Night Watch полностью

No, I've made a fool of you, thought Vimes, fervently wishing he hadn't. I'd intended to drop it into Coates's locker, but I couldn't…

…not after what I found in there.

“Tell you what, sir,” he volunteered, “we could say it was a kind of test.”

“I don't tell lies as a rule, Keel!” said the captain, but added, “I appreciate the suggestion, nevertheless. Anyway, I know I'm not as young as I was. Perhaps it's time to retire,” he sighed. “I have to say I've been considering it for some time.”

“Oh, don't talk like that, sir,” said Vimes, far more jovially than he felt. “I can't see you retiring.”

“Yes, I suppose I should see things through,” Tilden mumbled, walking back to his desk. “Do you know, sergeant, that some of the men think you are a spy?”

“Who for?” said Vimes, reflecting that Snouty delivered more than cocoa.

“Lord Winder, I assume,” said Tilden.

“Well, we all work for him, sir. But I don't report to anyone but you, if that's any help.”

Tilden looked up at him and shook his head sadly. “Spy or not, Keel, I don't mind telling you that some of the orders we've been getting lately have…not been thought out properly, in my opinion, what?”

He gave Vimes a glare as if defying him to produce the red-hot thumbscrews there and then.

Vimes could see how much the admission that abduction and torture and conspiracy to criminalize honest citizens might not be acceptable government policy was costing the old man. Tilden hadn't been brought up to think like that. He'd ridden off under the flag of Ankh-Morpork to fight the Cheese-Eaters of Quirm or Johnny Klatchian or whatever enemies had been selected by those higher up the chain of command with never a second thought about the Tightness of the cause, because that sort of thinking could slow a soldier down.

Tilden had grown up knowing that the people at the top were right. That was why they were at the top. He didn't have the mental vocabulary to think like a traitor, because only traitors thought like that.

“Haven't been here long enough to comment, sir,” said Vimes. “Don't know how you do things here.”

“Not like we used to,” mumbled Tilden.

“Just as you say, sir.”

“Snouty says you know your way around remarkably well, sergeant. For someone new to the city.”

That was a sentence with a hook on the end, but Tilden was an inexperienced angler.

“One nick is pretty much like any other, sir,” said Vimes. “And, of course, I've visited the city before.”

“Of course. Of course,” said Tilden hurriedly. “Well…thank you, sergeant. If you could, er, explain things to the men? I'd be grateful—”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

Vimes shut the door carefully behind him and went down the steps two at a time. The squad below had barely moved. He clapped his hands like a schoolteacher.

“C'mon, c'mon, you've got patrols to go to! Get moving! Not you, Sergeant Knock—a word in the yard, please!”

Vimes didn't bother to wait to see if the man would follow him. He went out into the late afternoon sunshine, leaned against the wall, and waited.

Ten years ago, he'd have—correction, ten years ago, if he was sober, he'd have taught Knock a few lessons about who's boss with several well-aimed punches. And that was certainly the custom these days. Scraps between watchmen hadn't been uncommon when Vimes was a constable. But that wouldn't do for Sergeant Keel.

Knock stepped out, inflated with mad, terrified bravado.

When Vimes raised his hand, the man actually flinched.

“Cigar?” said Vimes.

“Er…”

“I don't drink,” said Vimes. “But you can't beat a good cigar.”

“I…er…don't smoke,” mumbled Knock. “Look, about that inkstand—”

“D'you know, he'd gone and put it in that safe of his?” said Vimes, smiling.

“He had?”

“And then forgotten about it,” said Vimes. “Happens to us all, Winsborough. A man's mind starts to wander, he's never quite certain of what he's done.”

Vimes maintained the friendly grin. It was as good as raining blows. Besides, he'd given Knock his correct name. The man never used it in public, for fear of the panic it might cause.

“Just thought I'd put your mind at rest about it,” said Vimes.

Sergeant Winsborough Knock shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He wasn't certain whether he'd got away with something, or had just ended up getting deeper into something else.

“Tell me more about Lance-Corporal Coates,” said Vimes.

Knock's face was, for a moment, an agony of calculation. And then he adopted his usual policy: when you think there's wolves on your trail, throw someone off the sleigh.

“Ned, sir?” he said. “Hard worker, of course, does his job—but a bit tricky, between you and me.”

“How? And you don't have to call me ‘sir’, Winsborough. Not out here.”

“He reckons Jack's as good as his master, if you know what I mean. Reckons he's as good as anyone. Bit of a troublemaker in that respect.”

“Barrack-room lawyer?”

“That sort of thing, yes.”

“Rebel sympathies?”

Knock turned his eyes up innocently. “Could be, sir. Wouldn't like to see the lad in trouble, o'course.”