Night Watch

grinning, Sarge.”
    “Well?”
    “You’re just grinning and standing there, Sarge,” said Sam. “I know I’m going to get a hiding, ’cos you haven’t got a sword and you’re grinning.”
    “Worried about getting blood on your nice sword, lad? All right, throw it away. Feel better? You were in a gang, right? Of course you were. Everyone was. You’re still alive. So you must’ve learned how to fight.”
    “Yeah, Sarge, but that was, you know, dirty fighting…”
    “We’re dirty people. Do your worst.”
    “I don’t want to hurt you, Sarge!”
    “That’s your first mistake—”
    Sam spun and lashed out.
    Vimes stepped back, caught the foot, and helped it on its journey upward.
    I was quick, too, he thought, as Sam landed flat on his back. And not too bad at cunning. But I’ve learned artful since then.
    “It showed in your eyes,” he said. “But you’ve got hold of the basic idea. There’s no rules.”
    He sensed the change behind him. It included the very muffled sound of a chuckle. He glanced back at the fallen Sam, who was looking past him.
    The blow was a neat one, to the back of where the head would have been if Vimes hadn’t stepped smartly sideways. As it was, he turned and grabbed the arm and looked into the face of Ned Coates.
    “Nice day off, Ned?” he said.
    “Yes, Sarge, thank you. Just wanted to see how good you were.”
    He elbowed Vimes in the stomach and twisted away. There was some murmuring from the watchers but Vimes, bent double and with tears running from his eyes, raised a hand.
    “No, it was fair enough, fair enough,” he panted. “We’ve all got something to learn.” He put his hands on his knees, wheezing a little more theatrically than he needed to.
    He was impressed that Ned wasn’t falling for it. The man kept his distance, circling slowly. He was holding his truncheon. A less experienced fighter would have come to check that ol’ Sarge was all right, and would have suffered for it.
    “That’s right, Sarge,” said Ned. “I want to see what you can teach me. Sam’s too trusting.”
    Vimes’s mind riffled desperately through options.
    “So, Sarge,” said Ned, still moving, “what would you do, Sarge, if you were unarmed and a man came at you with a truncheon?”
    Get armed quick, thought Vimes, if I thought he was as good as you.
    He ducked and rolled. Ned missed that. When Vimes started to move right he’d concentrated on the left, on the basis that from someone like Vimes the first move had to be a feint. By the time he caught on and turned, Vimes had grabbed his scabbard and was rising, sword sliding out.
    “Ah, raising the stakes. Good lesson, Sarge,” said Ned. He drew his own sword. It gleamed; most of the Watch swords would have had difficulty cutting butter. “Now we’re level again. What next, Sarge?”
    They circled. Blimey, thought Vimes, who taught him? And he’s grinning, and no wonder. This isn’t a contest. He knows I can’t cut him, not like this, not in front of everyone. He can accidentally get me and get away with it, but a sergeant’s supposed to know better. And we can’t raise the stakes any higher.
    Hold on…
    He hurled the sword at the wall. It stuck in, by sheer luck. That impressed the watchers.
    “Got to give you a chance, Ned,” he said, moving away.
    You can always learn, Vimes thought. He remembered Gussie Two Grins. Sam wouldn’t run into him for five years or so. It would be a real education. Two Grins was the dirtiest fighter Vimes had ever met. Anything was a weapon, anything was a target. Two Grins was a kind of genius in that limited area. He could see the weapon in anything—a wall, a cloth, a piece of fruit…
    He wasn’t even a big man. He was small and wiry. But he liked fighting big men, on the basis that there was more of them to bite. After a few drinks, though, it was hard to know what Two Grins was fighting. He’d fight the man next to him simply as a substitute for kneeing the whole universe in the groin.
    He’d been called Two Grins ever since someone glassed him in the face; Gussie had been so marinated in adrenaline at that point that he regarded this a mere detail. The scar had left a happy smiley face. Sam had learned a lot from Gussie Two Grins.
    “What’s this about?” he murmured, just loud enough for Ned to hear.
    “Just want to find out what you know, Sarge,” said Ned, still circling. “Seems to me you know too much.”
    He lunged. Vimes darted back, flailed with the