Night Watch

fine by Vimes, who, in certain practical areas, had no rules whatsoever.
    Off the register, eh? The only other person not on it anymore, it was rumored, was Lord Vetinari, the Patrician. The Assassins understood the political game in the city better than anyone, and if they took you off the register it was because they felt your departure would not only spoil the game but also smash the board…
    “I’d be jolly grateful if you could pull me out, sir,” said Jocasta.
    “What? Oh, yes. Sorry, got clean clothes on,” said Vimes. “But when I get back to the house I’ll tell the butler to come down here with a ladder. How about that?”
    “Thank you very much, sir. Nice to have met you, sir.”
    Vimes strolled back to the house. Off the register? Was he allowed to appeal? Perhaps they thought—
    The scent rolled over him.
    He looked up.
    Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom.
    He stared.
    Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days…
    He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room.
    Willikins had prepared the official uniform for today. Sam Vimes stared at it blankly, and then remembered. Watch Committee. Right. The battered old breastplate wouldn’t do, would it…Not for His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. Lord Vetinari had been very definite about that, blast it.
    Blast it all the more because, unfortunately, Sam Vimes could see the point. He hated the official uniform, but he represented a bit more than just himself these days. Sam Vimes had been able to turn up for meetings with grubby armor, and even Sir Samuel Vimes could generally contrive to find a way to stay in street uniform at all times, but a duke…well, a duke needed a bit of polish. A duke couldn’t have the arse hanging out of his trousers when meeting foreign diplomats. Actually, even plain old Sam Vimes never had the arse hanging out of his trousers, either, but no one would have actually started a war if he had.
    The plain old Sam Vimes had fought back. He got rid of most of the plumes and the stupid tights, and ended up with a dress uniform that at least looked as though its owner was male. But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armorers had made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armor. It was gilt by association.
    He twirled the sprig of lilac in his fingers, and smelled again the heady smell. Yes…it hadn’t always been like this…
    Someone had just spoken to him. He looked up.
    “What?” he barked.
    “I enquired if her ladyship is well, Your Grace?” said the butler, looking startled. “Are you feeling all right, Your Grace?”
    “What? Oh, yes. No. I’m fine. So is her ladyship, yes, thank you. I popped in before I went outside. Mrs. Content is with her. She says it won’t be for a while.”
    “I have advised the kitchen to have plenty of hot water ready, Your Grace, nevertheless,” said Willikins, helping Vimes on with the gilty breastplate.
    “Yes. Why do they need all that water, do you think?”
    “I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” said Willikins. “Probably best not to inquire.”
    Vimes nodded. Sybil had already made it quite clear, with gentle tact, that his services were not required on this particular case. It had been, he had to admit, a bit of a relief.
    He handed Willikins the sprig of lilac. The butler took it without comment, inserted it into a little silver tube of water that would keep it fresh for hours, and fixed it onto one of the breastplate straps.
    “Time moves on, doesn’t it, Your Grace,” he said, dusting Vimes down with a small brush.
    Vimes took out his watch. “It certainly does. Look, I’ll drop in at the Yard on my way to the palace, sign what needs signing, and I’ll be back as soon as possible, all right?”
    Willikins gave him a look of almost unbutlerly concern.
    “I’m sure her ladyship will be fine, Your Grace,” he said. “Of course she is not, not—”
    “—young,”