Night Watch

wasn’t going to involve young Sam. It wasn’t that what he was planning was illegal, as such, it was just that it had the same color and smell as something illegal, and Vimes didn’t want to have to explain.
    The cells were old, much older than the building above them. The iron cages were fairly new, and didn’t take up all the space. There were other cellars beyond an arch, containing nothing more than rats and rubbish but—and that was important—they couldn’t be seen from the cages.
    Vimes got the men to carry the dead bowman through. Nothing wrong with that. It was the middle of the night, filthy weather, no sense in waking up the people at the mortuary when there was a nice cold cellar.
    He watched through the spy hole in the door as the body was taken past the cells. It caused a certain stir, especially in the first man he’d brought in. The other two had the look of men who’d seen a lot of bad stuff in the name of making money; if they were hired to steal or murder or be a copper it was all the same to them, and they’d learned not to react too readily to deaths that were not their own.
    The first man, though, was getting nervous.
    Vimes had nicknamed him Ferret. He was the best-dressed of the three, all in black, the dagger had been expensive, and, Vimes had noticed, he had a silver Death’s Head ring on one finger. The other two had dressed nondescript and their weapons had been workmanlike, nothing much to look at but well used.
    No real Assassin would wear jewelry at work. It was dangerous and it shone. But Ferret wanted to be a big man. He probably checked himself in the mirror before he went out, to make sure he looked cool. He was the sort of little twerp that got a kick out of showing his dagger to women in bars.
    Ferret, in short, had big dreams. Ferret had an imagination.
    Well, that was fine.
    The watchmen returned and picked up the packages Vimes had prepared.
    “Remember, we do it fast,” he said. “They’re worried, they’re tired, no one’s come for them, and they’ve just seen a very dead colleague. We don’t want to give the first two time to think. Understand?”
    They nodded.
    “And we leave the little one until last. I want him to have lots of time…”

    Ferret was considering his prospects. Regrettably, this didn’t take long.
    He’d already had a row with the other two. Some rescue team they’d been. They weren’t even dressed right. But the brownjobs hadn’t done things as per spec. Everyone knew they backed away. They weren’t supposed to fight back or show any kind of intelligence. They—
    The main cell door was flung back.
    “It’s ginger beer time!” roared someone.
    And a watchman ran through with a box of bottles, and disappeared into the rooms beyond.
    There wasn’t much light in here. Ferret cowered against the wall and saw two watchmen unlock the cell next door, drag the shackled occupant upright and out into the corridor and then hustle him around the corner.
    The voices had a slight echo.
    “Hold him down. Mind his legs!”
    “Right! Let’s have the bottle! Give it a proper shake, otherwise it won’t work!”
    “Okay, friend. Anything you want to tell us? Your name? No? Well, it’s like this. Right now, we don’t care a whole lot if you talk or not…”
    There was a loud pop, a hiss, and then…a scream, an explosion of agony.
    After it had died away, the trembling Ferret heard someone say, “Quick, get the next one, before the captain catches us.”
    He cringed back as two watchmen rushed into the next cell, dragged out the struggling prisoner, and hustled him into the darkness.
    “All right. One chance. Are you going to talk? Yes? No? Too late!”
    Once again the pop, once again the hiss, once again the scream. It was louder and longer this time, and ended in a kind of bubbling sound.
    Ferret crouched against the wall, fingers in his mouth.
    Around the corner, sitting in the light of one lantern, Colon nudged Vimes, wrinkled his nose, and pointed down.
    There was a gully that ran between all the cells, as a primitive sop to hygiene. Now a thin trickle was inching its way along it. Ferret was nervous.
    Gotcha, thought Vimes. But a good imagination needs a little more time. He leaned forward, and the other two moved closer expectantly.
    “So,” he said in a low whisper, “have you boys had your holidays yet?”
    After a few minutes of very small talk he stood up, strode around to the last occupied cell, unlocked the door, and