Night Watch
Page 3
'At a time like this a man ought to be thinking of his immortal soul viz ah viz the endless mighty river that is History. I should do that, if I was you. Nobby.'
'Right, sarge. Will do. I see someone's doing it already, sarge.' Up against one wall, lilac trees were growing. That is, at some point in the past a lilac had been planted there, and had given rise, as lilac will, to hundreds of whippy suckers, so that what had once been one stem was now a thicket. Every branch was covered in pale mauve blooms. The graves were still just visible in the tangled vegetation. In front of them stood Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork's least successful businessman, with a sprig of lilac in his hat. He caught sight of the watchmen and nodded to them. They nodded back. All three stood looking down at the seven graves. Only one had been
maintained. The marble headstone on that one was shiny and moss-free, the turf was clipped, the stone border was sparkling. Moss had grown over the wooden markers of the other six, but it had been scraped off the central one, revealing the name: JOHN KEEL And carved underneath, by someone who had taken some pains, was: How Do They Rise Up A huge wreath of lilac flowers, bound with purple ribbon, had been placed on the grave. On top of it, tied round with another piece of purple ribbon, was an egg. 'Mrs Palm and Mrs Battye and some of the girls were up here earlier,' said Dibbler. 'And of course Madam always makes sure there's the egg.'
'It's nice, the way they always remember,' said Sergeant Colon. The three stood in silence. They were not, on the whole, men with a vocabulary designed for times like this. After a while, though, Nobby felt moved to speak. 'He gave me a spoon once,' he said, to the air in general. 'Yeah, I know,' said Colon. 'My dad pinched it off me when he come out of prison, but it was my spoon,' said Nobby persistently. That means a lot to a kid, your own spoon.'
'Come to that, he was the first person to make me a sergeant,' said Colon. 'Got busted again, of course, but I knew I could do it again then. He was a good copper.'
'He bought a pie off me, first week I was starting out,' said Dibbler. 'Ate it all. Didn't spit out anything.' There was more silence. After a while Sergeant Colon cleared his throat, a general signal to indicate that some sort of appropriate moment was now over. There was a general relaxation of muscles. 'Y'know, we ought to come up here one day with a billhook and clear this lot up a bit,' said the sergeant. 'You always say that, sarge, every year,' said Nobby as they walked away. 'And we never do.'
'If I had a dollar for every copper's funeral I've attended up here,' said Colon, 'I'd have . . . nineteen dollars and fifty pence.'
'Fifty pence?' said Nobby.
'That was when Corporal Hildebiddle woke up just in time and banged on the lid,' said Colon. 'Before your time, o'course. Everyone said it was an amazin' recovery.'
'Mr Sergeant?' The three men turned. Coming towards them in a high-speed sidle was the black-clad, skinny figure of Legitimate First, the cemetery's resident gravedigger. Colon sighed. 'Yes, Leggie?' he said. 'Good morrow, sweet-' the gravedigger began, but Sergeant Colon waved a finger at him. 'Stop that right now,' he said. 'You know you've been warned before. None of that “comic gravedigger” stuff. It's not funny and it's not clever. Just say what you've got to say. No silly bits.' Leggie looked crestfallen. 'Well, good sirs-'
'Leggie, I've known you for years,' said Colon wearily. 'Just try, will you?'
'The deacon wants them graves dug up, Fred,' said Leggie in a sulky voice. 'It's been more'n thirty years. Long past time they was in the crypts-'
'No,' said Fred Colon. 'But I've got a nice shelf for 'em down there, Fred,' Leggie pleaded. 'Right up near the front. We need the space, Fred! It's standing room only in here, and that's the truth! Even the worms have to go in single file! Right up near the front, Fred, where I can chat to 'em when I'm having my tea. How about that?' The watchmen and Dibbler shared a glance. Most people in the city had been into Leggie's crypts, if only for a dare. And it had come as a shock to most of them to realize that solemn burial was not for eternity but only for a handful of years so that, in Leggie's words, 'my little wriggly helpers' could do their work. After that, the last last resting place was the crypts, and an entry in the huge ledgers. Leggie lived down there in the crypts. As he said, he was the only one who did, and he liked the company. Leggie was generally considered weird, but conscientiously so. 'This isn't your idea, right?' said Fred Colon. Leggie looked down at his feet. The new deacon's a bit, well, new,' he said. 'You know . . . keen. Making changes.'
'You told him why they're not being dug up?' said Nobby. 'He said that's just ancient history,' said Leggie. 'He says we all have to put the past behind us.'
'An' did you tell him he should take it up with Vetinari?' said Nobby. 'Yes, and he said he was sure his lordship was a forward-thinking man who wouldn't cling to relics of the past,' said Leggie. 'Sounds like he is new,' said Dibbler. 'Yeah,' said Nobby. 'An' not likely to get old. It's okay, Leggie, you can say you've asked us.' The gravedigger looked relieved. Thanks, Nobby,' he said. 'And I'd just like to say that when your time comes, gents, you'll be on a good shelf with a view. I've put your names down in my ledger for them as comes after me.'
'Well, that's, er, very kind of you, Leggie,' said Colon, wondering if it was. Because of pressure of space, bones in the crypt were stored by size, not by owner. There were rooms of ribs. There were avenues of femurs. And shelf after shelf of skulls up near the entrance, of course, because a crypt without a lot of skulls wasn't a proper crypt at all. If some of the religions were right and there really was bodily resurrection one day, Fred mused, there was going to be an awful lot of confusion and general milling about. 'I've got just the spot-' Leggie began, and then stopped. He pointed angrily towards the entrance. 'You know what I said about him coming up here!' They turned. Corporal Reg Shoe, a whole bouquet of lilac tied to his helmet, was walking solemnly up the gravel path. He had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder. 'It's only Reg,' said Fred. 'He's got a right to be here, Leggie. You know that.'
'He's a dead man! I'm not havin' a dead man in my cemetery!'
'It's full of 'em, Leggie,' said Dibbler, trying to calm the man down. 'Yeah, but the rest of 'em don't walk in and out!'
'Come on, Leggie, you act like this every year,' said Fred Colon. 'He can't help the way he was killed. Just because you're a zombie doesn't mean you're a bad person. He's a useful lad, Reg. Plus it'd be a lot neater up here if everyone looked after their plots like he does, 'morning, Reg.' Reg Shoe, grey-faced but smiling, nodded at the four of them and strolled on. 'And bringing his own shovel, too,' muttered Leggie. 'It's disgusting!'
'I've always thought it was rather, you know, nice of him to do what he does,' said Fred. 'You let him alone, Leggie. If you start throwing stones at him like you did the year before last Commander Vimes'll get to hear about it and there'll be trouble. Be told. You're a good man with a, a-'
'-cadaver,' said Nobby. '-but. . . well, Leggie, you weren't there,' said Colon. That's the start and finish of it. Reg was. That's all there is to it, Leggie. If you weren't there, you don't understand. Now you just run along and count the skulls again, I know you like that. Cheerio, Leggie.' Legitimate First watched them go as they walked away. Sergeant Colon felt he was being measured up. 'I've always wondered about his name,' said Nobby, turning and waving. 'I mean . . . Legitimate?'
'Can't blame a mother for being proud, Nobby,' said Colon. 'What else should I know today?' said Vimes, as he and Carrot shouldered their way through the streets. 'We've had a letter from the Black Ribboners*, sir, suggesting that it would be a great step forward for species harmony in the city if you'd see your way clear to-' * The Uberwald League of Temperance, made up of former vampires who now wore black ribbons to show that they had completely sworn off the sticky stuff, my vord yes, and much preferred a good singsong and a healthy game of table-tennis. 'They want a vampire in the Watch?'
'Yes, sir. I believe many members of the Watch Committee think that despite your stated reservations it would be a good-'
'Does it look to you as if my body is dead?'
'No, sir.'
'Then the answer's no. What else?' Carrot riffled through a stuffed clipboard as he half ran to keep up. The Times says Borogravia has invaded Mouldavia,' he announced. 'Is that good? I can't remember where it is.'
'Both formerly part of the Dark Empire, sir. Right next door to Uberwald.'
'Whose side are we on?'
'The Times said we should be supporting little Mouldavia against the aggressor, sir.'
'I like Borogravia already,' snapped Vimes. The Times had printed, in his opinion, a particularly unflattering cartoon of him the previous week, and to make matters worse Sybil had requested the original and had had it framed. 'And what does this all mean to us?'
'Probably more refugees, sir.'
'Ye gods, we've got no more room! Why do they keep coming here?'
'In search of a better life, sir, I think.'
'A better life?' said Vimes. 'Here?'
'I think things are worse where they come from, sir,' said Carrot. 'What kind of refugees are we talking about here?'
'Mostly human, sir.'
'Do you mean that most of them will be human, or that each individual will be mostly human?' said Vimes. After a while in Ankh-Morpork, you learned how to phrase that kind of question. 'Er, apart from humans the only species I've heard of there in any numbers are the kvetch, sir. They live in the deep woods and are covered in hair.'
'Really? Well, we'll probably find out more about them when we're asked to employ one in the Watch,' said Vimes sourly. 'What else?'
'Rather hopeful news, sir,' said Carrot, smiling. 'You know the Hooms? The street gang?'
'What about them?'
'They've initiated their first troll member.'
'What? I thought they went around beating up trolls! I thought that was the whole point!'
'Well, apparently young Calcite likes beating up trolls, too.'
'And that's good?'
'In a way, sir, I suppose it's a step forward.'
'United in hatred, you mean?'
'I suppose so, sir,' said Carrot. He flicked papers back and forth on his clipboard. 'Now, what else have I got? Oh, yes, the river patrol boat has sunk again-' Where did I go wrong? thought Vimes as the litany went on. I was a copper once. A real copper. I chased people. I was a hunter. It was what I did best. I knew where I was anywhere in the city by the feel of the street under my boots. And now look at me! A Duke! Commander of the Watch! A political animal! I have to know about who's fighting who a thousand miles away, just in case that's going to mean riots here! When did I last go on patrol? Last week? Last month? And it's never a proper point patrol, 'cos the sergeants make damn sure everyone knows I've left the building and every damn constable reeks of armour polish and has had a shave by the time I get there, even if I nip down the back streets (and that thought, at least, was freighted with a little pride,
because it showed he didn't employ stupid sergeants). I never stand all night in the rain, or fight for my life rolling in the gutter with some thug, and I never move above a walk. That's all been taken away. And for what? Comfort, power, money and a wonderful wife . . . ...er... . . . which was a good thing, of course, but . . . even so ... Damn. But I'm not a copper any more, I'm a, a manager. I have to talk to the damn committee as if they're children. I go to receptions and wear damn stupid toy armour. It's all politics and paperwork. It's all got too big. What has happened to the days when it was all so simple? Faded like the lilac, he thought. They entered the palace and went up the main stairs to the Oblong Office. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was standing looking out of the window when they entered. The room was otherwise deserted. 'Ah, Vimes,' he said, without turning round. 'I thought you might be late. In the circumstances, I dismissed the committee. They were sorry, as indeed was I, to hear about Stronginthearm. No doubt you have been writing the official letter.' Vimes flashed a questioning expression at Carrot, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Vetinari found things out very quickly. 'Yes, that's right,' said Vimes. 'And on such a beautiful day as this, too,' said Vetinari. 'Although there's a storm heading our way, I see.' He turned. He had a sprig of lilac pinned to his robe. 'Lady Sybil is doing well?' he said, sitting down. 'You tell me,' said Vimes. 'Some things can't be hurried, no doubt,' said Vetinari smoothly, shuffling the papers. 'Let me see now, let me see, there were just a few points that I should deal with . . . ah, the regular letter from our religious friends at the Temple of Small Gods.' He carefully removed it from the pile and set it to one side. 'I think I shall invite the new deacon to tea and explain matters to him. Now, where was I... ah, the political situation in- Yes?' The door opened. Drumknott, the chief clerk, came in. 'Message for his grace,' he said, although he handed it to Lord Vetinari. The Patrician passed it, very politely, across the desk. Vimes unfolded it.
'Right, sarge. Will do. I see someone's doing it already, sarge.' Up against one wall, lilac trees were growing. That is, at some point in the past a lilac had been planted there, and had given rise, as lilac will, to hundreds of whippy suckers, so that what had once been one stem was now a thicket. Every branch was covered in pale mauve blooms. The graves were still just visible in the tangled vegetation. In front of them stood Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork's least successful businessman, with a sprig of lilac in his hat. He caught sight of the watchmen and nodded to them. They nodded back. All three stood looking down at the seven graves. Only one had been
maintained. The marble headstone on that one was shiny and moss-free, the turf was clipped, the stone border was sparkling. Moss had grown over the wooden markers of the other six, but it had been scraped off the central one, revealing the name: JOHN KEEL And carved underneath, by someone who had taken some pains, was: How Do They Rise Up A huge wreath of lilac flowers, bound with purple ribbon, had been placed on the grave. On top of it, tied round with another piece of purple ribbon, was an egg. 'Mrs Palm and Mrs Battye and some of the girls were up here earlier,' said Dibbler. 'And of course Madam always makes sure there's the egg.'
'It's nice, the way they always remember,' said Sergeant Colon. The three stood in silence. They were not, on the whole, men with a vocabulary designed for times like this. After a while, though, Nobby felt moved to speak. 'He gave me a spoon once,' he said, to the air in general. 'Yeah, I know,' said Colon. 'My dad pinched it off me when he come out of prison, but it was my spoon,' said Nobby persistently. That means a lot to a kid, your own spoon.'
'Come to that, he was the first person to make me a sergeant,' said Colon. 'Got busted again, of course, but I knew I could do it again then. He was a good copper.'
'He bought a pie off me, first week I was starting out,' said Dibbler. 'Ate it all. Didn't spit out anything.' There was more silence. After a while Sergeant Colon cleared his throat, a general signal to indicate that some sort of appropriate moment was now over. There was a general relaxation of muscles. 'Y'know, we ought to come up here one day with a billhook and clear this lot up a bit,' said the sergeant. 'You always say that, sarge, every year,' said Nobby as they walked away. 'And we never do.'
'If I had a dollar for every copper's funeral I've attended up here,' said Colon, 'I'd have . . . nineteen dollars and fifty pence.'
'Fifty pence?' said Nobby.
'That was when Corporal Hildebiddle woke up just in time and banged on the lid,' said Colon. 'Before your time, o'course. Everyone said it was an amazin' recovery.'
'Mr Sergeant?' The three men turned. Coming towards them in a high-speed sidle was the black-clad, skinny figure of Legitimate First, the cemetery's resident gravedigger. Colon sighed. 'Yes, Leggie?' he said. 'Good morrow, sweet-' the gravedigger began, but Sergeant Colon waved a finger at him. 'Stop that right now,' he said. 'You know you've been warned before. None of that “comic gravedigger” stuff. It's not funny and it's not clever. Just say what you've got to say. No silly bits.' Leggie looked crestfallen. 'Well, good sirs-'
'Leggie, I've known you for years,' said Colon wearily. 'Just try, will you?'
'The deacon wants them graves dug up, Fred,' said Leggie in a sulky voice. 'It's been more'n thirty years. Long past time they was in the crypts-'
'No,' said Fred Colon. 'But I've got a nice shelf for 'em down there, Fred,' Leggie pleaded. 'Right up near the front. We need the space, Fred! It's standing room only in here, and that's the truth! Even the worms have to go in single file! Right up near the front, Fred, where I can chat to 'em when I'm having my tea. How about that?' The watchmen and Dibbler shared a glance. Most people in the city had been into Leggie's crypts, if only for a dare. And it had come as a shock to most of them to realize that solemn burial was not for eternity but only for a handful of years so that, in Leggie's words, 'my little wriggly helpers' could do their work. After that, the last last resting place was the crypts, and an entry in the huge ledgers. Leggie lived down there in the crypts. As he said, he was the only one who did, and he liked the company. Leggie was generally considered weird, but conscientiously so. 'This isn't your idea, right?' said Fred Colon. Leggie looked down at his feet. The new deacon's a bit, well, new,' he said. 'You know . . . keen. Making changes.'
'You told him why they're not being dug up?' said Nobby. 'He said that's just ancient history,' said Leggie. 'He says we all have to put the past behind us.'
'An' did you tell him he should take it up with Vetinari?' said Nobby. 'Yes, and he said he was sure his lordship was a forward-thinking man who wouldn't cling to relics of the past,' said Leggie. 'Sounds like he is new,' said Dibbler. 'Yeah,' said Nobby. 'An' not likely to get old. It's okay, Leggie, you can say you've asked us.' The gravedigger looked relieved. Thanks, Nobby,' he said. 'And I'd just like to say that when your time comes, gents, you'll be on a good shelf with a view. I've put your names down in my ledger for them as comes after me.'
'Well, that's, er, very kind of you, Leggie,' said Colon, wondering if it was. Because of pressure of space, bones in the crypt were stored by size, not by owner. There were rooms of ribs. There were avenues of femurs. And shelf after shelf of skulls up near the entrance, of course, because a crypt without a lot of skulls wasn't a proper crypt at all. If some of the religions were right and there really was bodily resurrection one day, Fred mused, there was going to be an awful lot of confusion and general milling about. 'I've got just the spot-' Leggie began, and then stopped. He pointed angrily towards the entrance. 'You know what I said about him coming up here!' They turned. Corporal Reg Shoe, a whole bouquet of lilac tied to his helmet, was walking solemnly up the gravel path. He had a long-handled shovel over his shoulder. 'It's only Reg,' said Fred. 'He's got a right to be here, Leggie. You know that.'
'He's a dead man! I'm not havin' a dead man in my cemetery!'
'It's full of 'em, Leggie,' said Dibbler, trying to calm the man down. 'Yeah, but the rest of 'em don't walk in and out!'
'Come on, Leggie, you act like this every year,' said Fred Colon. 'He can't help the way he was killed. Just because you're a zombie doesn't mean you're a bad person. He's a useful lad, Reg. Plus it'd be a lot neater up here if everyone looked after their plots like he does, 'morning, Reg.' Reg Shoe, grey-faced but smiling, nodded at the four of them and strolled on. 'And bringing his own shovel, too,' muttered Leggie. 'It's disgusting!'
'I've always thought it was rather, you know, nice of him to do what he does,' said Fred. 'You let him alone, Leggie. If you start throwing stones at him like you did the year before last Commander Vimes'll get to hear about it and there'll be trouble. Be told. You're a good man with a, a-'
'-cadaver,' said Nobby. '-but. . . well, Leggie, you weren't there,' said Colon. That's the start and finish of it. Reg was. That's all there is to it, Leggie. If you weren't there, you don't understand. Now you just run along and count the skulls again, I know you like that. Cheerio, Leggie.' Legitimate First watched them go as they walked away. Sergeant Colon felt he was being measured up. 'I've always wondered about his name,' said Nobby, turning and waving. 'I mean . . . Legitimate?'
'Can't blame a mother for being proud, Nobby,' said Colon. 'What else should I know today?' said Vimes, as he and Carrot shouldered their way through the streets. 'We've had a letter from the Black Ribboners*, sir, suggesting that it would be a great step forward for species harmony in the city if you'd see your way clear to-' * The Uberwald League of Temperance, made up of former vampires who now wore black ribbons to show that they had completely sworn off the sticky stuff, my vord yes, and much preferred a good singsong and a healthy game of table-tennis. 'They want a vampire in the Watch?'
'Yes, sir. I believe many members of the Watch Committee think that despite your stated reservations it would be a good-'
'Does it look to you as if my body is dead?'
'No, sir.'
'Then the answer's no. What else?' Carrot riffled through a stuffed clipboard as he half ran to keep up. The Times says Borogravia has invaded Mouldavia,' he announced. 'Is that good? I can't remember where it is.'
'Both formerly part of the Dark Empire, sir. Right next door to Uberwald.'
'Whose side are we on?'
'The Times said we should be supporting little Mouldavia against the aggressor, sir.'
'I like Borogravia already,' snapped Vimes. The Times had printed, in his opinion, a particularly unflattering cartoon of him the previous week, and to make matters worse Sybil had requested the original and had had it framed. 'And what does this all mean to us?'
'Probably more refugees, sir.'
'Ye gods, we've got no more room! Why do they keep coming here?'
'In search of a better life, sir, I think.'
'A better life?' said Vimes. 'Here?'
'I think things are worse where they come from, sir,' said Carrot. 'What kind of refugees are we talking about here?'
'Mostly human, sir.'
'Do you mean that most of them will be human, or that each individual will be mostly human?' said Vimes. After a while in Ankh-Morpork, you learned how to phrase that kind of question. 'Er, apart from humans the only species I've heard of there in any numbers are the kvetch, sir. They live in the deep woods and are covered in hair.'
'Really? Well, we'll probably find out more about them when we're asked to employ one in the Watch,' said Vimes sourly. 'What else?'
'Rather hopeful news, sir,' said Carrot, smiling. 'You know the Hooms? The street gang?'
'What about them?'
'They've initiated their first troll member.'
'What? I thought they went around beating up trolls! I thought that was the whole point!'
'Well, apparently young Calcite likes beating up trolls, too.'
'And that's good?'
'In a way, sir, I suppose it's a step forward.'
'United in hatred, you mean?'
'I suppose so, sir,' said Carrot. He flicked papers back and forth on his clipboard. 'Now, what else have I got? Oh, yes, the river patrol boat has sunk again-' Where did I go wrong? thought Vimes as the litany went on. I was a copper once. A real copper. I chased people. I was a hunter. It was what I did best. I knew where I was anywhere in the city by the feel of the street under my boots. And now look at me! A Duke! Commander of the Watch! A political animal! I have to know about who's fighting who a thousand miles away, just in case that's going to mean riots here! When did I last go on patrol? Last week? Last month? And it's never a proper point patrol, 'cos the sergeants make damn sure everyone knows I've left the building and every damn constable reeks of armour polish and has had a shave by the time I get there, even if I nip down the back streets (and that thought, at least, was freighted with a little pride,
because it showed he didn't employ stupid sergeants). I never stand all night in the rain, or fight for my life rolling in the gutter with some thug, and I never move above a walk. That's all been taken away. And for what? Comfort, power, money and a wonderful wife . . . ...er... . . . which was a good thing, of course, but . . . even so ... Damn. But I'm not a copper any more, I'm a, a manager. I have to talk to the damn committee as if they're children. I go to receptions and wear damn stupid toy armour. It's all politics and paperwork. It's all got too big. What has happened to the days when it was all so simple? Faded like the lilac, he thought. They entered the palace and went up the main stairs to the Oblong Office. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was standing looking out of the window when they entered. The room was otherwise deserted. 'Ah, Vimes,' he said, without turning round. 'I thought you might be late. In the circumstances, I dismissed the committee. They were sorry, as indeed was I, to hear about Stronginthearm. No doubt you have been writing the official letter.' Vimes flashed a questioning expression at Carrot, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Vetinari found things out very quickly. 'Yes, that's right,' said Vimes. 'And on such a beautiful day as this, too,' said Vetinari. 'Although there's a storm heading our way, I see.' He turned. He had a sprig of lilac pinned to his robe. 'Lady Sybil is doing well?' he said, sitting down. 'You tell me,' said Vimes. 'Some things can't be hurried, no doubt,' said Vetinari smoothly, shuffling the papers. 'Let me see now, let me see, there were just a few points that I should deal with . . . ah, the regular letter from our religious friends at the Temple of Small Gods.' He carefully removed it from the pile and set it to one side. 'I think I shall invite the new deacon to tea and explain matters to him. Now, where was I... ah, the political situation in- Yes?' The door opened. Drumknott, the chief clerk, came in. 'Message for his grace,' he said, although he handed it to Lord Vetinari. The Patrician passed it, very politely, across the desk. Vimes unfolded it.
