Night Watch by Terry Pratchett Page A

holding a sword. Besides, Lord Ramkin was probably still alive and he’d been a blood-thirsty old devil, as far as Vimes could recall.
    He slumped against the wall and reached for a cigar, and the terror twisted him again.
    There was nothing in his pocket. Nothing at all. No Pantweed’s Slim Panatellas and, more important, no cigar case…
    It had been made specially. It had a slight curve. It had always nestled in his pocket since the day Sybil had given it to him. It was as near part of him as any thing could be.
    “We are here, and this is now.” Constable Visit, a strict believer in the Omnian religion, occasionally quoted from their holy book. Vimes understood it to mean, in less exalted copperspeak, that you have to do the job that is in front of you.
    I am here, Vimes thought, and this is then. And less conscious parts of his brain added: you have no friends here. No home here. No purpose here. You are alone here.
    No…not alone, said a part that was much, much deeper even than the terror, and was always on watch.
    Someone was watching him.
    A figure detached itself from the damp shadows of the street, and walked toward him. Vimes couldn’t make out the face, but that didn’t matter. He knew it would be smiling that special smile of the predator who knows he has the prey under his paw, and knows that the prey knows this, too, and also knows that the prey is desperately going to act as if they’re having a perfectly friendly conversation, because the prey wants so much for this to be the case…
    You don’t want to die here, said the deep dark part of Vimes’s soul.
    “Got a light, mister?” said the predator. He didn’t even bother to wave an unlit cigarette.
    “Why, yes, of course,” said Vimes. He went as if to pat his pocket but swung around, arm outstretched, and caught a man creeping up behind him right across the ear. Then he leaped for the light-seeker in front of him and bore him to the ground with an arm across his throat.
    It would have worked. He knew, afterward, that it really would have worked. If there hadn’t been two more men in the shadows, it would have worked. As it was, he managed to kick one of them in the kneecap before he felt the garrote go round his neck.
    He was pulled upright, the scar screaming in pain as he tried to clutch at the rope.
    “You hold him right there,” said a voice. “Look what he did to Jez. Damn! I’m gonna kick him in—”
    The shadows moved. Vimes, struggling for breath, his one good eye watering, was only vaguely aware of what was happening. But there were some grunts, and some soft, strange noises, and the pressure on his neck was abruptly released.
    He fell forward, and then, reeling a little, struggled to his feet. A couple of men were lying on the ground. One was bent double, making little bubbling noises. And, far off and getting further, there were running footsteps.
    “Lucky we found you in time, kind sir,” said a voice right behind him.
    “Not lucky for some, dearie,” said one right next to it.
    Rosie stepped forward, out of the gloom.
    “I think you ought to come back with us,” she said. “You’re going to get hurt, running around like this. Come on. Obviously I’m not taking you back to my place—”
    “—obviously,” murmured Vimes.
    “—but Mossy’ll find you somewhere to lay your head, I expect. He’s got a spare room.”
    “Mossy Lawn!” said Vimes, suddenly light-headed. “That’s him! The pox doctor! I remember!” He tried to focus one tired eye on the young woman. Yes, the bone structure was right. That chin. That was a no-nonsense chin. It was a chin that took people somewhere. “Rosie…you’re Mrs. Palm!”
    “Mrs.?” she said coldly, while the Agony Aunts giggled their high-pitched giggle. “I think not. ”
    “Well, I mean—” Vimes floundered. Of course, only the senior members of the profession adopted “Mrs.”
    “And I’ve never seen you before,” said Rosie. “And neither have Dotsie and