Night Watch полностью

Despite his barely basic grasp of the language, Mr Soon's expression suggested very clearly that the three-stripe, one-crown copper in front of him had dropped in from the planet Idiot.

“Look, I haven't got time for this,” said Vimes. “Where's the back door? This is Watch business!”

“I pay! I pay protection! One month, no trouble!”

Vimes grunted and set off along another narrow, cloth-lined tunnel.

A glint of glass caught his eye, and he sidled crabwise up a choked aisle until he found a counter. It was piled with more hopeless merchandise, but there was a bead-curtained doorway behind it. He half clambered, half swam over the piles and scrambled into the tiny room beyond.

Mr Soon pushed his way to an ancient tailor's dummy; it was so scratched, chipped and battered it looked like something dug up from the volcanic ash of an ancient city.

He pulled on an arm, and the eyes lit up.

“Number Three here,” he said, into its ear. “He's just gone through. And boy, is he angry…”

The back door was locked but yielded under the weight of Vimes's body. He staggered into the yard, looked up at the wall separating this greasy space from the temple's garden, jumped, scrabbled his boots on the brickwork and dragged himself on to the top, feeling a couple of bricks crumble away underneath him.

He landed on his back, and looked up at a thin, robed figure sitting on a stone seat.

“Cup of tea, commander?” said Sweeper cheerfully.

“I don't want any damn tea!” shouted Vimes, struggling to his feet.

Sweeper dropped a lump of rancid yak butter in the tea bowl beside him.

“What do you want, then, Mister Vimes with the very helpful feet?”

“I can't deal with this! You know what I mean!”

“You know, some tea really would calm you down,” said Sweeper.

“Don't tell me to be calm! When are you going to get me home?”

A figure stepped out of the temple. He was a taller, heavier man than Sweeper, white-haired and with the look of a good-natured bank manager about him. He held out a cup.

Vimes hesitated a moment, and then took the cup and poured the tea out on to the ground.

“I don't trust you,” he said. “There could be anything in this.”

“I can't imagine what we could put in tea that would make it any worse than the way you normally drink it,” said Sweeper calmly. “Sit down, your grace. Please?”

Vimes sagged on to the seat. The rage that had been driving him sank a little, too, but he could feel it bubbling. Automatically, he pulled out a half-smoked cigar and put it in his mouth.

“Sweeper said you'd find us, some way or other,” said the other monk, and sighed. “So much for secrecy.”

“Why should you worry?” said Vimes, lighting the stub. “You can just play around with time and it won't have happened, right?”

“We don't intend to do that,” said the other monk.

“What could I do, anyway? Go around telling everyone that those loony monks you see in the streets are some kind of time shifters? I'd get locked up! Who are you, anyway?”

“This is Qu,” said Sweeper, nodding at the other monk. “When the time comes, he'll get you back. But not yet.”

Vimes sighed. The anger had drained, leaving only a hopeless, empty feeling. He stared blankly at the strange rockery that occupied most of the garden. It looked oddly familiar. He blinked.

“I've been talking to people today who are going to die,” he said. “How do you think that makes me feel? Do you know what that feels like?”

The monks gave him a puzzled look.

“Er…yes,” said Qu.

“We do,” said Sweeper. “Everyone we talk to is going to die. Everyone you talk to is going to die. Everyone dies.”

“I've been changing things,” said Vimes, and added defensively: “Well, why shouldn't I? Carcer is! I have no idea how things are going to turn out! I mean, doesn't it change history even if you just tread on an ant?”

“For the ant, certainly,” said Qu.

Sweeper waved a hand. “I told you, Mister Vimes. History finds a way. It's like a shipwreck. You're swimming to the shore. The waves will break whatever you do. Is it not written: ‘The big sea does not care which way the little fishes swim’? People die in their due time—”

“Keel didn't! Carcer mugged the poor devil!”

“His due time in this present, commander,” said Qu. “But he will play his part in the other one, Mister Vimes. Eventually. You'll reach the shore. You must. Otherwise—”

“—there's no shore,” said Sweeper.

“No,” said Vimes. “There's got to be more. I'm not swimming, I'm drowning. It was fun, d'you know? At first? Like a boys' night out? Feeling the street under my boots again? But now…what about Sybil? Are my memories real? What I know is she's a girl living with her dad. Is there somewhere where she's my wife, having my child? I mean, really? Is it all in my mind? Can you prove it? Is it happening? Will it happen? What is real?”

The monks were silent. Sweeper glanced at Qu, who shrugged. He glanced rather more meaningfully and, this time, Qu made that dismissive little wave of the hand which is someone signifying “all right, all right, against my better judgement…”