“—
Vimes got dressed in his street uniform, moving slowly and willing every limb into position. He brushed his hair. He went out into the hall. He sat down on an uncomfortable chair with his helmet on his knees, while ghosts both living and dead hurried around him.
Usually—always—there was a part of Vimes that watched the other parts, because he was at heart a policeman. This time it wasn't there. It was in here with the rest of him, staring at nothing, and waiting
“—
“—
“—
Vimes's brain lit up from whatever little pilot light of thought had been operating at the most basic level. He walked up the stairs, helmet under his arm, like a man going to take a statement. He knocked at the door.
Lawn opened it. He was holding a brandy glass in his other hand, and moved aside with a smile.
Sybil was sitting up. He saw, through the mist of exhaustion, that she was holding something wrapped in a shawl.
“He's called Sam, Sam,” she said. “And no argument.”
The sun came out.
“I'll teach him to walk!” beamed Vimes. “I'm good at teaching people to walk!” And he fell asleep before he hit the carpet.
It was a pleasant stroll in the early evening air. Vimes trailed cigar smoke behind him as he walked down to Pseudopolis Yard, where he acknowledged the cheers and congratulations and thanked people for the lovely flowers.
His next stop was at Dr Lawn's house where he sat and spoke for a while, about such things as memory and how tricky it can be, and forgetfulness, and how profitable it could prove.
Then, with the doctor, he went to his bank. This institution was, not surprisingly, willing to open outside normal hours for a man who was a Duke, and the richest man in the city, and the Commander of the City Watch and, not least, quite prepared to kick the door down. There he signed over one hundred thousand dollars and the freehold of a large corner site in Goose Gate to one Dr J. Lawn.
And then, alone, he went up to Small Gods. Legitimate First, whatever his private feelings, knew enough not to shut the gates on this night, and he'd filled the lamps.
Vimes strolled over the moss-grown gravel. In the twilight, the lilac blooms seemed to shine. Their scent hung in the air like fog.
He waded through the grass and reached the grave of John Keel, where he sat on the headstone, taking care not to disturb the wreaths; he had a feeling that the sergeant would understand that a copper sometimes needed to take the weight off his feet. And he finished his cigar, and stared into the sunset.
After a while he was aware of a scraping noise to his left and could just make out the turf starting to sag on one of the graves. A grey hand was thrust out of the ground, clutching a shovel. A few pieces of turf were pushed aside and, with some effort, Reg Shoe rose from the grave. He was halfway out before he noticed Vimes, and nearly fell back.
“Oh, you frightened the life out of me, Mister Vimes!”
“Sorry, Reg,” said Vimes.
“Of course, when I say you frightened the life out of me—” the zombie began, gloomily.
“Yes, Reg, I understood you. Quiet down there, was it?”
“Very peaceful, sir, very peaceful. I think I'll have to get myself a new coffin before next year, though. They don't last any time at all these days.”
“I suppose not that many people look for durability, Reg,” said Vimes.
Reg slowly shovelled the soil back into place. “I know everyone thinks it's a bit odd, but I think I owe it to them really,” he said. “It's only one day a year, but it's like…solidarity.”
“With the downtrodden masses, eh?” said Vimes.
“What, sir?”
“No argument from me, Reg,” said Vimes happily. This was a perfect moment. Not even Reg, fussing around smoothing down earth and patting turf into place, could detract from it.
There'll come a time when it'll all be clear, Sweeper had said. A perfect moment.
The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.
History finds a way. The nature of events changed, but the nature of the dead had not. It had been a mean, shameful little fight that ended them, a flyspecked footnote of history, but they hadn't been mean or shameful men. They hadn't run, and they could have run with honour. They'd stayed, and he wondered if the path had seemed as clear to them then as it did to him now. They'd stayed not because they wanted to be heroes, but because they chose to think of it as their job, and it was in front of them—
“I'll be off, then, sir,” said Reg, shouldering his shovel. He seemed a long way away. “Sir?”
“Yeah, right. Right, Reg. Thank you,” mumbled Vimes, and in the pink glow of the moment watched the corporal march down the darkening path and out into the city.
