Night Watch

scabbard like a man with no hope, and, as Ned laughed and leaned out of his way, shifted his grip on the stiff leather.
    “I’ve got the helmet on, as per regulations,” said Ned. “And the armor. Hard to punch me out, Sarge.”
    Even with Detritus yelling at them, not one watchman in seven really used a sword properly. Ned did. There weren’t many openings.
    Oh, well…time for artful.
    Vimes took a step back, stopped, and saw what was happening behind Coates. He tried to hide it, but he couldn’t stop the momentary flash of relief in his eyes.
    Coates couldn’t stop the momentary flicker of attention.
    Vimes punched up, the scabbard an extension of his arm. The stiff leather caught the man under the chin, thrusting his head back. Then the leather was brought down on the sword hand, and, as an afterthought, Vimes kicked Ned on the shin just enough to make him collapse. He always had an allergy to edged weapons too near his face.
    “Well done, nice try,” he said and turned his back and faced the crowd. To the sound of gurgling behind him, he said: “Anything’s a weapon, used right. Your bell is a club. Anything that pokes the other man hard enough to give you more time is a good thing. Never, ever threaten anyone with your sword unless you really mean it, because if he calls your bluff you suddenly don’t have many choices and they’re all the wrong ones. Don’t be frightened to use what you learned when you were kids. We don’t get marks for playing fair. And for close-up fighting, as your senior sergeant I explicitly forbid you to investigate the range of coshes, blackjacks, and brass knuckles sold by Mrs. Goodbody at No. 8 Easy Street at a range of prices to suit all pockets, and should any of you approach me privately I absolutely will not demonstrate a variety of specialist blows suitable for these useful yet tricky instruments. Right, let’s limber up. I want you all out here with your truncheons in two minutes. You think it’s just a silly club. I will show you otherwise. Jump to it!”
    He turned to the stricken Ned, who’d raised himself to a sitting position.
    “Nice moves, Mr. Coates. You didn’t learn them in the Watch, I know that. Anything we need to discuss? Care to tell me where you were last night? Morphic Street, maybe?”
    “Day off,” muttered Ned, rubbing his jaw.
    “Right, right. None of my business. Seems to me we’ve failed to hit it off, Ned.”
    “S’right.”
    “You think I’m some kind of spy.”
    “I know you’re not John Keel.”
    Vimes kept his face perfectly impassive—which was, he realized, a complete giveaway in itself.
    “Why d’you say that?” he said.
    “I don’t have to tell you. You ain’t a Watch sergeant, either. And you were lucky just now, and that’s all I’m saying.” Ned got to his feet as the other watchmen filed out into the yard again.
    Vimes let him go and turned his attention to the men.
    None of them had ever been taught anything. They’d learned, to a greater or, usually, lesser extent, from one another. And Vimes knew where that road went. On that road coppers rolled drunks for their small change and assured one another that bribes were just perks, and it got worse.
    He was all for getting recruits out on the street, but you had to train them first. You needed someone like Detritus bellowing at them for six weeks, and lectures about duty and prisoners’ rights and the “service to the public.” And then you could hand them over to the street monsters who told them all the other stuff, like how to hit someone where it wouldn’t leave a mark, and when it was a good idea to do so.
    And if you were lucky and they were sensible, they found somewhere between impossible perfection and the pit, where they could be real coppers—slightly tarnished, because the job did that to you, but not rotten.
    He formed them into twos and set them attacking and defending. It was dreadful to watch. He let it go on for five minutes.
    “All right, all right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Very good indeed. When the circus comes to town I’ll definitely recommend you.” The men sagged, and grinned sheepishly as he went on: “Don’t you know any of the moves? The Throat Slam, the Red Hot Poker, the Rib-Rattler? Say I’m coming at you with a big, big club…what do you do?”
    “Run away, Sarge,” said Wiglet. There was laughter.
    “How far can you run?” said Vimes. “Got to fight sometime. Lance Corporal Coates?”
    Ned Coates