Guards! Guards!

partner, his name is Nobby. He says I am too keen. He says I have got a lot to learn. I think this is true, because, I have only got up to Page 326 in, The Laws and Ordinances of the Cities of Ankh and Morpork. Love to all, Your Son, Carrot.
PS. Love to Minty.
    It wasn’t just the loneliness, it was the back-to-front way of living. That was it, thought Vimes.
    The Night Watch got up when the rest of the world was going to bed, and went to bed when dawn drifted over the landscape. You spent your whole time in the damp, dark streets, in a world of shadows. The Night Watch attracted the kind of people who for one reason or another were inclined to that kind of life.
    He reached the Watch House. It was an ancient and surprisingly large building, wedged between a tannery and a tailor who made suspicious leather goods. It must have been quite imposing once, but quite a lot of it was now uninhabitable and patrolled only by owls and rats. Over the door a motto in the ancient tongue of the city was now almost eroded by time and grime and lichen, but could just be made out:
    FABRICATI DIEM , PVNC
    It translated–according to Sergeant Colon, who had served in foreign parts and considered himself an expert on languages–as “To Protect and to Serve.”
    Yes. Being a guard must have meant something, once.
    Sergeant Colon, he thought, as he stumbled into the musty gloom. Now there was a man who liked the dark. Sergeant Colon owed thirty years of happy marriage to the fact that Mrs. Colon worked all day and Sergeant Colon worked all night. They communicated by means of notes. He got her tea ready before he left at night, she left his breakfast nice and hot in the oven in the mornings. They had three grown-up children, all born, Vimes had assumed, as a result of extremely persuasive handwriting.
    And Corporal Nobbs…well, anyone like Nobby had unlimited reasons for not wishing to be seen by other people. You didn’t have to think hard about that . The only reason you couldn’t say that Nobby was close to the animal kingdom was that the animal kingdom would get up and walk away.
    And then, of course, there was himself. Just a skinny, un-shaven collection of bad habits marinated in alcohol. And that was the Night Watch. Just the three of them. Once there had been dozens, hundreds. And now–just three.
    Vimes fumbled his way up the stairs, groped his way into his office, slumped into the primeval leather chair with its prolapsed stuffing, scrabbled at the bottom drawer, grabbed bottle, bit cork, tugged, spat out cork, drank. Began his day.
    The world swam into focus.
    Life is just chemicals. A drop here, a drip there, everything’s changed. A mere dribble of fermented juices and suddenly you’re going to live another few hours.
    Once, in the days when this had been a respectable district, some hopeful owner of the tavern next door had paid a wizard a considerable sum of money for an illuminated sign, every letter a different color. Now it worked erratically and sometimes short-circuited in the damp. At the moment the E was a garish pink and flashed on and off at random.
    Vimes had grown accustomed to it. It seemed like part of life.
    He stared at the flickering play of light on the crumbling plaster for a while, and then raised one sandalled foot and thumped heavily on the floorboards, twice.
    After a few minutes a distant wheezing indicated that Sergeant Colon was climbing the stairs.
    Vimes counted silently. Colon always paused for six seconds at the top of the flight to get some of his breath back.
    On the seventh second the door opened. The sergeant’s face appeared around it like a harvest moon.
    You could describe Sergeant Colon like this: he was the sort of man who, if he took up a military career, would automatically gravitate to the post of sergeant. You couldn’t imagine him ever being a corporal. Or, for that matter, a captain. If he didn’t take up a military career, then he looked cut out for something like, perhaps, a sausage butcher; some job where a big red face and a tendency to sweat even in frosty weather were practically part of the specification.
    He saluted and, with considerable care, placed a scruffy piece of paper on Vimes’s desk and smoothed it out.
    “Evenin’, Captain,” he said. “Yesterday’s incident reports, and that. Also, you owe fourpence to the Tea Club.”
    “What’s this about a dwarf, Sergeant?” said Vimes abruptly.
    Colon’s brow wrinkled. “What dwarf?”
    “The one