Night Watch

around to see what happens to Gappy? Fine, I’ll get Snouty to bring you out some cocoa. Or you can go home. It’s a cold night. You ought to be in your beds. I know I’d like to be in mine. And, yes, we know about Dolly Sisters and we don’t like it any more than you do. And we’ve heard about Dimwell Street and we don’t like that , either. And that’s all I’ve got to say tonight. Now…anyone who still wants to take a swing at a copper can step right up, if they want to. I’ve got my uniform off. We’ll have a go, here and now, fair and square, in front of everyone. Anyone?”
    Something brushed his shoulder and clattered on the Watch House steps. Then there was the sound of slipping tiles from a roof on the other side, and a man fell off the roof and into the pool of light. There were gasps from the crowd, and one or two short screams.
    “Looks like you got a volunteer,” said someone. There was the horrible nervous sniggering again. The crowd parted to let Vimes view the sudden arrival.
    The man was dead. If he hadn’t been when he fell off the roof, he was after he’d hit the ground, because no neck normally looked like that. A crossbow had fallen down with him.
    Vimes remembered the draft across his shoulder, and went back to the Watch House steps. It didn’t take long to find the arrow, which had broken into several pieces.
    “Anyone know this man?” he said.
    The crowd, even those members of it who hadn’t been able to get a good look at the fallen bowman, indicated definite ignorance.
    Vimes went through the man’s pockets. Every single one was empty, which was all the evidence of identification he needed.
    “Looks like it’s going to be a long night,” he said, signaling Colon to take this body inside, too. “I’ve got to get on with my work, ladies and gentlemen. If anyone wants to stay, and frankly I’ll be obliged if you do, I’ll send some lads out to build a fire. Thank you for your patience.”
    He picked up his chain mail and breastplate and went back inside.
    “What’re they doing?” he said to Sam, without turning around.
    “Some of them are wandering off but most of ’em are standing around, Sarge,” said Sam, peering around the door. “Sarge, one of them shot at you!”
    “Really? Who says the man on the roof was one of them? That’s an expensive bow. And he didn’t have anything in his pockets. Nothing . Not so much as a used hanky.”
    “Very odd, Sarge,” said Sam loyally.
    “Especially since I was expecting a piece of paper saying something like ‘I am definitely a member of a revolutionary cadre, trust me on this,’” said Vimes, looking carefully at the corpse.
    “Yes, that’d tell us he was a revolutionary all right,” said Sam.
    Vimes sighed and stared at the wall a moment. Then he said: “Anyone notice anything about his bow?”
    “It’s the new Bolsover A7,” said Fred Colon. “Not a bad bow, Sarge. Not an assassin’s weapon, though.”
    “That’s true,” said Vimes and twisted the dead man’s head so they could see the tip of the little metal dart behind the ear. “But this is. Fred, you know everyone. Where can I get some ginger beer at this time of night?”
    “Ginger beer, Sarge?”
    “Yes, Fred.”
    “Why do—” Colon began.
    “Don’t ask, Fred. Just get half a dozen bottles, all right?”
    Vimes turned to the desk on which, surrounded by a fascinated crowd, Dr. Lawn was at work on the stricken Gappy.
    “How’s it going?” said Vimes, pushing though.
    “Slower than it’d go if people got out of the damn light,” said Lawn, carefully moving his tweezers to a mug by Gappy’s hand and dropping a bloody fragment of glass therein. “I’ve seen worse on a Friday night. He’ll keep the use of his fingers, if that’s what you want to know. He just won’t be making any shoes for a while. Well done.”
    There was approval from the crowd. Vimes looked around at the people and the coppers. There were one or two muted conversations going on; he heard phases like “bad business” and “they say that—” above the general noise.
    He’d played the cards well enough. Most of the lads here lived within a street or two. It was one thing to have a go at faceless bastards in uniform, but quite another to throw stones at old Fred Colon or old Waddy or old Billy Wiglet, who you’d known since you were two years old and played Dead Rat Conkers with in the gutter.
    Lawn put the tweezers down and pinched the bridge of his