Night Watch

landed unsteadily on the lawn.
    “Lady upstairs, big bedroom on left,” said Vimes, pushing vaguely at the doctor. “Midwife there, not got a clue. All the money you want. Go on.”
    Lawn hurried off. Vimes, helped by Ridcully, followed rather more stiffly, but, as they reached the door, the doctor came out, walking backward very slowly. It became apparent, as he emerged, that this was because Detritus’s huge crossbow was pressed against his nose.
    When Vimes spoke, his voice was slightly muffled, because he was lying flat on the ground.
    “Put the bow down , Sergeant,” he managed.
    “He come rushin’ in, Mister Vimes,” rumbled Detritus.
    “That’s because he’s the doctor , Sergeant. Let him go upstairs. That is an order, thank you.”
    “Right, Mister Vimes,” said Detritus, stepping aside with reluctance and shouldering the bow. At which point, the bow discharged.
    When the thunder had died away, Vimes got up and looked around. He hadn’t actually liked the shrubbery very much. That was just as well. Nothing remained but some tree trunks, and they were all stripped of bark down one side. There were a few small fires.
    “Er, sorry about that, Mister Vimes,” said the troll.
    “What did I tell you about Mister Safety Catch?” said Vimes weakly.
    “When Mister Safety Catch Is Not On, Mister Crossbow Is Not Your Friend,” recited Detritus, saluting. “Sorry, sir, but we all a bit tense at dis time.”
    “I certainly am,” said Ridcully, picking himself off the lawn and pulling twigs out of his beard. “I may not walk properly for the rest of the day. I suggest, Sergeant, that we pick the doctor up, bring him round under the pump, and take him upstairs…”
    The things that happened next were a waking dream for Vimes. He moved like a ghost through his own house, which was full of watchmen. No one wanted to be anywhere else.
    He shaved himself very slowly, concentrating on every stroke. He was aware of noises off, which arrived via the pink clouds in his head.
    “—he says he wants them boiled, the nasty horrid things! What’s that for, to make them softer?”
    “—trolls and dwarfs on tonight, every door and window covered and I mean covered—”
    “—stood over me and said damn well boil them for twenty minutes! Like they were cabbage—”
    “—now he’s asked for a small brandy—”
    “—Mrs. Content stormed out and he said not to let her in again—”
    “—Igor came and offered to help, and Lawn took one look and said only if he’s been boiled for twenty minutes—”
    “—pox doctor, when all’s said and done—”
    “—old Stoneface’ll cover him with gold if it all turns out right—”
    “—yeah, and if it turns out wrong?”
    Vimes got dressed in his street uniform, moving slowly and willing every limb into position. He brushed his hair. He went out into the hall. He sat down on an uncomfortable chair, with his helmet on his knees, while ghosts both living and dead hurried around him.
    Usually—always—there was a part of Vimes that watched the other parts, because he was at heart a policeman. This time it wasn’t there. It was in here with the rest of him, staring at nothing and waiting.
    “—someone take up more towels-”
    “—now he’s asked for a large brandy!”
    “—he wants to see Mister Vimes!”
    Vimes’s brain lit up from whatever little pilot light of thought had been operating at the most basic level. He walked up the stairs, helmet under his arm, like a man going to take a statement. He knocked at the door.
    Lawn opened it. He was holding a brandy glass in his other hand, and moved aside with a smile.
    Sybil was sitting up. He saw, through the mist of exhaustion, that she was holding something wrapped in a shawl.
    “He’s called Sam, Sam,” she said. “And no argument.”
    The sun came out.
    “I’ll teach him to walk!” beamed Vimes. “I’m good at teaching people to walk!”
    And he fell asleep before he hit the carpet.

    It was a pleasant stroll in the early evening air. Vimes trailed cigar smoke behind him as he walked down to Pseudopolis Yard, where he acknowledged the cheers and congratulations and thanked people for the lovely flowers.
    His next stop was at Doctor Lawn’s house, where he sat and spoke for a while of such things as memory and how tricky it can be, and forgetfulness and how profitable it could prove.
    Then, with the doctor, he went to his bank. This institution was, not surprisingly, willing to open