Night Watch

“In a way, sir, I suppose it's a step forward.”

“United in hatred, you mean?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Carrot. He flicked papers back and forth on his clipboard. “Now, what else have I got? Oh, yes, the river patrol boat has sunk again—”

Where did I go wrong? thought Vimes as the litany went on. I was a copper once. A real copper. I chased people. I was a hunter. It was what I did best. I knew where I was anywhere in the city by the feel of the street under my boots. And now look at me! A Duke! Commander of the Watch! A political animal! I have to know about who's fighting who a thousand miles away, just in case that's going to mean riots here!

When did I last go on patrol? Last week? Last month? And it's never a proper point patrol, 'cos the sergeants make damn sure everyone knows I've left the building and every damn constable reeks of armour polish and has had a shave by the time I get there, even if I nip down the back streets (and that thought, at least, was freighted with a little pride, because it showed he didn't employ stupid sergeants). I never stand all night in the rain, or fight for my life rolling in the gutter with some thug, and I never move above a walk. That's all been taken away. And for what?

Comfort, power, money and a wonderful wife…

…er…

…which was a good thing, of course, but…even so…

Damn. But I'm not a copper any more, I'm a, a manager. I have to talk to the damn committee as if they're children. I go to receptions and wear damn stupid toy armour. It's all politics and paperwork. It's all got too big.

What has happened to the days when it was all so simple?

Faded like the lilac, he thought.

They entered the palace and went up the main stairs to the Oblong Office.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was standing looking out of the window when they entered. The room was otherwise deserted.

“Ah, Vimes,” he said, without turning round. “I thought you might be late. In the circumstances, I dismissed the committee. They were sorry, as indeed was I, to hear about Stronginthearm. No doubt you have been writing the official letter.”

Vimes flashed a questioning expression at Carrot, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Vetinari found things out very quickly.

“Yes, that's right,” said Vimes.

“And on such a beautiful day as this, too,” said Vetinari. “Although there's a storm heading our way, I see.” He turned. He had a sprig of lilac pinned to his robe.

“Lady Sybil is doing well?” he said, sitting down.

“You tell me,” said Vimes.

“Some things can't be hurried, no doubt,” said Vetinari smoothly, shuffling the papers. “Let me see now, let me see, there were just a few points that I should deal with…ah, the regular letter from our religious friends at the Temple of Small Gods.” He carefully removed it from the pile and set it to one side. “I think I shall invite the new deacon to tea and explain matters to him. Now, where was I…ah, the political situation in—yes?”

The door opened. Drumknott, the chief clerk, came in.

“Message for his grace,” he said, although he handed it to Lord Vetinari. The Patrician passed it, very politely, across the desk. Vimes unfolded it.

“It's off the clacks!” he yelled. “We've got Carcer cornered in New Hall! I've got to get down there now!”

“How exciting,” said Lord Vetinari, standing up suddenly. “The call to the chase. But is it necessary for you to attend personally, your grace?”

Vimes gave him a grey look. “Yes,” he said. “Because if I don't, y'see, some poor sod who's been trained by me to do the right thing is going to try to arrest the bugger.” He turned to Carrot. “Captain, get on it right now! Clacks, pigeons, runners, whatever. I want everyone answering this shout, okay? But no one, I repeat, no one is to try to tackle him without a lot of backup! Understood? And get Swires airborne! Oh, damn…”

“What's wrong, sir?” said Carrot.

“This message is from Littlebottom. She sent it straight here. What's she doing there? She's Forensic. She's not street! She'll do it by the book!”

“Shouldn't she?” said Vetinari.

“No. Carcer needs an arrow in his leg just to get his attention. You shoot first—”

“—and ask questions later?” said Vetinari.

Vimes paused at the door and said, “There's nothing I want to ask him.”

Vimes had to slow down for breath in Sator Square, and that was disgusting. A few years ago he'd've only really been getting into his stride by now! But the storm rolling over the plains was driving the heat before it, and it wouldn't do for the commander to turn up wheezing. As it was, even after pausing behind a street market stall for a few gulps of air, he doubted if he had enough wind left for a lengthy sentence.

To his tremendous relief, an entirely unwounded Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was waiting by the University walls. She saluted.

“Reporting, sir,” she said.

“Mm,” murmured Vimes.