Night Watch

went out into the late afternoon sunshine, leaned against the wall, and waited.
    Ten years ago, he’d have—correction, ten years ago, if he was sober, he’d have taught Knock a few lessons about who’s boss with a few well-aimed punches. And that was certainly the custom these days. Scraps between watchmen hadn’t been uncommon when Vimes was a constable. But that wouldn’t do for Sergeant Keel.
    Knock stepped out, inflated with mad, terrified bravado.
    When Vimes raised his hand, the man actually flinched.
    “Cigar?” said Vimes.
    “Er…”
    “I don’t drink,” said Vimes. “But you can’t beat a good cigar.”
    “I…er…don’t smoke,” mumbled Knock. “Look, about that inkstand—”
    “D’you know, he’d gone and put it in that safe of his?” said Vimes, smiling.
    “He had?”
    “And then forgot about it,” said Vimes. “Happens to us all, Winsborough. A man’s mind starts to wander, he’s never quite certain of what he’s done.”
    Vimes maintained the friendly grin. It was as good as raining blows. Besides, he’d called Knock by his correct name. The man never used it in public, for fear of the panic it might cause.
    “Just thought I’d put your mind at rest about it,” said Vimes.
    Sergeant Winsborough Knock shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He wasn’t certain whether he’d got away with something, or had just ended up getting deeper into something else.
    “Tell me more about Coates,” said Vimes.
    Knock’s face was for a moment an agony of calculation. And then he adopted his usual policy: when you think there’s wolves on your trail, throw someone off the sleigh.
    “Ned, sir?” he said. “Hard worker, of course, does his job—but a bit tricky, between you and me.”
    “How? And you don’t have to call me sir, Winsborough. Not out here.”
    “He reckons Jack’s as good as his master, if you know what I mean. Reckons he’s as good as anyone. Bit of a troublemaker in that respect.”
    “Barrack-room lawyer?”
    “That sort of thing, yes.”
    “Rebel sympathies?”
    Knock turned his eyes up innocently. “Could be, sir. Wouldn’t like to see the lad in trouble, o’course.”
    You think I’m a spy for the Unmentionables, thought Vimes. And you’re throwing Coates to me. The other day you were pushing him for promotion. You little worm.
    “Worth keeping an eye on, then?” he said aloud.
    “Yessir.”
    “Interesting,” said Vimes, always a worrying word to the uncertain. It certainly worried Knock, and Vimes thought: my gods, perhaps Vetinari feels like this all the time…
    “Some of us, er, go round to the Broken Drum after the shift’s over,” said Knock. “It’s open round the clock. I don’t know if you—”
    “I don’t drink,” said Vimes.
    “Oh. Yes. You said,” said Knock.
    “And now I’d better pick up young Sam and get out on patrol,” said Vimes. “Nice to have this little talk with you, Winsborough.”
    He strode past, taking care not to look back. Sam was still waiting in the main office but was sucked into his wake as he swept past.

    “I say, who’s the skirt up there with old Folly?”
    The prefects looked up. On the raised platform at the end of the noisy dining hall, Doctor Follett, Master of Assassins and ex officio headmaster of the Assassins’ Guild School, was in animated conversation with, indeed, a lady. The vivid purple of her dress made a splash of color in the vast room where black predominated, and the elegant whiteness of his hair shone like a beacon in the darkness.
    It was a Guild of Assassins, after all. Black was what you wore. The night was black and so were you. And black had such style, and an Assassin without style, everyone agreed, was just a highly paid arrogant thug.
    The prefects were all over eighteen, and, therefore, allowed to visit parts of the city that the younger boys weren’t even supposed to know about. Their pimples no longer erupted at the sight of a woman. Now, their eyes narrowed. Most of them had already learned that the world was an oyster that could be opened with gold if a blade did not suffice.
    “Probably a parent,” said one of them.
    “I wonder who’s the lucky boy?”
    “I know who she is,” said “Ludo” Ludorum, head of Viper House. “I heard some of the masters talking earlier. She’s Madam Roberta Meserole. Bought the old house in Easy Street. They say she made a pile of money in Genua and wants to settle down here. Looking for investment