Night Watch

astonishing smugness, although periodically it scratched at its collar.
    “On a different subject,” she said. “What was that business with the book? I did not like to take too much notice.”
    “Oh, it was an extremely rare volume I was able to track down. On the nature of concealment.”
    “That stupid hulk of a boy burned it!”
    “Yes. That was a piece of luck. I was afraid he might try to read it, although,” Havelock smiled wanly, “someone would have had to help him with the longer words.”
    “Was it valuable?”
    “Priceless. Especially now that it has been destroyed.”
    “Ah. It contained information of value. Possibly involving the color dark green. Will you tell me?”
    “I could tell you.” Havelock smiled again. “But then I would have to find someone to pay me to kill you.”
    “Then don’t tell me. But I do think Dog-Botherer is an unpleasant nickname.”
    “When your name is Vetinari, Madam, you’re happy enough if it’s merely Dog-Botherer. Can you drop me off a little way from the Guild, please? I’ll go in via the roof. I have a tiger to attend to before I go up to…you know.”
    “A tiger. How exciting.” She stroked the cat again. “You’ve found your way in yet?”
    Vetinari shrugged. “I’ve known my way for years, Madam. But now he has half a regiment around the palace, with irregular patrols and spot checks. I can’t get through them. Only let me get inside, please, and the men there are no problem.”
    The cat pawed at its collar.
    “Is it possible that he is allergic to diamonds?” said Madam. She held up the cat. “Is oo allergic to diamonds, den?”
    Havelock sighed, but inwardly, because he respected his aunt. He just wished she was a bit more sensible about cats. He felt instinctively that if you were going to fondle a cat while discussing matters of intrigue, then it should be a long-haired white one. It shouldn’t be an elderly street tom with irregular bouts of flatulence.
    “What about the sergeant?” he said, shifting along the seat as politely as possible.
    The lady all in lilac lowered the cat gently onto the seat. There was a distressing smell.
    “I think I should meet Mr. Keel as soon as possible,” she said. “Perhaps he can be harnessed. The party is tomorrow night. Uh…do you mind opening the window?”

    A little later that night, Downey was walking unsteadily back to his study after a convivial time in the Prefects’ Common Room, when he noticed that a torch had gone out.
    With a swiftness that might have surprised someone who saw no further than his flushed face and unsteady walk, he pulled out a dagger and scanned the corridor. He glanced up at the ceiling, too. There were gray shadows everywhere, but nothing more than that. Sometimes, torches did go out all by themselves.
    He stepped forward.
    When he woke up in his bed next morning, he put the headache down to some bad brandy. And some scag had painted orange and black stripes on his face.

    It started to rain again. Vimes liked the rain. Street crime went down when it rained. People stayed indoors. Some of the best nights of his career had been rainy, when he’d stood in the shadows in the lee of some building, head tucked in so that there was barely anything showing between his helmet and his collar, and listened to the silvery rustle of the rain.
    Once he’d been standing so quietly, so withdrawn, so not there that a fleeing robber, who’d evaded his pursuers, had leaned against him to catch his breath. And, when Vimes put his arms around him and whispered “Gotcha!” into his ear, the man apparently did in his trousers what his dear mother, some forty years before, had very patiently taught him not to do.
    The people had gone home. The sewn-up Gappy had been escorted to Old Cobblers, where Fred Colon patiently explained events to the man’s parents, with his round red face radiating honesty. Lawn was possibly getting some use out of his bed.
    And the rain gurgled in the downpipes and gushed from the gargoyles and swirled in the gutters and deadened all sound.
    Useful stuff, rain.
    Vimes picked up a bottle of Mrs. Arbiter’s best ginger beer. He remembered it. It was gassy as hell and therefore hugely popular. A young boy could, with encouragement and training, eventually manage to belch the whole first verse of the national anthem after just one swig. This is an important social skill when you’re eight years old.
    He’d chosen Colon and Waddy for this task. He