Pratchett, Terry - Discworld 28 - Night Watch

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Terry Pratchett

Discworld #28

Night Watch

The Duke of Ankh Sir Samuel Vimes knows that in his role, as Commander

of the Watch, there is never a dull day on Discworld. Usually Sam stays off

the street and works behind a desk, but when a particularly vicious

psychopath kills one of the men under his command, Vimes is determined to

find Carcer and bring him down. He corners him near the university but just

as he is about to apprehend him a freak occurrence sends them back in time.

Carcer kills John Keel, the man who taught Vines how to be a good copper,

and it is up to Sir Samuel to find a way to teach the young Samuel Ivens how

to bring honor to a job. Before he can think of returning to his present, he

must also take care of Carcer, show the Watch that it needn't be corrupt, and

find a way to put history back on track.

The Discworld novels are always interesting and humorous and Night Watch

is no exception. The hero is thrust back in time and into an organization that

is corrupt, inept and inefficient.

ISBN #0060013117

HarperCollins

November 1, 2002

-2-

Sam Vimes sighed when he heard the scream, but he finished

shaving before he did anything about it.

Then he put his jacket on and strolled out into the wonderful

late spring morning. Birds sang in the trees, bees buzzed in the

blossom. The sky was hazy, though, and thunderheads on the

horizon threatened rain later. But, for now, the air was hot and

heavy. And, in the old cesspit behind the gardener's shed, a

young man was treading water.

Well... treading, anyway.

Vimes stood back a little way and lit a cigar. It probably

wouldn't be a good idea to employ a naked flame any nearer to

the pit. The fall from the shed roof had broken the crust.

'Good morning!' he said cheerfully.

'Good morning, your grace,' said the industrious treadler.

The voice was higher pitched than Vimes expected and he

realized that, most unusually, the young man in the pit was in

fact a young woman. It wasn't entirely unexpected - the

Assassins' Guild was aware that women were at least equal to

their brothers when it came to inventive killing - but it

nevertheless changed the situation somewhat.

'I don't believe we've met?' said Vimes. 'Although I see you

know who I am. You are...?'

'Wiggs, sir,' said the swimmer. 'Jocasta Wiggs. Honoured to

meet you, your grace.'

'Wiggs, eh?' said Vimes. 'Famous family in the Guild. "Sir"

will do, by the way. I think I once broke your father's leg?'

'Yes, sir. He asked to be remembered to you,' said Jocasta.

'You're a bit young to be sent on this contract, aren't you?' said

Vimes.

'Not a contract, sir,’ said Jocasta, still paddling.

'Come now, Miss Wiggs. The price on my head is at least-'

-3-

‘The Guild council put it in abeyance, sir,' said the dogged

swimmer. 'You're off the register. They're not accepting

contracts on you at present.'

'Good grief, why not?'

'Couldn't say, sir,' said Miss Wiggs. Her patient struggles had

brought her to the edge of the pit, and now she was finding that

the brickwork was in very good repair, quite slippery and

offered no handholds. Vimes knew this, because he'd spent

several hours one afternoon carefully arranging that this should

be so.

'So why were you sent, then?'

'Miss Band sent me as an exercise,' said Jocasta. 'I say, these

bricks really are jolly tricky, aren't they?'

'Yes,' said Vimes, 'they are. Have you been rude to Miss Band

lately? Upset her in any way?'

'Oh, no, your grace. But she did say I was getting

overconfident, and would benefit from some advanced field

work.'

'Ah. I see.' Vimes tried to recall Miss Alice Band, one of the

Assassins' Guild's stricter teachers. She was, he'd heard, very hot

on practical lessons.

'So... she sent you to kill me, then?' he said.

'No, sir! It's an exercise! I don't even have any crossbow bolts!

I just had to find a spot where I could get you in my sights and

then report back!'

'She'd believe you?'

'Of course, sir,' said Jocasta, looking rather hurt. 'Guild

honour, sir.'

Vimes took a deep breath. 'You see, Miss Wiggs, quite a few

of your chums have tried to kill me at home in recent years. As

you might expect, I take a dim view of this.'

'Easy to see why, sir,' said Jocasta, in the voice of one who

-4-

knows that their only hope of escaping from their present

predicament is reliant on the goodwill of another person who

has no pressing reason to have any.

'And so you'd be amazed at the booby traps there are around

the place,’ Vimes went on. 'Some of them are pretty cunning,

even if I say it myself.'

'I certainly never expected the tiles on the shed to shift like

that, sir.'

‘They're on greased rails,’ said Vimes.

'Well done, sir!'

'And quite a few of the traps drop you into something deadly,’

said Vimes.

'Lucky for me that I fell into this one, eh, sir?'

'Oh, that one's deadly too,' said Vimes. 'Eventually deadly.' He

sighed. He really wanted to discourage this sort of thing but...

they'd put him off the register? It wasn't that he'd liked being

shot at by hooded figures in the temporary employ of his many

and varied enemies, but he'd always looked at it as some kind of

vote of confidence. It showed that he was annoying the rich and

arrogant people who ought to be annoyed.

Besides, the Assassins' Guild was easy to outwit. They had

strict rules, which they followed quite honourably, and this was

fine by Vimes, who, in certain practical areas, had no rules

whatsoever.

Off the register, eh? The only other person not on it any more,

it was rumoured, was Lord Vetinari, the Patrician. The

Assassins understood the political game in the city better than

anyone, and if they took you off the register it was because they

felt your departure would not only spoil the game but also smash

the board...

'I'd be jolly grateful if you could pull me out, sir,’ said

Jocasta.

-5-

'What? Oh, yes. Sorry, got clean clothes on,’ said Vimes. 'But

when I get back to the house I'll tell the butler to come down

here with a ladder. How about that?'

'Thank you very much, sir. Nice to have met you, sir.'

Vimes strolled back to the house. Off the register? Was he

allowed to appeal? Perhaps they thought-

The scent rolled over him.

He looked up.

Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom.

He stared.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He

never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware

that you didn't want to tarnish. And every year they came back,

sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of

all days...

He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom

and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a

moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac

carefully back up to his dressing room.

Willikins had prepared the official uniform for today. Sam

Vimes stared at it blankly, and then remembered. Watch

Committee. Right. The battered old breastplate wouldn't do,

would it... Not for His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of

the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. Lord Vetinari had been very

definite about that, blast it.

Blast it all the more because, unfortunately, Sam Vimes could

see the point. He hated the official uniform, but he represented a

bit more than just himself these days. Sam Vimes had been able

to turn up for meetings with grubby armour, and even Sir

Samuel Vimes could generally contrive to find a way to stay in

street uniform at all times, but a Duke... well, a Duke needed a

bit of polish. A Duke couldn't have the arse hanging out of his

-6-

trousers when meeting foreign diplomats. Actually, even plain

old Sam Vimes never had the arse hanging out of his trousers,

either, but no one would have actually started a war if he had.

The plain old Sam Vimes had fought back. He got rid of most

of the plumes and the stupid tights, and ended up with a dress

uniform that at least looked as though its owner was male. But

the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armourers had

made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold

ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every

time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those

people that wore stupid ornamental armour. It was gilt by

association.

He twirled the sprig of lilac in his fingers, and smelled again

the heady smell. Yes... it hadn't always been like this...

Someone had just spoken to him. He looked up.

'What?' he barked.

'I enquired if her ladyship is well, your grace?' said the butler,

looking startled. 'Are you feeling all right, your grace?'

'What? Oh, yes. No. I'in fine. So is her ladyship, yes, thank

you. I popped in before I went outside. Mrs Content is with her.

She says it won't be for a while.'

'I have advised the kitchen to have plenty of hot water ready,

your grace, nevertheless,' said Willikins, helping Vimes on with

the gilty breastplate.

'Yes. Why do they need all that water, do you think?'

'I couldn't say, your grace,’ said Willikins. 'Probably best not

to enquire.'

Vimes nodded. Sybil had already made it quite clear, with

gentle tact, that he was not required on this particular case. It

had been, he had to admit, a bit of a relief.

He handed Willikins the sprig of lilac. The butler took it

without comment, inserted it into a little silver tube of water that

-7-

would keep it fresh for hours, and fixed it on to one of the

breastplate straps.

‘Time moves on, doesn't it, your grace,' he said, dusting him

down with a small brush.

Vimes took out his watch. 'It certainly does. Look, I'll drop in

at the Yard on my way to the palace, sign what needs signing,

and I'll be back as soon as possible, all right?'

Willikins gave him a look of almost unbutlery concern. 'I'in

sure her ladyship will be fine, your grace,' he said. 'Of course

she is not, not-'

'young,' said Vimes.

'I would say she is richer in years than many other

primigravidae,’ said Willikins smoothly. 'But she is a wellbuilt

lady, if you don't mind me saying so, and her family have

traditionally had very little trouble in the childbirth department-'

‘Trimi what?'

'New mothers, your grace. I'in sure her ladyship would much

rather know that you were running after miscreants than wearing

a hole in the library carpet.'

'I expect you're right, Willikins. Er... oh, yes, there's a young

lady dogpaddling in the old cesspit, Willikins.'

'Very good, your grace. I shall send the kitchen boy down

there with a ladder directly. And a message to the Assassins'

Guild?'

'Good idea. She'll need clean clothes and a bath.'

'I think, perhaps, the hose in the old scullery might be more

appropriate, your grace? To start with, at least?'

'Good point. See to it. And now I must be off.'

In the crowded main office of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch

House, Sergeant Colon absentmindedly adjusted the sprig of

lilac that he'd stuck into his helmet like a plume.

-8-

‘They go very strange, Nobby,' he said, leafing listlessly

through the morning's paperwork. 'It's a copper thing. Happened

to me when I had kids. You get tough.'

'What do you mean, tough?' said Corporal Nobbs, possibly the

best living demonstration that there was some smooth evolution

between humans and animals.

'Weell,' said Colon, leaning back in his chair. 'It's like... well,

when you're our age...' He looked at Nobby, and hesitated.

Nobby had been giving his age as 'probably 34' for years; the

Nobbs family were not good at keeping count.

'I mean, when a man reaches... a certain age,' he tried again,

'he knows the world is never going to be perfect. He's got used

to it being a bit, a bit...'

'Manky?' Nobby suggested. Tucked behind his ear, in the

place usually reserved for his cigarette, was another wilting lilac

flower.

'Exactly,’ said Colon. 'Like, it's never going to be perfect, so

you just do the best you can, right? But when there's a kid on the

way, well, suddenly a man sees it different. He thinks: my kid's

going to have to grow up in this mess. Time to clean it up. Time

to make it a Better World. He gets a bit... keen. Full of ginger.

When he hears about Stronginthearm it's going to be very hot

around here for- 'morning, Mister Vimes!'

'Talking about me, eh?' said Vimes, striding past them as they

jerked to attention. He had not in fact heard any of the

conversation, but Sergeant Colon's face could be read like a

book and Vimes had learned it by heart years ago.

'Just wondering if the happy event-' Colon began, trailing after

Vimes as he took the stairs two at a time.

'It hasn't,' said Vimes shortly. He pushed open the door to his

office, "morning, Carrot!'

Captain Carrot sprang to his feet and saluted. ' 'morning, sir!

-9-

Has Lady-'

'No, Carrot. She has not. What's been happening overnight?'

Carrot's gaze went to the sprig of lilac, and back to Vimes's

face. 'Nothing good, sir,’ he said. 'Another officer killed.'

Vimes stopped dead. 'Who?' he demanded.

'Sergeant Stronginthearm, sir. Killed in Treacle Mine Road.

Carcer again.'

Vimes glanced at his watch. They had ten minutes to get to

the palace. But time suddenly wasn't important any more.

He sat down at his desk. 'Witnesses?'

'Three this time, sir.’

‘That many?'

'All dwarfs. Stronginthearm wasn't even on duty, sir. He'd

signed off and was picking up a rat pie and chips from a shop

and walked out straight into Carcer. The devil stabbed him in

the neck and ran for it. He must've thought we'd found him.’

'We've been looking for the man for weeksl And he bumped

into poor old Stronginthearm when all the dwarf was thinking of

was his breakfast? Is Angua on the trail?'

'Up to a point, sir,’ said Carrot awkwardly.

'Why only up to a point?'

'He - well, we assume it was Carcer - dropped an aniseed

bomb in Sator Square. Almost pure oil.'

Vimes sighed. It was amazing how people adapted. The

Watch had a werewolf. That news had got around, in an

underground kind of way. And so the criminals had evolved to

survive in a society where the law had a very sensitive nose.

Scent bombs were the solution. They didn't have to be that

dramatic. You just dropped a little flask of pure peppermint or

aniseed in the street where a lot of people would walk over it,

and suddenly Sergeant Angua was facing a hundred, a thousand

-10-

crisscrossing trails, and went to bed with a terrible headache.

He listened glumly as Carrot reported on men brought off

leave or put on double shift, on informers pumped, pigeons

stooled, grasses rustled, fingers held to the wind, ears put on the

street. And he knew how little it all added up to. They still had

fewer than a hundred men in the Watch, and that was including

the canteen lady. There were a million people in the city, and a

billion places to hide. Ankh-Morpork was built of boltholes.

Besides, Carcer was a nightmare.

Vimes was used to the other kinds of nut jobs, the ones that

acted quite normally right up to the point where they hauled off

and smashed someone with a poker for blowing their nose

noisily. But Carcer was different. He was in two minds, but

instead of them being in conflict, they were in competition. He

had a demon on both shoulders, urging one another on.

And yet... he smiled all the time, in a cheerful chirpy sort of

way, and he acted like the kind of rascal who made a dodgy

living selling gold watches that go green after a week. And he

appeared to be convinced, utterly convinced, that he never did

anything really wrong. He'd stand there amid the carnage, blood

on his hands and stolen jewellery in his pocket, and with an

expression of injured innocence declare, 'Me? What did I do?'

And it was believable right up until you looked hard into

those cheeky, smiling eyes, and saw, deep down, the demons

looking back.

... but you mustn't spend too much time looking at those eyes,

because that'd mean you'd taken your eyes off his hands, and by

now one of them held a knife.

It was hard for the average copper to deal with people like

that. They expected people, when heavily outnumbered, to give

in or try to deal or at least just stop moving. They didn't expect

people to kill for a fivedollar watch. (A hundred dollar watch,

now, that'd be different. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all.)

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TerryPratchettDiscworld#28NightWatchTheDukeofAnkhSirSamuelVimesknowsthatinhisrole,asCommanderoftheWatch,thereisneveradulldayonDiscworld.UsuallySamstaysoffthestreetandworksbehindadesk,butwhenaparticularlyviciouspsychopathkillsoneofthemenunderhiscommand,VimesisdeterminedtofindCarcerandbringhimdown.Hec...

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Pratchett, Terry - Discworld 28 - Night Watch

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