Night Watch полностью

He turned to the stricken Ned, who'd raised himself to a sitting position.

“Nice moves, Mr Coates. You didn't learn them in the Watch, I know that. Anything we need to discuss? Care to tell me where you were last night? Morphic Street, maybe?”

“Day off,” muttered Ned, rubbing his jaw.

“Right, right. None of my business. Seems to me we've failed to hit it off, Ned.”

“'sright.”

“You think I'm some kind of spy.”

“I know you're not John Keel.”

Vimes kept his face perfectly impassive—which was, he realized, a complete giveaway in itself.

“Why d'you say that?” he said.

“I don't have to tell you. You ain't a Watch sergeant, either. And you were lucky just now, and that's all I'm saying.” Ned got to his feet as the other watchmen filed out into the yard again.

Vimes let him go, and turned his attention to the men.

None of them had ever been taught anything. They'd learned, to a greater or usually a lesser extent, from one another. And Vimes knew where that road went. On that road coppers rolled drunks for their small change and assured one another that bribes were just perks, and it got worse.

He was all for getting recruits out on the street, but you had to train them first. You needed someone like Detritus bellowing at them for six weeks, and lectures about duty and prisoners' rights and the “service to the public”. And then you could hand them over to the street monsters who told them all the other stuff, like how to hit someone where it wouldn't leave a mark and when it was a good idea to stick a metal soup-plate down the front of your trousers before attending to a bar brawl.

And if you were lucky and they were sensible, they found somewhere between impossible perfection and the Pit where they could be real coppers—slightly tarnished, because the job did that to you, but not rotten.

He formed them into twos and set them attacking and defending. It was dreadful to watch. He let it go on for five minutes.

“All right, all right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Very good indeed. When the circus comes to town I'll definitely recommend you.” The men sagged, and grinned sheepishly as he went on: “Don't you know any of the moves? The Throat Slam, the Red Hot Poker, the Ribrattler? Say I'm coming at you with a big, big club…what do you do?”

“Run away, sarge,” said Wiglet. There was laughter.

“How far can you run?” said Vimes. “Got to fight sometime. Lance-Corporal Coates?”

Ned Coates had not been taking part. He'd been leaning against the wall in a sort of stationary swagger, watching the sad show with disdain.

“Sarge?” he said, propelling himself upright with the minimum of effort.

“Show Wiglet how it's done.”

Coates pulled out his truncheon. It was, Vimes saw, custom-made, slightly longer than the general issue. He took up station in front of the constable, with his back very expressively towards Vimes.

“What do you want me to do, sarge?” he said, over his shoulder.

“Show him a few decent moves. Take him by surprise.”

“Right you are, sarge.”

Vimes watched the desultory clatter of sticks. One, two, three…

–and around Ned came, truncheon whistling through the air.

But Vimes ducked under the blow and caught the man's arm in both hands, twisting it up behind his back and bringing his ear into immediate conjunction with Vimes's mouth.

“Not quite unexpected, sunshine,” he whispered. “Now, we'll both keep grinning because the lads are laughing at our Ned, isn't he a card, who keeps having another go at the ol' sarge, and we don't want to spoil their fun. I'm letting you go now, but you try it on one more time and you'll have to use both hands to pick up a spoon and you'll need to pick up a spoon, Ned, 'cos of living off soup by reason of having no damn teeth!” He relaxed his grip. “Who taught you all this stuff, anyway?”

“Sergeant Keel, sarge,” said Ned.

“You're doing a good job. Sergeant Keel!”

Vimes turned to see Captain Swing advancing across the yard.

He was smaller and slimmer in daylight and he looked like a clerk, and a clerk who was only erratically careful about his appearance; his hair was lank, and the thick black strands plastered across a central bald spot suggested that the man either had no mirror or completely lacked a sense of humour.

His coat, in the light, was old-fashioned but well cared for, but his buckled shoes were scuffed and generally downtrodden. Vimes's mother would have had something to say about that. A man ought to look after his boots, she always said. You could tell a man by the shine of his shoes.

Swing also carried a walking stick or, rather, an opera cane. It was just possible that he thought it made him look sophisticated rather than, say, like a man carrying an unnecessary length of wood. It was certainly a swordstick, because it rattled when it hit the pavement, and it did so now as he primly picked his way through the old targets and straw debris.

“Keeping the men up to scratch, I see,” he said. “Very well done. Is your captain here?”

“I believe not,” said Vimes, letting Coates go, “sir.”