Night Watch

A night's sleep, thought Vimes. Maybe, in the morning, this won't have happened.

“She wasn't there, was she?” said Rosie, after a while. “Your wife? That was Lord Ramkin's house. Are you in trouble with him?”

“Never met the man,” said Vimes absently.

“You were lucky someone told us where you'd gone. Those men were probably in the pay of someone up there. They're a law unto themselves, over in Ankh. Some rough man walking around with no tradesman's tools…well, he's to be turned off the patch, and if they rob you blind while they're doing it who's going to care?”

Yes, thought Vimes. That's the way it was. Privilege, which just means private law. Two types of people laugh at the law: those that break it and those that make it. Well, it's not like that now—

–but I'm not in “now” now. Damn those wizards…

The wizards. Right! In the morning I'll go and explain! Easy! They'll understand! I'll bet they can send me right back to when I left! There's a whole university full of people to deal with this! It's not my problem any more!

Relief filled his body like warm pink mist. All he had to do was get through the night…

But why wait? They were open all night, weren't they? Magic didn't shut. Vimes remembered late-night patrols when he could practically see by the glows coming from some of the windows. He could simply—

Hold on, hold on. A policeman's thought had been stirring in his mind. The Aunts didn't run. They famously didn't run. They caught up with you slowly. Anyone who'd been, as they called it, “a very naughty boy” would sleep extremely badly knowing that the Aunts on his tail were slowly getting nearer, pausing only for a cream tea somewhere or to visit an interesting jumble sale. But Vimes had run, run all the way up to Scoone Avenue, in the dark, through coach traffic and crowds of people swarming home before curfew. No one had paid him any attention, would surely not have seen his face if they did. And he certainly didn't know anyone here. He amended the thought: no one knew him.

“So,” he said casually, “who told you where I'd gone?”

“Oh, one of those old monks,” said Rosie.

“Which old monks?”

“Who knows? A little bald man with a robe and a broom. There's always monks begging and chanting somewhere. He was in Phedre Road.”

“And you asked him where I'd gone?”

“What? No. He just looked around and said, ‘Mr Keel ran up to Scoone Avenue,’ and then he went on sweeping.”

“Sweeping?”

“Oh, it's the kind of holy thing they do. So they don't tread on ants, I think. Or they sweep sins away. Or maybe they just like the place clean. Who cares what monks do?”

“And nothing about that struck you as odd?”

“Why? I thought perhaps you were naturally kind to beggars!” snapped Rosie. “It doesn't bother me. Dotsie said she put something in his begging bowl, though.”

“What?”

“Would you ask?”

The majority of Vimes thought: who does care about what monks do? They're monks. That's why they're weird. Maybe one had a moment of revelation or something, they like that kind of thing. So what? Find the wizards, explain what's happened and leave it to them.

But the policeman part thought: how do little monks know I'm called Keel? I smell a rat.

The majority said: it's a thirty-year-old rat, then.

And the policeman said: yes, that's why it smells.

“Look, I'm going to have to go and check something,” he said. “I'll…probably be back.”

“Well, I can't chain you up,” said Rosie. She smiled a grim little smile, and went on: “That costs extra. But if you don't come back, yet have any intention of staying in this city, then the Aunts—”

“I promise you, the last thing I want to do is leave Ankh-Morpork,” said Vimes.

“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?”