Night Watch

lance constable, whose face was a mask of terror. And there was a dark-haired, round-faced constable who seemed to be puzzled, as if he was trying to remember something, but who nevertheless stared back with the firm steady gaze of the true liar.
    “Apparently not,” said Vimes.
    Quirke’s finger shot out and vibrated in the direction of the young Sam Vimes.
    “He shared it! He shared it!” he said. “You ask him!”
    Vimes felt the shock run round the squad. Quirke had just committed suicide. You hung together against officers, fair enough, but when the jig was up You Did Not Drop Someone In The Cacky. They’d laugh at the idea of a watchman’s honor, but it did exist in a blackened, twisty way. You Did Not Drop Your Mates In The Cacky. And especially you did not do it to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who didn’t know any better.
    Vimes turned, for the first time, to the young man whose gaze he’d been avoiding.

Gods, was I ever that skinny? he thought. Did I ever have that much Adam’s apple? Did I really try to polish rust?
    The young man’s eyes were almost back in his head, only the whites showing.
    “Lance Constable Vimes, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
    “Yessir!” said Sam hoarsely.
    “At ease, Lance Constable. Did you, in fact, take a share of the bribe?”
    “Yessir! A dollar, sir!”
    “At the instigation of Corporal Quirke?”
    “Er…sir?”
    “Did he offer it to you?” Vimes translated.
    Vimes watched his own agony. You Did Not Drop Someone In The Cacky.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later on. Oh, you still here, Quirke? If you want to complain to the captain, that’s fine by me. But if you don’t get your stuff out of your locker in ten minutes, I’ll damn well charge you rent!”
    Quirke looked around for immoral support, and found none. He’d gone too far. Besides, the Watch could see a storm of cacky when it was right overhead, and were in no mood to stick their necks out for something like Quirke.
    “I will,” he said. “I will complain to the captain. You’ll see. You’ll see. I’ve got four years good conduct, I have—”
    “No, that was four years Not Found Out,” said Vimes. “Clear off.”
    When Quirke’s footsteps had died away, Vimes cast an eye over the squad.
    “Good afternoon, lads, my name’s John Keel,” he said. “We bloody well better get along fine. Now shine up, captain’s inspection in two minutes, off you go…Sergeant Knock, a word, please.”
    The men dispersed hurriedly. Knock stepped forward, not quite managing to conceal his nervousness. After all, his immediate superior now was a man who, last night, he had kicked in the nadgers. People could hold a grudge about a thing like that. And he’d had time to think.
    “I’d just like to say, sir, about last night—” he began.
    “I’m not bothered about last night,” said Vimes.
    “You’re not?”
    “Would you recommend Fred Colon for corporal? I’d value your judgment.”
    “You would?”
    “Certainly. He looks a solid lad.”
    “He does? I mean, yes, he is. Very thorough,” said Knock, relief rising off him like steam. “Doesn’t rush into things. Wants to join one of the regiments.”
    “Well, we’ll give him a try while we’ve still got him. That means we’ll need another lance corporal. Who was that lad next to Colon?”
    “Coates, sir. Ned Coates. Bright lad, sometimes thinks he knows better, but we were all like that, eh?”
    Vimes nodded. His expression completely failed to give away the fact that, as far as he was concerned, there were things clinging to the underside of high branches that knew better than Sergeant Knock.
    “A taste of responsibility might do him some good, then,” he said. Knock nodded, because at that point he would have agreed to absolutely anything. And his body language was saying: we’re all sergeants together, right? We’re talking about sergeanty things, like sergeants do. We’re not bothered about anyone being kicked in the nadgers, eh? Not us! ’Cos we’re sergeants.
    His eyes widened, and he saluted as Tilden entered the office. There was some halfhearted saluting among the squad, too. The captain acknowledged them stiffly and looked nervously at Vimes.
    “Ah, Sergeant,” he said. “Settling in?”
    “Yessir. No problems.”
    “Well done. Carry on.”
    When the man had disappeared up the creaking stairs, Vimes turned back to Knock.
    “Sergeant, we don’t hand over prisoners without a receipt,