Night Watch

disgusting. A few years ago he’d only really be 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.
    “I spotted a couple of trolls on traffic duty, sir,” said Cheery, “so I’ve sent them around to the Water Bridge. Then Sergeant Detritus turned up and I told—I advised him to go into the University via the main gate and get up high. Sergeant Colon and Nobby arrived and I sent them along to the Bridge of Size—”
    “Why?” said Vimes.
    “Because I doubt if he’s really going to try going that way,” said Cheery, her face a picture of innocence. Vimes had to stop himself from nodding. “And then as more people come along I’m putting them around the perimeter. But I think he’s gone up and he’s staying high.”
    “Why?”
    “Because how’s he going to fight his way out through a lot of wizards, sir? His best chance is to sneak around on the roofs and drop down somewhere quiet. There’s lots of hiding places and he can get all the way to Peach Pie Street without coming down.”
    Forensic, thought Vimes. Hah. And with any luck he doesn’t know about Buggy.
    “Well thought out,” he said.
    “Thank you, sir. Would you mind standing a bit closer to this wall, sir?”
    “What for?”
    Something shattered on the cobbles. Vimes was suddenly flat against the wall.
    “He’s got a crossbow, sir,” said Cheery. “We think he stole it from Stronginthearm. But he’s not very good with it.”
    “Well done, Corporal,” said Vimes weakly. “Good job.” He glanced around the square behind him. The wind was whipping at the awnings of the market stalls and the traders, with occasional looks at the sky, were covering their wares.
    “But we can’t just let him hang around up there,” he went on. “He’ll start taking potshots and he’s bound to hit someone .”
    “Why would he do that, sir?”
    “Carcer doesn’t need a reason,” said Vimes. “He just needs an excuse.” A movement far above caught his eye, and he grinned.
    A large bird was gaining height over the city.

    The heron, mumbling complaints, fought for altitude in big, sweeping circles. The city whirled around Corporal Buggy Swires as he gripped even harder with his knees, and he swung the bird downwind and it landed with a staggering run on the top of the Tower of Art, the highest building in the city.
    With a practiced movement, the gnome sliced through the string holding the portable semaphore in place, and leaped down after it into the compost of ivy leaves and old ravens’ nests that carpeted the top of the tower.
    The heron watched him with round-eyed stupidity. Buggy had tamed it in the usual gnome way: you painted yourself green like a frog and hung out in the marshes, croaking, and then, when a heron tried to eat you, you ran up its beak and beaned it. By the time it came around you’d blown the special oil up its nostrils—that had taken all day to make, and the stink of it had emptied the Watch House—and it took one look at you and thought you were its mum.
    A heron was useful. It could carry equipment. But Buggy preferred a sparrowhawk for traffic patrol. It was better for hovering.
    He slotted the portable semaphore arms onto the post he’d secretly installed weeks ago. Then he unshipped a tiny telescope from the heron’s saddlebags and strapped it onto the edge of the stone, looking almost straight down. Buggy liked moments like this. It was the only time that everyone else was smaller than him.
    “Now…let’s see what we can see,” he muttered.
    There were the University buildings. There was the clock tower of Old Tom, and the unmistakable bulk of Sergeant Detritus climbing among the nearby chimneys. The yellow light of the gathering storm glinted off the helmets of watchmen who were hurrying through the streets. And there, creeping along behind the parapet…
    “Gotcha,” he said quietly, and reached for the handles of the semaphore.

    “D…T…R…T…S space H…D…N…G space O…L space T…M,” said Cheery.
    Vimes nodded. Detritus was on the roof near the