Night Watch

law? Right now?
    What did he think he was doing?
    The Job, of course. The one that’s in front of you. He’d always done it. And the law had always been… out there, but somewhere close. He’d always been pretty sure where it was, and it definitely had something to do with the badge.
    The badge was important. Yes. It was shield-shaped. For protection. He’d thought about that, in the long nights in the darkness. It protected him from The Beast, because the beast was waiting in the darkness of his head.
    He’d killed werewolves with his bare hands. He’d been mad with terror at the time, but The Beast had been there inside, giving him strength…
    Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men? A copper, that’s who. After ten years, you thought you’d seen it all, but the shadows always dished up more. You saw how close men lived to The Beast. You found that people like Carcer were not mad. They were incredibly sane. They were simply men without a shield. They’d looked at the world and realized that all the rules didn’t have to apply to them, not if they didn’t want them to. They weren’t fooled by all the little stories. They shook hands with The Beast.
    But he, Sam Vimes, had stuck by the badge, except for that time when even that hadn’t been enough and he’d stuck by the bottle instead…
    He felt as if he’d stuck by the bottle now. The world was spinning. Where was the law? There was the barricade. Who was it protecting from what? The city was run by a madman and his shadowy chums, so where was the law?
    Coppers liked to say that people shouldn’t take the law into their own hands, and they thought they knew what they meant. But they were thinking about peaceful times, and men who went around to sort out a neighbor with a club because his dog had crapped once too often on their doorstep. But at times like these , who did the law belong to? If it shouldn’t be in the hands of the people, where the hell should it be? People who knew better? Then you got Winder and his pals, and how good was that?
    What was supposed to happen next? Oh yes, he had a badge, but it wasn’t his , not really…and he’d got orders, and they were the wrong ones…and he’d got enemies, for all the wrong reasons…and maybe there was no future . It didn’t exist anymore. There was nothing real, no solid point on which to stand, just Sam Vimes where he had no right to be…
    It was as if his body, trying to devote as many resources as possible to untangling the spinning thoughts, was drawing those resources from the rest of Vimes. His vision darkened. His knees felt weak.
    There was nothing but bewildered despair.
    And a lot of explosions.

    Havelock Vetinari knocked politely on the window of the little office just inside the Assassins’ Guild main gate.
    The duty porter raised the hatch.
    “Signing out, Mr. Maroon,” said the Assassin.
    “Yessir,” said Maroon, pushing a big ledger toward him. “And where are we off to today, sir?”
    “General reconnoitering, Mr. Maroon. Just generally looking around.”
    “Ah, I said to Mrs. Maroon, sir, that you are a great one for looking around,” said Maroon.
    “We look and learn, Mr. Maroon, we look and learn,” said Vetinari, signing his name in the book and putting the pen back in its holder. “And how is your little boy?”
    “Thank you for asking, sir, he’s a lot better,” said the porter.
    “Glad to hear it. Oh, I see the Hon. John Bleedwell is out on a commission. To the palace?”
    “Now, now, sir,” said Maroon, grinning and waving a finger. “You know I couldn’t tell you that, sir, even if I knew.”
    “Of course not.” Vetinari glanced at the back wall of the office where, in an old brass rack, was a number of envelopes. The word “Active” was inscribed at the top of the rack.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Maroon.”
    “’Afternoon, sir. Good, er, looking.”
    He watched the young man walk out into the street. Then Maroon went into the cubbyhole next to the office to put the kettle on.
    He rather liked young Vetinari, who was quiet and studious and, it had to be said, a generous young man on appropriate occasions. But a bit weird, all the same. Once Maroon had watched him in the foyer, standing still. That was all he was doing. He wasn’t making any attempt at concealing himself. After half an hour, Maroon had wandered over and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
    And Vetinari had said, “Thank you, no, Mr. Maroon. I’m just learning to