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NIGHT WATCH
Terry Pratchett
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Sam Vimes sighed when he heard the scream, but he finished shaving before
He did anything about it.
Then he put his jacket on and strolled out into the wonderful late spring
Morning. Birds sang in the trees, bees buzzed in the blossom. The sky was
Hazy, though, and thunderheads on the horizon threatened rain later. But,
For now, the air was hot and heavy. And, in the old cesspit behind the
Gardener’s shed, a young man was treading water.
Well. . . treading, anyway.
Vimes stood back a little way and lit a cigar. It probably wouldn’t be a
Good idea to employ a naked flame any nearer to the pit. The fall from
The shed roof had broken the crust.
‘Good morning!’ he said cheerfully.
‘Good morning, your grace,’ said the industrious treadler.
The voice was higher pitched than Vimes expected and he realised that,
Most unusually, the young man in the pit was in fact a young woman. It
Wasn’t entirely unexpected – the Assassins’ Guild was aware that women
Were at least equal to their brothers when it came to inventive killing –
But it nevertheless changed the situation somewhat.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’ said Vimes. ‘Although I see you know who I
Am. You are. . . ?’
‘Wiggs, sir,’ said the swimmer. ‘Jocasta Wiggs. Honoured to meet you,
Your grace.’
‘Wiggs, eh?’ said Vimes. ‘Famous family in the Guild. “Sir” will do, by
The way. I think I once broke your father’s leg?’
‘Yes, sir. He asked to be remembered to you,’ said Jocasta.
‘You’re a bit young to be sent on this contract, aren’t you?’ said Vimes.
‘Not a contract, sir,’ said Jocasta, still paddling.
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‘Come now, Miss Wiggs. The price on my head is at least-‘
‘The Guild council put it in abeyance, sir,’ said the dogged swimmer.
‘You’re off the register. They’re not accepting contracts on you at
Present.’
‘Good grief, why not?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said Miss Wiggs. Her patient struggles had brought
Her to the edge of the pit, and now she was finding that the brickwork
Was in very good repair, quite slippery and offered no handholds. Vimes
Knew this, because he’d spent several hours one afternoon carefully
Arranging that this should be so.
‘So why were you sent, then?’
‘Miss Band sent me as an exercise,’ said Jocasta. ‘I say, these bricks
Really are jolly tricky, aren’t they?’
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‘Yes,’ said Vimes, ‘they are. Have you been rude to Miss Band lately?
Upset her in any way?’
‘Oh, no, your grace. But she did say I was getting overconfident, and
Would benefit from some advanced field work.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Vimes tried to recall Miss Alice Band, one of the Assassins’
Guild’s stricter teachers. She was, he’d heard, very hot on practical
Lessons.
‘So. . . she sent you to kill me, then?’ he said.
‘No, sir! It’s an exercise! I don’t even have any crossbow bolts! I just
Had to find a spot where I could get you in my sights and then report
Back!’
‘She’d believe you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Jocasta, looking rather hurt. ‘Guild honour, sir.’
Vimes took a deep breath. ‘You see, Miss Wiggs, quite a few of your chums
Have tried to kill me at home in recent years. As you might expect, I
Take a dim view of this.’
‘Easy to see why, sir,’ said Jocasta, in the voice of one who knows that
Their only hope of escaping from their present predicament is reliant on
The goodwill of another person who has no pressing reason to have any.
‘And so you’d be amazed at the booby traps there are around the place,’
Vimes went on. ‘Some of them are pretty cunning, even if I say it
Myself.’
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