'Taking people to Cable Street?'
'No,' said Vimes. 'I told them to take everyone to the Watch House and Snouty'll fine 'em half a dollar and take their name and address. Perhaps we'll have a raffle.'
'We'll get into trouble, sarge.'
'The curfew's just to frighten people. It doesn't mean much.'
'Our mum says there's going to be trouble soon,' said Sam. 'She heard it in the fish shop. Everyone says it's going to be Snapcase at the palace. He listens to the people.'
'Yeah, right,' said Vimes. And I listen to the thunder. But I don't do anything about it. 'Our mum says everyone'll have a voice in the city when Snapcase is the Patrician,' Sam went on. 'Keep the voice down, kid.'
'The day'll come when the angry masses will rise up and throw off their shekels, the fishmonger says,' said Sam.
If I was a spy for Swing, that fishmonger would be gutted, Vimes thought. Quite the revolutionary, our mum. He wondered if it was at all possible to give this idiot some lessons in basic politics. That was always the dream, wasn't it? 'I wish I'd known then what I know now'? But when you got older you found out that you now wasn't you then. You then was a twerp. You then was what you had to be to start out on the rocky road of becoming you now, and one of the rocky patches on that road was being a twerp. A much better dream, one that'd ensure sounder sleep, was not to know now what you didn't know then. 'What's your dad do?' he said, as if he didn't know. 'He passed away a long time ago, sarge,' said Sam. 'When I was little. Run down by a cart when he was crossing the street, our mum said.' What a champion liar she was, too. 'Sorry to hear that,' said Vimes. 'Er, our mum says you'd be welcome round to tea one night, what with you being all by yourself in a strange city, sarge.'
'Would you like me to give you another tip, lad?' said Vimes. 'Yes, sarge, I'm learning a lot.'
'Lance-constables do not invite their sergeants round to tea. Don't ask me why. It's one of those things that does not happen.'
'You don't know our mum, sarge.' Vimes coughed. 'Mums are mums, lance-constable. They don't like to see men managing by themselves, in case that sort of thing catches on.' Besides, I know she's been up in Small Gods these past ten years. I'd rather put one hand flat on the table and give Swing the hammer than walk down Cockbill Street today. 'Well,' said Sam, 'she says she's going to make you some Distressed Pudding, sarge. She makes great Distressed Pudding, our mum.' The best, thought Vimes, staring into the middle distance. Oh, gods. The very best. No one has ever done it better. 'That'd be ... very kind of her,' he managed. 'Sarge,' said Sam after a while, 'why are we patrolling Morphic Street? It's not our beat.'
'I switched beats. I ought to see as much of the city as possible,' said Vimes. 'Not a lot to see in Morphic Street, sarge.'
Vimes looked at the shadows. 'Oh, I don't know,' he said. 'It's amazing what you see if you concentrate.' He pulled Sam into a doorway. 'Just whisper, lad,' he said. 'Now, look down there at the house opposite. See that doorway with the deeper shadow?'
'Yes, sarge,' whispered Sam. 'Why's it such a deep shadow, d'you think?'
'Dunno, sarge.'
' 'cos someone in black is standing in it, that's why. So we're going to walk a little further and then we'll just turn around and go back round the corner. We're heading back to the station like good boys because our cocoa's getting cold, see?'
'Right, sarge.' They ambled back around the corner, and Vimes let them walk sufficiently far up the street that the footsteps died away naturally. 'Okay, this is far enough,' he said. Give Sam his due, Vimes thought, he knew how to stand still. He'd have to teach him how to unfocus himself, too, so that you could very nearly fade out of sight on a cloudy day. Had Keel taught him that? After a certain age, memory was indeed an untrustworthy thing ... The city's clocks chimed the three-quarter-hour. 'What time's curfew?' Vimes whispered. 'Nine o'clock, sarge.'
'Must be nearly that now,' said Vimes. 'No, it's only just gone a quarter to nine, sarge.'
'Well, it's going to take me a few minutes to get back. I want you to sneak back after me and wait at the corner. When it starts, you come running and banging that bell of yours.'
'When what starts, sarge? Sarge?' But Vimes was walking noiselessly down the road. He made a note to tip Snouty a dollar. These boots were like foot gloves. Torches spluttered on the junction, destroying the night vision of anyone who looked in that direction. Vimes padded around its dark penumbra and sidled along the buildings on the far wall until he was level with the door. Then he swung around the frame and shouted. 'You're nicked, chum!'
'--!' said the shadow. 'And that's offensive language, sir, such as I would not wish my young lance-constable to hear!'
Behind him he heard Lance-Constable Vimes advancing at a run, ringing his bell madly and shouting, 'Nine o'clock and all's not well at all!' And there were other sounds, too, the ones Vimes had been half-listening for, of doors slamming and distant footsteps hurrying away. . 'You bloody fool!' said the struggling figure in black. 'What the hell are you playing at!' He pushed at Vimes, who nevertheless tightened his grip. 'That, sir, is assault upon a Watch officer,' said Vimes. 'I'm a Watch officer too, you damn flatfoot! From Cable Street!'
'Where's your uniform?'
'We don't wear uniforms!'
'Where's your badge!'
'And we don't carry badges!'
'Hard to see why I shouldn't think you is a common thief then, sir. You was casing that house over there,' said Vimes, happy in the role of big, thick, but horribly unshakeable copper. 'We seen you.'
'There was going to be a meeting of dangerous anarchists!'
'What kind of a religion is that, sir?' Vimes patted the man's belt. 'Oh, dear, what have we here? A very nasty dagger. See this, Lance-Constable Vimes? A weapon, no doubt about it! That's against the law. Carried after dark, which is even more against the law! And it's a concealed weapon!'
'What do you mean, concealed?' screamed the twisting prisoner. 'It was in a bloody sheath!'
'Bloody, eh? Used it already, have you, sir?' said Vimes. He thrust a hand into a pocket of the man's black coat. 'And . . . what's this? A little black velvet roll with, I do believe, a complete set of lock picks? That's Going Equipped for Burglary, that is.'
'They're not mine and you know it!' the man snarled. 'Are you sure, sir?' said Vimes. 'Yes! Because I keep mine in my inside pocket, you bastard.'
'That's Using Language liable to cause a Breach of the Peace,' said Vimes. 'Huh? You idiots have scared everyone away! Who's going to be offended?'
'Well, I might be. I'm sure you don't want that, sir.'
'You're that stupid sergeant we've been told about, aren't you,' growled the man. 'Too thick to see what's going on, right? Well, this is where you find out, mister . . .'
He twisted out of Vimes's grip, and there were a couple of sliding, metallic noises in the gloom. Wrist knives, thought Vimes. Even Assassins think they're an idiot's weapon. He took a couple of steps back as the man danced towards him, both knives waving. 'Can't think of a dumb answer to this one, eh, brownjob?' To his horror Vimes saw, behind the man, the shape of Sam raising his bell very slowly. 'Don't hit him!' he shouted, and then lashed out with his boot as the man's head turned. 'If you're going to fight, fight,' he said, as the man toppled forward. 'If you're going to talk, talk. Don't try to talk and fight. And right now, I caution you to do neither.'
'I could have got him easily, sarge,' Sam complained, as Vimes fished out his handcuffs and knelt down. 'I could have blown him out like a light.'
'Head injuries can be fatal, lance-constable. We serve the public trust.'
'But you kicked him in the privates, sarge!' Because I don't want you to be a target, thought Vimes, as he tightened the cuffs. That means you don't belt one of them over the head. You stay as the dim sidekick, in the background. That way you survive, and that way, maybe I do too. 'You don't have to fight the way the other bloke wants you to fight,' he said, hefting the man on to his shoulders. 'Give me a hand here ... up weee go. Okay, I've got him. You lead the way.'
'Back to the Watch House?' said Sam. 'You're arresting an Unmentionable?'
'Yes. I just hope we'll meet some of our lads on the way. Let this be a lesson, lad. There aren't any rules. Not when there's knives out. You take him down, quietly if possible, without hurting him much if possible, but you take him down. He comes at you with a knife, you bring your stick down on his arm. He comes at you with his hands, you use your knee or your boot or your helmet. Your job is to keep the peace. You make it peaceful as quickly as you can.'
'Yes, sir. But there's going to be trouble, sarge.'
'Straightforward arrest. Even coppers have to obey the law, what there is of it. . .'
'Yes, sarge, but I mean there's going to be trouble right now, sarge.' They'd neared the end of the street, and there was a group of figures there. They looked like men with a purpose; there was something about the stance, the way they were standing in the road, and, of course, the occasional glint of light on a weapon also gave a hint. There was a snapping of little doors as dark lanterns were opened.
Of course he wouldn't have been alone, Vimes scolded himself. His job was just to watch until they'd all gone in. And then he'd just shlep away to call in the heavy gang. There must be a dozen of 'em. We're going to get cheesed!' * * Like creamed, but it goes on for a lot longer. 'What'll we do, sarge?' whispered Sam. 'Ring your bell.'
'But they've spotted us!'
'Ring the damn bell, will you? And keep walking! And don't stop ringing!' The Unmentionables spread out now, and as Vimes trudged towards them he saw several figures at each end of the line slip around behind him. That's how it'd go. They'd be like the muggers up in Scoone Avenue, talking nice and friendly while their eyes said, hey, you know our mates are right behind you and we know you know and it's fun watching you trying to pretend that this is just a civilized conversation when you know that any minute you're going to get it right in the kidneys. We feel your pain. And we like it... He stopped walking. It was that or walk into someone. And all along the street doors and windows were opening as the clanging of the bell roused the neighbourhood. "evenin',' he said. '
'evenin', your grace,' said a voice out of history. 'Nice to see an old friend, eh?' Vimes groaned. The worst that could happen had happened. 'Carcer?'
'That's Sergeant Carcer, thank you. Funny how things work out, eh? Turns out I'm prime copper material, haha. They gave me a new suit and a sword and twenty-five dollars a month, just like that. Lads, this is the man I told you about.'
'Why d'you call him your grace, sarge?' said one of the shadowy men. Carcer's eyes never left Vimes's face. 'It's a joke. Where we come from, everyone used to call him Duke,' he said. Vimes saw him slip a hand into a pocket. It came out holding something that had a brassy glint. 'It was a sort of nickname, eh ... Duke? Stop the kid ringing the damn bell, will you?'
'Knock it off, lance-constable,' Vimes muttered. The noise had worked, anyway. This little tableau had a silent audience now. Not that an audience would make any difference to Carcer. He'd cheerfully stab you to death in the centre of a crowded arena and then look around and say, 'Who, me?' But the men behind him were edgy, like cockroaches wondering when the light was going to go on. 'Don't you worry, Duke,' Carcer said, sliding his fingers into the brass knuckles, 'I've told the boys about you and me. How we, hah, go back a long way and all that, haha.'
'Yeah?' said Vimes. It wasn't prizewinning repartee, but Carcer obviously wanted to talk. 'And how did you get made a sergeant, Carcer?'
