Night Watch полностью

He rather liked young Vetinari, who was quiet and studious and, it had to be said, a generous young man on appropriate occasions. But a bit weird, all the same. Once Maroon had watched him in the foyer, standing still. That was all he was doing. He wasn't making any attempt at concealing himself. After half an hour Maroon had wandered over and said, “Can I help you, sir?”

And Vetinari had said, “Thank you, no, Mr Maroon. I'm just teaching myself to stand still.”

To which there wasn't really any sensible comment that could be made. And the young man must have left after a while, because Maroon didn't remember seeing him again that day.

He heard a creak from the office, and poked his head around the door. There was no one there.

As he made the tea he thought he heard a rustle from next door, and went to check. It was completely empty. Remarkably so, he thought later on. It was almost as if it was even more empty than it would be if there was just, well, no one in it.

He went back to his comfy armchair in the cubbyhole, and relaxed.

In the brass rack, the envelope marked “Bleedwell, J.” slid back slightly.

There were a lot of explosions. The firecrackers bounced all over the street. Tambourines thudded, a horn blared a chord unknown in nature, and a line of monks danced and twirled around the corner, all chanting at the tops of their voices.

Vimes, sagging to his knees, was aware of dozens of sandalled feet gyrating past and grubby robes flying. Rust was yelling something at the dancers, who grinned and waved their hands in the air.

Something square and silvery landed in the dirt.

And the monks were gone, dancing into an alleyway, yelling and spinning and banging their gongs…

“Wretched heathens!” said Rust, striding forward. “Have you been hit, sergeant?”

Vimes reached down and picked up the silver rectangle.

A stone clanged off Rust's breastplate. As he raised his megaphone, a cabbage hit him on the knee.

Vimes stared at the thing in his hand. It was a cigar case, slim and slightly curved.

He fumbled it open and read: To Sam With Love From Your Sybil.

The world moved. But now Vimes no longer felt like a drifting ship. Now he felt the tug of the anchor, pulling him round to face the rising tide.

A barrage of missiles was coming over the barricade. Throwing things was an old Ankh-Morpork custom, and there was something about Rust that made him a target. With what dignity he could muster, he raised the megaphone again and got as far as “I hereby warn you—” before a stone spun it out of his hand.

“Very well, then,” he said, and marched stiffly back to the squad. “Sergeant Keel, order the men to fire. One round of arrows, over the top of the barricade.”

“No,” said Vimes, standing up.

“I can only assume you've been stunned, sergeant,” said Rust. “Men, prepare to execute that order.”

“First man that fires, I will personally cut that man down,” said Vimes. He didn't shout. It was a simple, confident statement of precisely what the future would hold.

Rust's expression did not change. He looked Vimes up and down.

“Is this mutiny, then, sergeant?” said the captain.

“No. I'm not a soldier, sir. I can't mutiny.”

“Martial law, sergeant!” snapped Rust. “It is official!”

“Really?” said Vimes, as another rain of rocks and old vegetables came down. “Shields up, lads.”

Rust turned to Fred Colon. “Corporal, you will put this man under arrest!”

Colon swallowed. “Me?”

“You, corporal. Now.”

Colon's pink face mottled with white as the blood drained from it. “But he—” he began.

“You won't? Then it seems I must,” said the captain. He drew his sword.

At that Vimes heard the click of a crossbow's safety catch going off, and groaned. He didn't remember this happening.

“You just put that sword away, sir, please,” said the voice of Lance-Constable Vimes.

“You will not shoot me, you young idiot. That would be murder,” said the captain calmly.

“Not where I'm aiming, sir.”

Bloody hell, thought Vimes. Maybe the lad was simple. Because one thing Rust wasn't, was a coward. He thought idiot stubbornness was bravery. He wouldn't back down in the face of a dozen armed men.

“Ah, I think I can see the problem, captain,” Vimes said brightly. “As you were, lance-constable. There's been a slight misunderstanding, sir, but this should sort it out—”

It was a blow he'd remember for a long time. It was sweet. It was textbook. Rust went down like a log.

In the light of all his burning bridges, Vimes slipped his hand back into his hip pocket. Thank you, Mrs Goodbody and your range of little equalizers.

He turned to the watchmen, who were a tableau of silent horror.

“Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you're not going to use them?”

“You laid him out, sarge!” Sam squeaked, still staring at the sleeping captain.