Night Watch

fishes swim’? People die in their due time—”
    “Keel didn’t! Carcer mugged the poor devil!”
    “His due time in this present, Commander,” said Qu. “But he will play his part in the other, Mister Vimes. Eventually. You’ll reach the shore. You must. Otherwise—”
    “—there’s no shore,” said Sweeper.
    “No,” said Vimes. “There’s got to be more. I’m not swimming, I’m drowning. It was fun, d’you know? At first? Like a boys’ night out. Feeling the street under my boots again? But now…what about Sybil? Are my memories real? What I know is she’s a girl living with her dad. Is there somewhere where she is my wife, having my child? I mean, really? Is it all in my mind? Can you prove it? Is it happening? Will it happen? What is real? ”
    The monks were silent. Sweeper glanced at Qu, who shrugged. He glanced rather more meaningfully, and, this time, Qu made that dismissive little wave of the hand, which is someone meaning “all right, all right, against my better judgment…”
    Then Sweeper said: “Ye-es,” very slowly. “Yes, I think we can help, Commander. You want to know there’s a future waiting. You want to hold it in your hand. You want to feel the weight of it. You want one point to navigate by, one point to steer for. Yes. I think we can help you there…but…”
    “Yes?”
    “But you climb back over that wall and Sergeant Keel plays his part. He sees it through to the end. He gives the orders he feels are right, and they will be the right orders. He holds the line. He does the job.”
    “He’s not the only one,” said Vimes.
    “Yes, Commander Vimes has a job in hand, too.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving Carcer behind,” growled Vimes.
    “Good. We’ll be in touch.”
    Vimes tossed the stump of his cigar aside, and looked up at the wall.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll see it through. But when the time comes—”
    “We will be ready,” said Sweeper. “Just so long as you—”
    He stopped. There was another subtle sound, scaly in its way, a sort of silicon slither.
    “My goodness,” said Qu.
    Vimes looked down.
    The cigar butt still smoldered. But around it, the Garden of Inner-City Tranquility was moving, pebble sliding over tiny pebble. A large, water-rounded rock floated gently around, spinning. And then Vimes became aware that the whole garden was spinning, turning on the little wisp of smoke. A spent match sailed past, rolling from stone to stone like a scrap of food passed from ant to ant.
    “Is it meant to do that?” he said.
    “In theory, yes,” said Sweeper. “I should leave right now, Mister Vimes.”
    Vimes took one last look at the moving garden, shrugged, and then heaved himself over the wall.
    The two monks stared. The tide of little stones was gently pushing the stub into the center.
    “Astonishing,” said Qu. “I don’t know how you manage it.”
    “I’m not doing it,” said Sweeper. “Qu, can we—”
    “No more time shifting,” said Qu. “It’s caused enough trouble.”
    “Fair enough,” said Sweeper. “Then I’ll need to send out search parties. The fences, the bent jewelers, the pawnshops…we’ll find it. I understand our friend. The job’s not enough. He needs one real thing. And I know what it is.”
    They looked again at the turning, shifting garden, and felt the fingers of History spreading out and into the world.

    Vimes tried not to run back to the Watch House, because too many people were standing around in groups and even a running uniform could be risky.
    Besides, you didn’t run for officers. He was a sergeant. Sergeants walked with a measured tread.
    To his mild surprise, the men were still out in the yard. Someone had even hung up the swordsmanship targets, which would certainly be helpful if the watchmen were faced with an enemy who was armless and tied to a pole.
    He climbed the stairs. The captain’s door was open, and he saw that the new man had repositioned his desk so that he could see out onto the landing and down the stairs. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all. An officer shouldn’t see what was going on, he should rely on his sergeants to tell him what was going on. That way things ran smoothly.
    This man was keen. Oh, dear…
    The new captain looked up. Oh, good grief, Vimes thought. It’s bloody Rust this time round! And it was indeed the Hon. Ronald Rust, the gods’ gift to the enemy, any enemy, and a walking encouragement to desertion.
    The Rust family had produced