Terry Pratchett - Night Watch

“I comma square bracket recruit's name square bracket comma do solemnly swear by square bracket recruit's deity of choice square bracket to uphold the Laws and Ordinances of the city of Ankh-Morpork comma serve the public truft comma and defend the fubjects of His ftroke Her bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket Majefty bracket name of reigning monarch bracket without fear comma favour comma or thought of perfonal fafety semi-colon to purfue evildoers and protect the innocent comma laying down my life if necefsary in the caufe of said duty comma so help me bracket aforefaid deity bracket full stop Gods Save the King stroke Queen bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket full stop.”

“My word, well done,” said Tilden. “You have come well prepared, sergeant.”

“And now it's the King's Shilling, sir,” said Vimes insistently, soaring on wings of audacity.

“What?”

“I have to take the King's Shilling, sir.”

“Er…do we have a—”

“It's, hnah, in the bottom drawer, sir,” said Snouty helpfully. “On the bit of string.”

“Oh yes,” said Tilden, beaming. “It's a long time since we used that, what?”

“Is it?” said Vimes.

After some rummaging, Tilden produced the coin. It was a genuine old shilling, probably worth half a dollar now just for its silver and thus, coppers being coppers, it had always been dropped into the new copper's hand and then tugged away before it was pinched.

Vimes had taken the oath once. He wondered if taking it twice cancelled it out. But it needed to be done and you had at least touch the Shilling. He felt the weight in his palm and took a small shameful pleasure in closing his fingers on it before the captain had time to drag it back. Then, point made, he released the grip.

With a final salute he turned, and tapped Snouty on the shoulder. “With the captain's permission, I'd like a chat with you outside, please.”

And Vimes strode out.

Snouty looked at Tilden, who was still sitting as though hypnotized, the Shilling dangling from his fist. The captain managed to say, “Good man, that. Ver' good…got backbone…”

“Hnah, I'll just go an' see what he wants, sir,” said Snouty, and scuttled out.

He had reached the end of the corridor when a hand came out of the shadows and pulled him close.

“You're a useful man to know, Snouty,” hissed Vimes. “I can tell.”

“Yessir,” said Snouty, held half on tiptoe.

“You've got your ear to the ground, eh?”

“Yessir!”

“There's someone in every nick who knows all that's going on and can lay his hands on just about anything, Snouty, and I think you are that man.”

“Hnah, yessir!”

“Then listen here,” said Vimes. “Size eight boots, size seven-and-a-quarter helmet, a good leather cape. The boots should be a good make but second-hand. Got that?”

“Second-hand?”

“Yes. Soles pretty nearly worn through.”

“Soles pretty nearly worn through, hnah, check,” said Snouty.

“Breastplate not to have any rust on it but a few dents will be okay. A good sword, Snouty, and believe me I know a good sword when I hold one. As for all the rest of the stuff, well, I know a man like you can get hold of the very best and have it delivered to Dr Lawn's place in Twinkle Street by ten this morning. And there'll be something in it for you, Snouty.”

“What'll that be, sir?” said Snouty, who was finding the grip uncomfortable.

“My undying friendship, Snouty,” said Vimes. “Which is going to be an extremely rare coin in these parts, let me tell you.”

“Right you are, sarge,” said Snouty. “And will you be wanting a bell, sir?”

“A bell?”

“For ringing and shouting, hnah, ‘all's well!’ with, sarge.”

Vimes considered this. A bell. Well, every copper still got a bell, it was down there in the regulations, but Vimes had banned its use on anything but ceremonial occasions.

“No bell for me, Snouty,” said Vimes. “Do you think things are well?”

Snouty swallowed. “Could go either way, sarge,” he managed.

“Good man. See you this afternoon.”

There was a glow of dawn in the sky when Vimes strode out, but the city was still a pattern of shadows.

In his pocket was the reassuring heaviness of the badge. And in his mind the huge, huge freedom of the oath. Ruler after ruler had failed to notice what a devious oath it was…

He walked as steadily as he could down to Twinkle Street. A couple of watchmen tried to waylay him, but he showed them the badge and more importantly he had the voice now, it had come back to him. It was night and he was walking the streets and he owned the damn streets and somehow that came out in the way he spoke. They'd hurried off. He wasn't sure they'd believed him, but at least they'd pretended to; the voice had told them he could be the kind of trouble they weren't paid enough to deal with.

At one point he had to step aside as a very thin horse dragged a huge and familiar four-wheeled wagon over the cobbles. Frightened faces looked out at him from between the wide metal strips that covered most of it, and then it disappeared into the gloom. Curfew was claiming its nightly harvest.

These were not good times. Everyone knew Lord Winder was insane. And then some kid who was equally mad had tried to knock him off and would have done, too, if the man hadn't moved at the wrong moment. His lordship had taken the arrow in the arm, and they said— they being the nameless people of the kind that everyone met in the pub—that the wound had poisoned him and made him worse. He suspected everyone and everything, he saw dark assassins in every corner. The rumour was that he woke up sweating every night because they even got into his dreams.

And he saw plots and spies everywhere throughout his waking hours, and had men root them out, and the thing about rooting out plots and spies everywhere is that, even if there are no real plots to begin with, there are plots and spies galore very soon.

At least the Night Watch didn't have to do much of the actual rooting. They just arrested the pieces. It was the special office in Cable Street that was the long hand of his lordship's paranoia.

The Particulars, they were officially, but as far as Vimes could remember they'd revelled in their nickname of the “Unmentionables”. They were the ones that listened in every shadow and watched at every window. That was how it seemed, anyway. They certainly were the ones who knocked on doors in the middle of the night.

Vimes stopped, in the dark. The cheap clothes were soaked through, the boots were flooded, rain was trickling off his chin and he was a long, long way from home. Yet, in a treacherous kind of way, this was home. He'd spent most of his days working nights. Walking through the wet streets of a sleeping city was his life.

The nature of the night changed, but the nature of the beast remained the same.

He reached into the ragged pocket and touched the badge again.

In the darkness where lamps were few and far between, Vimes knocked on a door. A light was burning in one of the lower windows, so Lawn was presumably still awake.

After a while a very small panel slid back and he heard a voice say, “Oh…it's you.” There was a pause, followed by the sound of bolts being released.

The doctor opened the door. In one hand he held a very long syringe. Vimes found his gaze inexorably drawn to it. A bead of something purple dripped off the end and splashed on to the floor.

“What would you have done, injected me to death?” he said.

“This?” Lawn looked at the instrument as if unaware that he'd been holding it. “Oh…just sorting out a little problem for someone. Patients turn up at all hours.”