Night Watch

watch.
    Someone was watching him.
    A figure detached itself from the damp shadows of the street, and walked toward him. Vimes couldn’t make out the face, but that didn’t matter. He knew it would be smiling that special smile of the predator who knows he has the prey under his paw, and knows that the prey knows this, too, and also knows that the prey is desperately going to act as if they’re having a perfectly friendly conversation, because the prey wants so much for this to be the case…
    You don’t want to die here, said the deep dark part of Vimes’s soul.
    “Got a light, mister?” said the predator. He didn’t even bother to wave an unlit cigarette.
    “Why, yes, of course,” said Vimes. He went as if to pat his pocket but swung around, arm outstretched, and caught a man creeping up behind him right across the ear. Then he leaped for the light-seeker in front of him and bore him to the ground with an arm across his throat.
    It would have worked. He knew, afterward, that it really would have worked. If there hadn’t been two more men in the shadows, it would have worked. As it was, he managed to kick one of them in the kneecap before he felt the garrote go round his neck.
    He was pulled upright, the scar screaming in pain as he tried to clutch at the rope.
    “You hold him right there,” said a voice. “Look what he did to Jez. Damn! I’m gonna kick him in—”
    The shadows moved. Vimes, struggling for breath, his one good eye watering, was only vaguely aware of what was happening. But there were some grunts, and some soft, strange noises, and the pressure on his neck was abruptly released.
    He fell forward, and then, reeling a little, struggled to his feet. A couple of men were lying on the ground. One was bent double, making little bubbling noises. And, far off and getting further, there were running footsteps.
    “Lucky we found you in time, kind sir,” said a voice right behind him.
    “Not lucky for some, dearie,” said one right next to it.
    Rosie stepped forward, out of the gloom.
    “I think you ought to come back with us,” she said. “You’re going to get hurt, running around like this. Come on. Obviously I’m not taking you back to my place—”
    “—obviously,” murmured Vimes.
    “—but Mossy’ll find you somewhere to lay your head, I expect. He’s got a spare room.”
    “Mossy Lawn!” said Vimes, suddenly light-headed. “That’s him! The pox doctor! I remember!” He tried to focus one tired eye on the young woman. Yes, the bone structure was right. That chin. That was a no-nonsense chin. It was a chin that took people somewhere. “Rosie…you’re Mrs. Palm!”
    “Mrs.?” she said coldly, while the Agony Aunts giggled their high-pitched giggle. “I think not. ”
    “Well, I mean—” Vimes floundered. Of course, only the senior members of the profession adopted “Mrs.”
    “And I’ve never seen you before,” said Rosie. “And neither have Dotsie and Sadie, and they have an amazing memory for faces. But you act as if you own the place, John Keel.”
    “Do I?”
    “You do. It’s the way you stand. Officers stand like that. You eat well. Maybe a bit too well. You could lose a few pounds. And then there’s the scars all over you. I saw ’em in Mossy’s place. Your legs are tanned from the knees down, and that says ‘watchman’ to me, because they go bare-legged. But I know every watchman in the city and you’re not one of them, so maybe you’re a military man. You fight by instinct, and dirty, too. That means you’re used to fighting for your life in a melee, and that’s odd, because that says to me ‘foot soldier,’ not officer. The word is that the lads took some fine armor off you. That’s officer. But you don’t wear rings. That’s foot soldier—rings catch in things, can pull your finger off if you’re not careful. And you’re married.”
    “How can you tell that? ”
    “Any woman could tell that,” said Rosie Palm smoothly. “Now, step sharp. We’re out after curfew as it is. The Watch won’t bother much about us, but they will about you.”
    Curfew, thought Vimes. That was a long time ago. Vetinari never ordered curfews. They interfered with business.
    “I think perhaps I lost my memory when I was attacked,” he said. That sounded good, he thought. What he really needed now was somewhere quiet, to think.
    “Really? I think perhaps I’m the Queen of Hersheba,” said Rosie. “Just remember, kind sir. I’m not doing this