Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [96]
What was supposed to happen next? Oh yes, he had a badge, but it wasn’t his, not really…and he’d got orders, and they were the wrong ones…and he’d got enemies, for all the wrong reasons…and maybe there was no future. It didn’t exist anymore. There was nothing real, no solid point on which to stand, just Sam Vimes where he had no right to be…
It was as if his body, trying to devote as many resources as possible to untangling the spinning thoughts, was drawing those resources from the rest of Vimes. His vision darkened. His knees felt weak.
There was nothing but bewildered despair.
And a lot of explosions.
Havelock Vetinari knocked politely on the window of the little office just inside the Assassins’ Guild main gate.
The duty porter raised the hatch.
“Signing out, Mr. Maroon,” said the Assassin.
“Yessir,” said Maroon, pushing a big ledger toward him. “And where are we off to today, sir?”
“General reconnoitering, Mr. Maroon. Just generally looking around.”
“Ah, I said to Mrs. Maroon, sir, that you are a great one for looking around,” said Maroon.
“We look and learn, Mr. Maroon, we look and learn,” said Vetinari, signing his name in the book and putting the pen back in its holder. “And how is your little boy?”
“Thank you for asking, sir, he’s a lot better,” said the porter.
“Glad to hear it. Oh, I see the Hon. John Bleedwell is out on a commission. To the palace?”
“Now, now, sir,” said Maroon, grinning and waving a finger. “You know I couldn’t tell you that, sir, even if I knew.”
“Of course not.” Vetinari glanced at the back wall of the office where, in an old brass rack, was a number of envelopes. The word “Active” was inscribed at the top of the rack.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Maroon.”
“’Afternoon, sir. Good, er, looking.”
He watched the young man walk out into the street. Then Maroon went into the cubbyhole next to the office to put the kettle on.
He rather liked young Vetinari, who was quiet and studious and, it had to be said, a generous young man on appropriate occasions. But a bit weird, all the same. Once Maroon had watched him in the foyer, standing still. That was all he was doing. He wasn’t making any attempt at concealing himself. After half an hour, Maroon had wandered over and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
And Vetinari had said, “Thank you, no, Mr. Maroon. I’m just learning to stand still.”
To which there wasn’t really any sensible comment that could be made. And the young man must have left after a while, because Maroon didn’t remember seeing him again that day.
He heard a creak from the office, and poked his head around the door. There was no one there.
As he made the tea, he thought he heard a rustle from the office, and went to check. It was completely empty. Remarkably so, he thought later on. It was almost as if it was even more empty than it would be if there was just, well, no one in it.
He went back to his comfy armchair in the cubbyhole, and relaxed.
In the brass rack, the envelope marked “Bleedwell, J.” slid back slightly.
There were a lot of explosions. The firecrackers bounced all over the street. Tambourines thudded, a horn blared a chord unknown in nature, and a line of monks danced and danced and twirled around the corner, all chanting at the tops of their voices.
Vimes, sagging to his knees, was aware of dozens of sandaled feet gyrating past, and grubby robes flying. Rust was yelling something at the dancers who grinned and waved their hands in the air.
Something square and silvery landed in the dirt.
And the monks were gone, dancing into an alleyway, yelling and spinning and banging their gongs…
“Wretched heathens!” said Rust, striding forward. “Have you been hit, Sergeant?”
Vimes reached down and picked up the silver rectangle.
A stone clanged off Rust’s breastplate. As he raised his megaphone, a cabbage hit him on the knee.
Vimes stared at the thing in his hand. It was a cigar case, slim and slightly curved.
He fumbled it open and read: To Sam with love from your Sybil.
The world moved. Vimes still felt like a drifting ship. But at the end of