Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [27]
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, it just…made you forget a few minutes,” he said.
“How many minutes?”
“Just a few, just a few. And it had herbs in it. Good for you, herbs. And then we let you sleep. Don’t worry, no one is after us. They’ll never know you’ve gone. See these things here?”
Sweeper picked up an open-work box that lay beside his chair. It had a strap like a knapsack, and Vimes could just see a cylinder inside the box.
“This is called a Procrastinator,” said the monk, “and it’s a tiny version of the ones over there, the ones that look like your granny’s mangle. I’m not going to get technical, but when it’s spinning it moves Time around you. Did you understand what I just said?”
“No!”
“All right, it’s a magic box. Happier?”
“Go on,” said Vimes grimly.
“You wore one of these and I led you here from the Watch House. Because you were wearing it, you were, shall we say, outside time. And after we’ve had this little talk, I’ll take you back to the Watch House and the old captain won’t know any difference. No time is passing in the outside world while we’re in the temple. The Procrastinators take care of that. Like I said, they move time around. Actually, what’s really happening is that they are moving us back in time at the same time that time moves us forward. We’ve got others around the place. Good for keeping food fresh. What else can I tell you…oh, yeah. It helps keep track if you just think of things happening one after another. Believe me.”
“This is like a dream,” said Vimes. There was a clink as the handcuffs sprang open.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it,” said Sweeper calmly.
“And can your magic box take me home? Move me in time all the way to where I ought to be?”
“This? Hah. No, this is strictly for small-scale stuff—”
“Look, Mr. Sweeper, I’ve spent the last day fighting a right bastard on a roof and getting beaten up twice and sewn up once and hah, stitched up, too. I’ve got the impression I should be thanking you for something but I’m damned if I know what it is. What I want is straight answers, mister. I’m the commander of the Watch in this city!”
“Don’t you mean will be?” said Sweeper.
“No! You told me it helps if I think of things happening one after another! Well, yesterday, my yesterday, I was commander of the Watch and I bloody well still am the commander of the Watch. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. They are not in possession of all the facts!”
“Hold on to that thought,” said Sweeper, standing up. “All right, Commander. You want some facts. Let’s take a walk in the garden, shall we?”
“Can you get me home?”
“Not yet. It’s my professional opinion that you’re here for a reason.”
“A reason? I fell through the bloody dome!”
“That helped, yes. Calm down, Mister Vimes. It’s all been a great strain, I can see.”
Sweeper led the way out of the hall. There was a big office outside, a hubbub of quiet but purposeful activity. Here and there, among the worn and scratched desks, there were more cylinders like the ones Vimes had seen in the other chamber. Some of them were turning slowly.
“Very busy, our Ankh-Morpork section,” said Sweeper. “We had to buy the shops on either side.” He picked up a scroll from a basket by one desk, glanced at the contents, and tossed it back with a sigh. “And everyone’s overworked,” he added. “We’re here at all hours. And when we say ‘all hours,’ we know what we’re talking about.”
“But what is it you do?” said Vimes.
“We see that things happen.”
“Don’t things happen anyway?”
“Depends what things you want. We’re the Monks of History, Mister Vimes. We see that it happens.”
“I’ve never heard of you, and I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“Right. And how often do you really look at the back of your hand, Mister Vimes? We’re in Clay Lane, to stop you wondering.”
“What? Those loony monks in the funny foreign building between the pawnbrokers and the shonky shop? The ones who go dancing round the street banging drums and shouting?”
“Well done, Mister Vimes. It’s funny how secretly you can move