Night Watch полностью

Bleedwell had worn black. Assassins always did. Black was cool and, besides, it was the rules. But only in a dark cellar at midnight was black a sensible colour. Elsewhere, Vetinari preferred dark green, or shades of dark grey. With the right colouring, and the right stance, you vanished. People's eyes would help you vanish. They erased you from their vision, they fitted you into the background.

Of course, he'd be expelled from the Guild if caught wearing such clothing. He'd reasoned that this was much better than being expelled from the land of the upright and breathing. He'd rather not be cool than be cold.

The guard, three feet away, lit a cigarette with no consideration for other people.

What a genius Lord Winstanleigh Greville-Pipe had been. What an observer. Havelock would love to have met him, or even to have visited his grave, but apparently that was inside a tiger somewhere which, to Greville-Pipe's gratified astonishment, he hadn't spotted until it was too late.

Vetinari had done him a private honour, though. He had hunted down and melted the engraver's plates of Some Observations on the Art of Invisibility.

He tracked down the other four extant copies, too, but had felt unable to burn them. Instead he'd had the slim volumes bound together inside the cover of Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Vol. 3. He felt that Lord Winstanleigh Greville-Pipe would rather appreciate that.

Vetinari lay comfortably on the lead of the roof, patient as a cat, and watched the palace grounds below.

Vimes lay face down on a table in the Watch House, wincing occasionally.

“Please hold still,” said Dr Lawn. “I've nearly finished. I suppose you'd laugh if I told you to take it easy?”

“Ha. Ha. Uh!”

“It's only a flesh wound, but you ought to get some rest.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“You've got a busy night ahead of you. So have I, I suspect.”

“We should be okay if we've got the barricades all the way to Easy Street,” said Vimes, and was aware of a telling silence.

He sat up on the table that Lawn was using as a bench.

“We have got them to Easy Street, haven't we?” he demanded.

“The last I heard, yes,” said the doctor.

“The last you heard?”

“Well, technically no,” said Lawn. “It's all getting…bigger, John. The actual last I heard was someone saying ‘why stop at Easy Street?’”

“Oh, good grief…”

“Yes. I thought so, too.”

Vimes dragged his breeches up, fastened his belt and limped out into the road and also into an argument.

There was Rosie Palm, and Sandra, and Reg Shoe and half a dozen others sitting around another table, in the middle of the street. As Vimes stepped out into the evening, a plaintive voice said, “You cannot fight for ‘reasonably priced love’.”

“You can if you want me and the rest of the girls on board,” said Rosie. “‘Free’ is not a word we wish to see used in these circumstances.”

“Oh, very well,” said Reg, making a note on a clipboard. “We're all happy with Truth, Justice and Freedom, are we?”

“And better sewers.” This was the voice of Mrs Rutherford. “And something done about the rats.”

“I think we should be thinking about higher things, comrade Mrs Rutherford,” said Reg.

“I am not a comrade, Mr Shoe, and nor is Mr Rutherford,” said Mrs Rutherford. “We've always kept ourselves to ourselves, haven't we, Sidney?”

“I've got a question,” said someone in the crowd of onlookers. “Harry Supple's my name. Got a shoe shop in New Cobblers…”

Reg seized on this as an opportunity to avoid talking to Mrs Rutherford. Revolutionaries should not have to meet someone like Mrs Rutherford on their first day.

“Yes, comrade Supple?” he said.

“Nor are we boyjoys,” said Mrs Rutherford, not willing to let things go.

“Er, bourgeoisie,” said Reg. “Our manifesto refers to bourgeoisie. That's like bore, er, shwah, er, zee.”

“Bourgeoisie, bourgeoisie,” said Mrs Rutherford, turning the word over on her tongue. “That…doesn't sound too bad. What, er, sort of thing do they do?”

“Anyway, it says here in article seven of this here list—” Mr Supple ploughed on.

“—People's Declaration of the Glorious Twenty-fourth of May,” said Reg.

“Yeah, yeah, right…well, it says we'll seize hold of the means of production, sort of thing, so what I want to know is, how does that work out regarding my shoe shop? I mean, I'm in it anyway, right? It's not like there's room for more'n me and my lad Garbut and maybe one customer.”

In the dark, Vimes smiled. Reg could never see stuff coming.

“Ah, but after the revolution all property will be held in common by the people…er…that is, it'll belong to you but also to everyone else, you see?”

Comrade Supple looked puzzled. “But I'll be the one making the shoes?”

“Of course. But everything will belong to The People.”

“So…who's going to pay for the shoes?” said Mr Supple.

“Everyone will pay a reasonable price for their shoes and you won't be guilty of living off the sweat of the common worker,” said Reg, shortly. “Now, if we—”

“You mean the cows?” said Supple.

“What?”