Night Watch

with the brains in his feet. As young Sam had noticed, the feet had a memory of their own…
    Rounded cathead cobbles, the usual kind. They hadn’t been well set in this part of the city and moved very slightly underfoot…then twice before getting to the Watch House his feet had felt larger cobbles, narrow bands of them, where the road surface had been replaced after drains had been laid. And before that, there’d been a similar band but of soft brick rubble, so crushed by cartwheels that it was practically a gully.
    A few dozen steps before that they’d twirled him round a few times, but the last surface before that had been…mud.
    Vimes, who had been walking with his eyes shut, bumped into a cart.
    Mud, he thought, getting up and ignoring the strange looks of passersby. That meant an alley. Let’s see…ah, yes, over there…
    It took twenty minutes.
    People turned as he walked through the streets, closing his eyes when he dared, so that his feet could see better. Sometimes he did look around, thought, and there it was again, the thunderstorm sensation of tensions building up, waiting for the first little thing. People were uneasy—the herd was restless—and they didn’t quite know why. Everyone he looked at returned his gaze blankly.
    He stepped onward. Rough flagstones between two stretches of the ancient cobbles they called trollheads…the only place where you got that in this part of the city was here, where Pewter Street crossed Elm, and before that it had been…yeah, big stones, some of the most ancient in the city, rutted by hundreds and hundreds of years of iron-bound cartwheels, that was a road that had been right behind a city wall…yes, he crossed The Pitts, still on Elm, and then lost his thread. A metal grating on the pavement gave it back to him. Cellar grating. Cool cellar. Coat of arms on it, worn down. Buttermarket. Yeah. Go, feet!
    The monks had turned him again here but…long bricks, hard-fired in the kiln, and a stretch of quite modern flagstones, well dressed and fitted. It could trick you if you didn’t know you were in…yeah, Masons’ Road, and there were masons here and they looked after the surface. Now find an alley, mud but with a lot of gravel in it, because the stonemasons dumped their waste here but this one had occasional hummocks across it, where pipes had been laid. Yeah. Now find square-head cobbles…
    He opened his eyes.
    Yeah.
    Away on his left was a block of three buildings. A temple sandwiched between two cheapjack corner shops. It was…just a temple, slightly foreign-looking, but weren’t they all? It looked High Hublandish, where everyone lived on yaks or something.
    The temple doors were locked. He rattled the handle impotently, and then hammered on the woodwork with his sword. It had no effect. He didn’t even leave a mark on the wood.
    But the door of the shonky shop next door was open. It was a familiar place. Once upon a time, it was his tailor and bootmaker. And, like a pawnshop, a shonky shop was always open. Vimes stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in dusty darkness.
    It was a cave of cloth. Racks of old suits hung from the ceiling. Ancient shelves bent under piles of shirts and vests and socks. Here and there old boxes loomed in the gloom and caught his knees. Piles of derelict boots slipped and slid under his feet. And there was the smell. If poverty had a smell, this was it. If humbled pride had a smell, this was it. And there was a touch of disinfectant as well.
    Within a few feet of the door, Vimes was already lost. He turned and shoved his way through gray aisle after gray aisle of suffocating cloth and wondered if anyone had ever died in here and how anyone could ever find out. He pulled aside a hanger containing a greasy, threadbare suit—
    “You want?”
    He turned.
    There was no one there, until his gaze fell slightly and met that of a small, glossy little man, totally bald, very small and thin, and wearing some vague clothing that presumably even a shonky shop hadn’t been able to unload on a customer. Who was he, who was he…surprisingly, the name seemed quite fresh in the memory…
    “Ah, er, yeah…Mr. Shine—”
    “Soon Shine Sun,” said Mr. Sun. He grabbed the suit Vimes was still holding. “Good eye, good eye, lovely cloth, lovely cloth, owned by priest, very good, fifty pence to you, shame to sell it, times are hard.”
    Vimes hastily put the suit back on the rack and pulled out his badge. Sun glared at