, you can't expect him to be here all—”
“So's his inkwell, sarge. He never took it home before.” And Vimes saw that Snouty's eyes were more red-rimmed than usual.
He sighed. “Any sign of the envelope?”
“No, sarge,” said Snouty, glancing again at the spoon in Nobby's hand. It was a very cheap one, Vimes noted, made of some pot metal.
“In that case we just keep the peace, Snouty,” he said.
“Not a lot of that about, sarge.”
“We'll have to see what we can find. Come with me.”
Snouty looked reluctant. “Just want to keep an eye on the spoon, sarge; we've only got five left and kids like that one'll pinch the—”
“He can keep the damn spoon!” said Vimes. “Spoons are not important at this point!”
Nobby downed the last scalding mouthful, stuck the spoon in his pocket, stuck out a porridge-laden tongue at Snouty, dropped the bowl on the ground and took to his heels.
Vimes strode back into the office, picked up the porridge ladle and rattled it on the sides of the empty cauldron. Heads looked up.
“All right, my sons! This is what we're going to do! All married men've got permission to nip home for an hour to stop your wives fretting! The rest of you, you're on unpaid overtime! Anyone surprised?”
Wiglet raised a hand. “We've all got family, sarge,” he said.
“And the best thing you can do for them is make sure there's a bit of law around the place,” said Vimes. “We don't know what's been happening in the other divisions, except that it sounds bad. So this House is staying open, understand? Day and night! Yes, lance-constable?”
“But our mum will be worrying, sarge,” said young Sam.
Vimes hesitated, but only for a moment. “Snouty'll nip out with any messages you have, lad. The same goes for everyone else,” he said. “We're going to go out on patrol soon. Yeah, I know we're Night Watch. So what? It's looking pretty black to me at the moment! Lance-constable, come on out in the yard, will you?”
Vimes walked back out into the morning.
In theory, one of the purposes of the yard was for training. It was seldom used for that. The Night Watch eschewed violence, as a rule. When threats or superior numbers had no effect, they pr
eferred to run.
There were some mouldering targets in a shed, along with some straw men for stabbing practice. Vimes tugged them out on to the cobbles as the lance-constable appeared behind him.
“I thought you said these things were useless, sarge.”
“They are,” said Vimes. “I've put them here for you to land on. You're walking around, Sam, with a weapon you don't know how to use. That's worse than walking around knowing how to use a weapon and not having one. A man with a weapon he doesn't know how to use is likely to have it shoved where the sun does not shine.”
He took off his breastplate and helmet, and tossed his sword belt into a corner.
“All right, attack me,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that some of the men had wandered into the yard and were watching.
“I can't just stab you, sarge!” Sam wailed.
“No, but I'd like you to try.”
Sam hesitated again. I wasn't entirely stupid, Vimes thought.
“You're grinning, sarge,” said Sam.
“Well?”
“You're just grinning and standing there, sarge,” said Sam. “I know I'm going to get a hiding, 'cos you haven't got a sword and you're grinning.”
“Worried about getting blood on your nice sword, lad? All right, throw it away. Feel better? You were in a gang, right? Of course you were. Everyone was. You're still alive. So you must've learned how to fight.”
“Yeah, sarge, but that was, you know, dirty fighting…”
“We're dirty people. Do your worst,” said Vimes.
“I don't want to hurt you, sarge!”
“That's your first mistake—”
Sam spun and lashed out.
Vimes stepped back, caught the foot and helped it on its journey upwards.
I was quick too, he thought, as Sam landed flat on his back. And not too bad at cunning. But I've learned artful since then.
“It showed in your eyes,” he said to the sprawling Sam. “But you've got hold of the basic idea. There's no rules.”
He sensed the change behind him. It included the very muffled sound of a chuckle. He glanced back at Sam, who was looking past him.
The blow was a neat one, to the back of where the head would have been if Vimes hadn't stepped smartly sideways. As it was, he turned and grabbed the arm and looked into the face of Ned Coates.
“Nice day off, Ned?” he said.
“Yes, sarge, thank you. Just wanted to see how good you were.”
He elbowed Vimes in the stomach and twisted away. There was some murmuring from the watchers but Vimes, bent double and with tears running from his eyes, raised a hand.
“No, it was fair enough, fair enough,” he panted. “We've all got something to learn.” He put his hands on his knees, wheezing a little more theatrically than he needed to.
He was impressed that Ned wasn't falling for it. The man kept his distance, circling slowly. He was holding his truncheon. A less experienced fighter would have come to check that ol' sarge was all right, and would have suffered for it.
“That's right, sarge,” said Ned. “I want to see what you can teach me. Sam's too trusting.”
Vimes's mind riffled desperately through options.
“So, sarge,” said Ned, still moving, “what would you do, sarge, if you were unarmed and a man came at you with a truncheon?”
Get armed quick, thought Vimes, if I thought he was as good as you.
He ducked and rolled. Ned missed that. When Vimes started to move right he'd concentrated on the left, on the basis that from someone like Vimes the first move had to be a feint. By the time he caught himself and turned, Vimes had grabbed his scabbard and was rising, sword sliding out.
“Ah, raising the stakes. Good lesson, sarge,” said Ned. He drew his own sword. It gleamed; most of the Watch swords would have had difficulty cutting butter. “Now we're level again. What next, sarge?”
They circled. Blimey, thought Vimes, who taught him? And he's grinning, and no wonder. This isn't a contest. He knows I can't cut him, not like this, not in front of everyone. He can accidentally hit me and get away with it, but a sergeant's supposed to know better. And we can't raise the stakes any higher.
Hold on…
He hurled the sword at the wall. It stuck in, by sheer luck. That impressed the watchers.
“Got to give you a chance, Ned,” he said, moving away.
You can always learn, Vimes thought. He remembered Gussie Two Grins. Sam wouldn't run into him for five years or so. It would be a real education. Two Grins was the dirtiest fighter Vimes had ever met. Anything was a weapon, anywhere was a target. Two Grins was a kind of genius in that limited area. He could see the weapon in anything—a wall, a cloth, a piece of fruit…
He wasn't even a big man. He was small and wiry. But he liked fighting big men, on the basis that there was more of them to bite. After a few drinks, though, it was hard to know what Two Grins was fighting. He'd fight the man next to him simply as a substitute for kneeing the whole universe in the groin.
He'd been called Two Grins ever since someone glassed him in the face; Gussie had been so marinated in adrenalin at that point that he regarded this as a mere detail. The scar had left a happy smiley face. Sam had learned a lot from Gussie Two Grins.
“What's this about?” he murmured, just loud enough for Ned to hear.
“Just want to find out what you know, sarge,” said Ned, still circling. “Seems to me you know too much.”
He lunged. Vimes darted back, flailed with the scabbard like a man with no hope and, as Ned laughed and leaned out of his way, shifted his grip on the stiff leather.
“I've got the helmet on, as per regulations,” said Ned. “And the armour. Hard to punch me out, sarge.”
Even with Detritus yelling at them, not one watchman in seven really used a sword properly. Ned did. There weren't many openings.
Oh, well…time for artful.
He took a step back, stopped, and saw what was happening behind Coates. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't stop the momentary flash of relief in his eyes.
Coates couldn't stop the momentary flicker of attention.
Vimes punched up, the scabbard an extension of his arm. The stiff leather caught the man under the chin, thrusting his head back. Then the leather was brought down on the sword hand and, as an afterthought, Vimes kicked Ned on the shin just enough to make him collapse. He'd always had an allergy to edged weapons too near his face.
“Well done, nice try,” he said, and turned his back and faced the crowd. To the sound of gurgling behind him, he said, “Anything's a weapon, used right. Your bell is a club. Anything that pokes the other man hard enough to give you more time is a good thing. Never, ever threaten anyone with your sword unless you really mean it, because if he calls your bluff you suddenly don't have many choices and they're all the wrong ones. Don't be frightened to use what you learned when you were kids. We don't get marks for playing fair. And for close-up fighting, as your senior sergeant I explicitly forbid you to investigate the range of coshes, blackjacks and brass knuckles sold by Mrs Goodbody at No. 8 Easy Street, at a range of prices and sizes to suit all pockets, and should any of you approach me privately I absolutely will not demonstrate a variety of specialist blows suitable for these useful yet tricky instruments. Right, let's limber up. I want you all out here with your truncheons in two minutes. You think it's just a silly club. I will show you otherwise. Jump to it!”
He turned to the stricken Ned, who'd raised himself to a sitting position.
“Nice moves, Mr Coates. You didn't learn them in the Watch, I know that. Anything we need to discuss? Care to tell me where you were last night? Morphic Street, maybe?”
“Day off,” muttered Ned, rubbing his jaw.
“Right, right. None of my business. Seems to me we've failed to hit it off, Ned.”
“'sright.”
“You think I'm some kind of spy.”
“I know you're not John Keel.”
Vime
s kept his face perfectly impassive—which was, he realized, a complete giveaway in itself.
“Why d'you say that?” he said.
“I don't have to tell you. You ain't a Watch sergeant, either. And you were lucky just now, and that's all I'm saying.” Ned got to his feet as the other watchmen filed out into the yard again.
Vimes let him go, and turned his attention to the men.
None of them had ever been taught anything. They'd learned, to a greater or usually a lesser extent, from one another. And Vimes knew where that road went. On that road coppers rolled drunks for their small change and assured one another that bribes were just perks, and it got worse.
He was all for getting recruits out on the street, but you had to train them first. You needed someone like Detritus bellowing at them for six weeks, and lectures about duty and prisoners' rights and the “service to the public”. And then you could hand them over to the street monsters who told them all the other stuff, like how to hit someone where it wouldn't leave a mark and when it was a good idea to stick a metal soup-plate down the front of your trousers before attending to a bar brawl.
And if you were lucky and they were sensible, they found somewhere between impossible perfection and the Pit where they could be real coppers—slightly tarnished, because the job did that to you, but not rotten.
He formed them into twos and set them attacking and defending. It was dreadful to watch. He let it go on for five minutes.
“All right, all right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Very good indeed. When the circus comes to town I'll definitely recommend you.” The men sagged, and grinned sheepishly as he went on: “Don't you know any of the moves? The Throat Slam, the Red Hot Poker, the Ribrattler? Say I'm coming at you with a big, big club…what do you do?”
“Run away, sarge,” said Wiglet. There was laughter.
“How far can you run?” said Vimes. “Got to fight sometime. Lance-Corporal Coates?”
Ned Coates had not been taking part. He'd been leaning against the wall in a sort of stationary swagger, watching the sad show with disdain.
“Sarge?” he said, propelling himself upright with the minimum of effort.
Night Watch tds-27 Page 20
