Night Watch

sure nothing happens to young Sam!” said Vimes, as Qu carefully prodded him into position. The little stone columns began to spin.
    “We will!”
    “Make sure Reg Shoe gets a decent burial!”
    “We will!”
    “Not too deep, he’ll be wanting to come out again in a few hours!”
    Qu gave him a last prod.
    “ Goodbye, Commander!”
    Time came back.

    Ned was looking at him.
    “What happened just then, Sarge? You blurred. ”
    “You only get one question, Ned,” said Vimes, fighting the moment of nausea. “Now, let’s show Snapcase where the line’s drawn, shall we? Let’s finish it—”
    They charged, the men falling in behind them.
    Vimes remembered in slow motion. Some of Carcer’s men ran at the sight of them, some raised their hastily reclaimed weapons, and Carcer stood there and grinned.
    Vimes headed for him, ducking and weaving through the fight.
    The man’s expression changed as Vimes approached. Vimes was speeding up, shoulder-charging and thrusting other bodies away. Carcer raised his sword and took a stance, but there was no room for finesse in the melee, and Vimes closed like a bull, knocking the sword up and grabbing Carcer by the throat.
    “You’re nicked, my ol’ chum,” he said. And then it all went black.

    He felt, later on, that there should have been more to it. There should have been rushing blue tunnels, or flashes, or the sun should have shot round and round the sky. Even pages tearing off a calendar and fluttering away would have been something.
    But it was just the blackness of the deepest sleep, followed by pain as he hit the floor.
    Vimes felt arms reach down and haul him to his feet. He shook them off as soon as he was upright and focused, through the bleary mist, on the face of Captain Carrot.
    “Good to see you, sir. Oh, dear—”
    “I’m fine,” croaked Vimes through a throat that felt stuffed with sand. “Where’s Carcer?”
    “You’ve got a nasty cut on—”
    “Really? I’m amazed,” growled Vimes. “Now, where the hell is Carcer ?”
    “We don’t know, sir. You just appeared in midair and landed on the floor. In a lot of blue light, sir!”
    “Ah,” muttered Vimes. “Well, he’s come back somewhere. Somewhere close, probably.”
    “Right, sir, I’ll tell the men to—”
    “No, don’t,” said Vimes. “He’ll keep. After all, where’s he going to go?”
    He wasn’t too sure of his legs. They felt as though they belonged to someone with a very poor sense of balance.
    “How long was I…away?” he said. Ponder Stibbons stepped forward.
    “About half an hour, Your Grace. Er, we have, er hypothesized that there was some temporal disturbance, which, coupled with the lightning stroke and a resonance in the standing wave of the Library, caused a space-time rupture—”
    “Yeah, it felt something like that,” said Vimes hurriedly. “Half an hour, did you say?”
    “Did it feel longer?” said Ponder, taking out a notebook.
    “A bit,” Vimes conceded. “Now, has anyone here got a pair of drawers I—”
    I can see your house from up here…
    That was Carcer. He liked you to stew, to use your imagination.
    And Vimes had said: where’s he going to go?
    “Captain, I want you and every man you can spare, every damn man, to get up to my house right now, understand,” he said. “Just do it. Just do it now. ” He turned to Ridcully. “Archchancellor, can you get me there faster?”
    “The Watch wants magical assistance?” said the Archchancellor, taken aback.
    “Please,” said Vimes.
    “Of course, but you realize that you have no clothes on—”
    Vimes gave up. People always wanted explanations. He set off, overruling the jelly in his legs, running out of the octangle and across the lawns until he reached the University’s Bridge of Size, where he sped past Nobby and Colon who were drawn into the wake of watchmen running to keep up.
    On the other side of the bridge was the garden known as the Wizard’s Pleasaunce. Vimes ploughed through it, twigs whipping at his bare legs, and then he was out and onto the old towpath, mud splashing up over the blood. Then a right and a left, past amazed bystanders, and then there were the cathead cobbles of Scoone Avenue under his feet and he found the wind to accelerate a little. He didn’t slow until he reached the gravel drive and almost collapsed at the front door, hanging on to the bellpull.
    There were hurrying feet, and the door was wrenched open.
    “If you’re not Willikins,”