'Okay, but I've changed lots of things!' said Vimes. 'Leave that to us,' said Sweeper. 'What about Keel?' said Vimes, walking away with reluctance. 'Don't worry. We told you at the temple. We'll put him in your armour. He'll have died in battle.'
'Make sure nothing happens to young Sam!' said Vimes, as Qu carefully prodded him into position. The little stone columns began to spin. 'We will!'
'Make sure Reg Shoe gets a decent burial!'
'We will!'
'Not too deep, he'll be wanting to come out again in a few hours!'
Qu gave him a last prod. 'Goodbye, commander!' Time came back. Ned was looking at him. 'What happened just then, sarge? You blurred.'
'You only get one question, Ned,' said Vimes, fighting the moment of nausea. 'Now, let's show Snapcase where the line's drawn, shall we? Let's finish it-' They charged, the men falling in behind them. Vimes remembered in slow motion. Some of Carcer's men ran at the sight of them, some raised their hastily reclaimed weapons, and Carcer stood there and grinned. Vimes headed for him, ducking and weaving through the fight. The man's expression changed as Vimes approached. Vimes was speeding up, shoulder-charging and thrusting other bodies away. Carcer raised his sword and took a stance, but there was no room for finesse in the melee and Vimes closed like a bull, knocking the sword up and grabbing Carcer by the throat. 'You're nicked, my ol' chum,' he said. And then it all went black. He felt, later on, that there should have been more to it. There should have been rushing blue tunnels, or flashes, or the sun should have shot round and round the sky. Even pages tearing off a calendar and fluttering away would have been something. But it was just the blackness of the deepest sleep, followed by pain as he hit the floor. Vimes felt arms reach down and haul him to his feet. He shook them off as soon as he was upright, and focused, through the bleary mist, on the face of Captain Carrot. 'Good to see you, sir. Oh, dear-'
'I'm fine,' croaked Vimes, through a throat that felt stuffed with sand. 'Where's Carcer?'
'You've got a nasty cut on-'
'Really? I'm amazed,' growled Vimes. 'Now, where the hell is Carcer?'
'We don't know, sir. You just appeared in mid-air and landed on the floor. In a lot of blue light, sir!'
'Ah,' muttered Vimes. 'Well, he's come back somewhere. Somewhere close, probably.'
'Right, sir, I'll tell the men to-'
'No, don't,' said Vimes. 'He'll keep. After all, where's he going to go?' He wasn't too sure of his legs. They felt as though they belonged to someone with a very poor sense of balance. 'How long was I ... away?' he said. Ponder Stibbons stepped forward.
'About half an hour, your grace. Er, we have, er, hypothesized that there was some temporal disturbance, which, coupled with the lightning stroke and a resonance in the standing wave of the Library, caused a space-time rupture-'
'Yeah, it felt something like that,' said Vimes hurriedly. 'Half an hour, did you say?'
'Did it feel longer?' said Ponder, taking out a notebook. 'A bit,' Vimes conceded. 'Now, has anyone here got a pair of drawers I-' I can see your house from up here . . . That was Carcer. He liked you to stew, to use your imagination. And Vimes had said: where's he going to go? 'Captain, I want you and every man you can spare, every damn man, to get up to my house right now, understand,' he said. 'Just do it. Just do it now.' He turned to Ridcully. 'Arch-chancellor, can you get me there faster?'
'The Watch wants magical assistance?' said the Archchancellor, taken aback. 'Please,' said Vimes. 'Of course, but you realize that you have no clothes on-' Vimes gave up. People always wanted explanations. He set off, overruling the jelly in his legs, running out of the octangle and across the lawns until he reached the University's Bridge of Size, where he sped past Nobby and Colon who were drawn into the wake of watchmen running to keep up. On the other side of the bridge was the garden known as the Wizard's Pleasaunce. Vimes ploughed through it, twigs whipping at his bare legs, and then he was out and on to the old towpath, mud splashing up over the blood. Then right and a left, past amazed bystanders, and then there were the catshead cobbles of Scoone Avenue under his feet and he found the wind to accelerate a little. He didn't slow until he reached the gravel drive, and almost collapsed at the front door, hanging on to the bell pull. There were hurrying feet, and the door was wrenched open. 'If you're not Willikins,' growled Vimes, focusing, 'there's going to be trouble!'
'Your grace! Whatever has happened to you?' said the butler, pulling him into the hall. 'Nothing!' said Vimes. 'Just get me a fresh uniform, nice and quietly, and don't let Sybil know-' He read everything in the way the butler's face changed.
'What's happened to Sybil?' Willikins backed away. A bear would have backed away. 'Don't go up there, sir! Mrs Content says it's ... all rather difficult, sir. Things aren't, um, happening quite right. . .'
'Is the child born?'
'No sir, a-apparently not, sir. It's rather . . . Mrs Content says she's trying everything but maybe we ... ought to send for the doctors, sir.'
'For a childbirth?' Willikins looked down. After twenty unflappable years as butler, he was shaking now. No one deserved a confrontation with Sam Vimes at a time like this. 'Sorry, sir . . .'
'No!' snapped Vimes. 'Don't send for a doctor. I know a doctor! And he knows all about . . . this sort of thing! He'd better!' He ran back outside in time to see a broomstick touch down on the lawn, piloted by the Archchancellor himself. 'I thought I'd better come along anyway,' said Ridcully. 'Is there anything-' Vimes swung himself on to it before the wizard could get off. 'Take me to Twinkle Street. Can you do that?' he said. 'It's . . . important!'
'Hang on, your grace,' said Ridcully, and Vimes's stomach dropped into his legs as the stick climbed vertically. He made a small mental note to promote Buggy Swires and buy him the buzzard he'd always wanted. Anyone prepared to do this every day for the good of the city couldn't be paid too much. "Try my left pocket,' said Ridcully, when they were well aloft. There's something that belongs to you, I believe.' Nervously, well aware of what a wizard's pocket might hold, Vimes pulled out a bunch of paper flowers, a string of flags of all nations . . . and a silver cigar case. 'Landed on the Bursar's head,' said the Archchancellor, steering around a seagull. 'I hope it's not damaged.'
'It's . . . fine,' said Vimes. Thank you. Er . . . I'll put it back for now, shall I? Don't seem to have any pockets on me at the moment.' It found its way back, Vimes thought. We're home. 'And a suit of ornamental armour landed in the High Energy Magic building,' Ridcully went on, 'and, I am happy to report, it is-'
'Very badly bent out of shape?' said Vimes. Ridcully hesitated. He was aware of Vimes's feelings of gilt. 'Excessively, your grace. Completely bent out of shape because of quantum thingummies, I suspect,' he said. Vimes shivered. He was still naked. Even the hated formal uniform would have helped up here. But it didn't matter either way, now. Gilt and feathers and badges and feeling chilly . . . there were other things that mattered more, and always would. He jumped off the stick before it had stopped, stumbled in a circle and fell against Dr Lawn's door, hammering on it with his fists. After a while it opened a crack and a familiar voice, changed only a little with age, said 'Yes?' Vimes thrust the door fully open. 'Look at me, Doctor Lawn,' he said. Lawn stared. 'Keel?' he said. In his other hand he was holding the world's biggest syringe. 'Can't be. They buried John Keel. You know they did,' said Vimes. He saw the huge instrument in the man's hand. 'What the hell were you going to do with that?'
'Baste a turkey, as a matter of fact. Look, who are you, then, because you look like-'
'Grab all your midwifing stuff and come with me now,' said Vimes. 'All those funny tools you said worked so well. Bring 'em all. Right now. And I'll make you the richest doctor that ever lived,' said Vimes, a man wearing nothing but mud and blood. Lawn gestured weakly towards the kitchen. 'I'll just have to take the turkey out-'
'Stuff the turkey!'
'I already-'
'Come on!' The broomstick did not fly well with three on board, but it was faster than walking and Vimes at this point knew he'd be incapable of anything else. He was out of breath and strength by the time he got home the first time. Now merely standing upright was a test of endurance. It was the broomstick or crawling. It lumbered down out of the sky and landed unsteadily on the lawn. 'Lady upstairs, big bedroom on left,' said Vimes, pushing vaguely at the doctor. 'Midwife there, not got a clue. All the money you want. Go on.' Lawn hurried off. Vimes, helped by Ridcully, followed rather more stiffly, but as they reached the door the doctor came out walking backwards very slowly. It became apparent, as he emerged, that this was because Detritus's huge crossbow was pressed against his nose.
When Vimes spoke his voice was slightly muffled, because he was lying flat on the ground. 'Put the bow down, sergeant,' he managed. 'He come rushin' in, Mister Vimes,' rumbled Detritus. 'That's because he's the doctor, sergeant. Let him go upstairs. That is an order, thank you.'
'Right, Mister Vimes,' said Detritus, stepping aside with reluctance and shouldering the bow. At which point, the bow discharged. When the thunder had died away Vimes got up and looked around. He hadn't actually liked the shrubbery very much. That was just as well. Nothing remained but some tree trunks, and they were all stripped of bark down one side. There were a few small fires. 'Er, sorry about that, Mister Vimes,' said the troll. 'What did I tell you about Mister Safety Catch?' said Vimes weakly. 'When Mister Safety Catch Is Not On, Mister Crossbow Is Not Your Friend,' recited Detritus, saluting. 'Sorry, sir, but we all a bit tense at dis time.'
'I certainly am,' said Ridcully, picking himself off the lawn and pulling twigs out of his beard. 'I may not walk properly for the rest of the day. I suggest, sergeant, that we pick the doctor up, bring him round under the pump, and take him upstairs The things that happened next were a waking dream for Vimes. He moved like a ghost through his own house, which was full of watchmen. No one wanted to be anywhere else. He shaved himself very slowly, concentrating on every stroke. He was aware of noises off, which arrived via the pink clouds in his head. '-he says he wants them boiled, the nasty horrid things! What's that for, to make them softer?'
'- trolls and dwarfs on tonight, every door and window covered and I mean covered-'
'- stood over me and said damn well boil them for twenty minutes! Like they were cabbage-'
'-now he's asked for a small brandy-'
'-Mrs Content stormed out and he said not to let her in again-'
'-Igor came and offered to help and Lawn took one look and said only if he's been boiled for twenty minutes-'
'- pox doctor, when all's said and done-'
'- old Stoneface'll cover him with gold if it all turns out right-'
'-yeah, and if it turns out wrong?' Vimes got dressed in his street uniform, moving slowly and willing every limb into position. He brushed his hair. He went out into the hall. He sat down on an uncomfortable chair with his helmet on his knees, while ghosts both living and dead hurried around him. Usually - always - there was a part of Vimes that watched the other parts, because he was at heart a policeman. This time it wasn't there. It was in here with the rest of him, staring at nothing, and waiting '-someone take up more towels-'
'-now he's asked for a large brandy!'
'-he wants to see Mister Vimes!' Vimes's brain lit up from whatever little pilot light of thought had been operating at the most basic level. He walked up the stairs, helmet under his arm, like a man going to take a statement. He knocked at the door. Lawn opened it. He was holding a brandy glass in his other hand, and moved aside with a smile. Sybil was sitting up. He saw, through the mist of exhaustion, that she was holding something wrapped in a shawl. 'He's called Sam, Sam,' she said. 'And no argument.' The sun came out. 'I'll teach him to walk!' beamed Vimes. 'I'm good at teaching people to walk!' And he fell asleep before he hit the carpet. It was a pleasant stroll in the early evening air. Vimes trailed cigar smoke behind him as he walked down to Pseudopolis Yard, where he acknowledged the cheers and congratulations and thanked people for the lovely flowers. His next stop was at Dr Lawn's house where he sat and spoke for a while, about such things as memory and how tricky it can be, and forgetfulness, and how profitable it could prove. Then, with the doctor, he went to his bank. This institution was, not surprisingly, willing to open outside normal hours for a man who was a Duke, and the richest man in the city, and the Commander of the City Watch and, not least, quite prepared to kick the door down. There he signed over one hundred thousand dollars and the freehold of a large corner site in Goose Gate to one Dr J. Lawn. And then, alone, he went up to Small Gods. Legitimate First, whatever his private feelings, knew enough not to shut the gates on this night, and he'd filled the lamps. Vimes strolled over the moss-grown gravel. In the twilight, the lilac blooms seemed to shine. Their scent hung in the air like fog.
