Night Watch

the Aunts had melted away in the darkness, as night people do when trouble looms, but Vimes ran on and into Kings Way, pushing aside other pedestrians and dodging the occasional carriage.
    He was getting a second wind when he reached Scoone Avenue and turned into the driveway of Number One. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but the place looked normal and there were torches burning on either side of the door. Familiar gravel crunched under his feet.
    He went to hammer on the door, but steeled himself not to, and rang the bell instead.
    After a moment the door was opened by a butler.
    “Thank goodness!” said Vimes. “It’s me, man. Been in a fight. Nothing to worry about. How is—”
    “What do you want?” said the butler coldly. He took a step back, which brought him more fully into the light of the hall lamps. Vimes had never seen him before.
    “What’s happened to Willikins?” said Vimes.
    “The scullery boy?” Now the butler’s tone was icy. “If you are a relative, I suggest you enquire around at the tradesmen’s entrance. You ought to know better than to come to the front door.”
    Vimes tried to think how to deal with this, but his fist didn’t bother to wait. It laid the man out quite cleanly.
    “No time for this,” said Vimes, stepping over him. He stood in the middle of the big hall and cupped his hands.
    “Mrs. Content? Sybil?” he yelled, feeling the terror twist and knot inside him.
    “Yes?” said a voice from what Vimes had always called The Ghastly Pink Drawing Room, and Sybil stepped out.
    It was Sybil. The voice was right, and the eyes were right, and the way she stood was right. But the age wasn’t right. This was a girl, far too young to be Sybil…
    She looked from him to the prone butler.
    “Did you do that to Forsythe?” she said.
    “I…er…I…it’s…. there’s been a mistake…” Vimes murmured, backing away. But Sybil was already pulling a sword off the wall. It wasn’t there for show. Vimes couldn’t remember if his wife had ever learned to fence, but several feet of edged weapon is quite threatening enough when wielded by an angry amateur. Amateurs sometimes get lucky.
    He backed away hurriedly.
    “It’s been a mistake…wrong house…mistaken identity…” He almost tripped over the fallen butler but managed to turn this into a staggering run through the doorway and down the steps.
    Wet leaves brushed against him as he blundered through the shrubbery to the gateway, where he leaned against the wall and gulped for air.
    That bloody Library! Hadn’t he heard something once, about how you could walk through time or something there? All those magical books pressed together did something strange.
    Sybil had been so young. She’d looked sixteen! No wonder there wasn’t a Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard! They’d only moved in there a few years go!
    The water was soaking through the cheap clothes. Back home…somewhere…was his huge leather greatcoat, heavy with oil, warm as toast…
    Think, think, don’t let the terror take control—
    Perhaps he could go and explain things to Sybil. After all, she was still Sybil, wasn’t she? Kind to bedraggled creatures? But even the softest heart would be inclined to harden when a rough, desperate man with a fresh scar and bad clothes barged into the house and said he was going to be your husband. A young woman could get quite the wrong idea, and he wouldn’t want that, not while she was holding a sword. Besides, Lord Ramkin was probably still alive and he’d been a blood-thirsty old devil, as far as Vimes could recall.
    He slumped against the wall and reached for a cigar, and the terror twisted him again.
    There was nothing in his pocket. Nothing at all. No Pantweed’s Slim Panatellas and, more important, no cigar case…
    It had been made specially. It had a slight curve. It had always nestled in his pocket since the day Sybil had given it to him. It was as near part of him as any thing could be.
    “We are here, and this is now.” Constable Visit, a strict believer in the Omnian religion, occasionally quoted from their holy book. Vimes understood it to mean, in less exalted copperspeak, that you have to do the job that is in front of you.
    I am here, Vimes thought, and this is then. And less conscious parts of his brain added: you have no friends here. No home here. No purpose here. You are alone here.
    No…not alone, said a part that was much, much deeper even than the terror, and was always on