Night Watch tds-27 Page 7

  “You're looking fit, Mister Vimes,” said Sweeper.

  “You were in the Watch House, right?” said Vimes. “Snouty called you Lousy!”

  “Yes, Mister Vimes. Lu-Tze. I've been sweeping up there every night for the past ten days. All for two pence and all the kicks I can't dodge. Just waiting for you.”

  “And you told Rosie Palm where I'd gone, too? You were the monk on the bridge?”

  “Right again. Couldn't be sure she'd catch up.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Don't get excited, Mister Vimes,” said Sweeper calmly. “I'm here to help you…your grace. And I'm your friend because right now I'm the only person in the world who will probably believe anything you tell me about, oh, thunderstorms and falls, that sort of thing. At least,” he added, “the only sane person.”

  He watched Vimes as the man sat quite still for half a minute.

  “Good, Mister Vimes,” said Sweeper. “Thinking. I like that in a man.”

  “This is magic, right?” said Vimes, at last.

  “Something like that, yes,” said Sweeper. “F'rinstance, just now we moved you back in time. Just a few seconds. Just so you wouldn't do anything you'd regret. Can't say I blame you for wanting to have a go at someone after all you've been through, but we don't want any harm to come to you, do we…”

  “Hah? I almost had my hands round your throat!”

  Sweeper smiled. It was a disarming little smile. “Smoke?” he said. He fumbled in his robe and produced a ragged hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Thanks, but I've got my own—” Vimes began automatically. His hand stopped halfway to his pocket.

  “Oh, yes,” said Sweeper. “The silver cigar case. Sybil gave it to you as a wedding present, right? Shame about that.”

  “I want to go home,” said Vimes. It came out as a whisper. He hadn't been sleeping in the past twelve hours, merely recovering.

  This time it was Sweeper who sat in silence, apart from the rumble of the cylinders.

  “You're a policeman, Mister Vimes,” he said eventually. “Well, I'd like you to believe, for a while, that I'm a sort of policeman too, all right? Me and my colleagues, we see that…things happen. Or don't happen. Don't ask questions right now. Just nod.”

  Vimes shrugged instead.

  “Good. And let's say on our patrol we've found you, as it might be, in a metaphorical kind of way, lying in the gutter on a Saturday night singing a rude song about wheelbarrows—”

  “I don't know a rude song about wheelbarrows!”

  Sweeper sighed. “Hedgehogs? Custard? One-string fiddles? It really doesn't matter. Now, we've found you a long way from where you should be and we'd like to get you home, but it's not as easy as you might think.”

  “I've gone back in time, haven't I? It was that bloody Library! Everyone knows the magic in there makes strange things happen!”

  “Well, yes. It was mainly that, yes. It's more true to say that you, er, got caught up in a major event.”

  “Can anyone get me back? Can you get me back?”

  “We-ell…” said Sweeper, looking awkward.

  “Wizards can if you can't,” said Vimes. “I'll go back and see them in the morning!”

  “Oh, you will, will you? I'd like to be there when you do. These ain't the wizards under decent old Ridcully, you know. You'll be lucky if they only laugh at you. Anyway, even if they wanted to be helpful they'd hit the same problem.”

  “And what's that?”

  “It can't be done. Not yet.” For the first time in the conversation Sweeper looked ill at ease. “The big problem I'm facing, Mister Vimes, is that I ought to tell you a few things that I'm not, in any circumstances, allowed to tell you. But you're a man who isn't happy until he knows the facts. I respect that. So…if I tell you everything, can you spare me, oh, twenty minutes of your time? It could save your life.”

  “All right,” said Vimes. “But what—”

  “You've got a bargain,” said Sweeper. “Roll 'em, boys.”

  The noise of the big cylinders changed for a moment and Vimes felt a very slight shock, a suggestion that his whole body had just gone plib.

  “Twenty minutes,” said Sweeper. “I'll answer every question. And then, Mister Vimes, we'll send you back from twenty minutes in the future to now and you'll tell yourself what you and me agree you ought to know. Which will be most of it, really. You're a man who can keep secrets. Okay?”

  “Yes, but—” Vimes began.

  The tone of the spinning cylinders changed slightly.

  Sam Vimes saw himself standing in the middle of the room. “That's me!”

  “Yeah, right,” said Sweeper. “Now listen to the man.”

  “Hello, Sam,” said the other Vimes, staring not quite at him. “I can't see you, but they say you can see me. Remember the smell of lilac? You thought about those who died. And then you told Willikins to hose down that kid. And, eh…you've got a pain in your chest you're a bit worried about but you haven't told anyone…That's about enough, I think. You know I'm you. Now, there's some things I can't tell you. I can know 'em because I'm in a—” The speaker stopped and looked away, as if he was taking instruction from someone offstage “—a closed loop. Er, you could say I'm twenty minutes of your life you don't recall. Remember when you had…”

  …a sensation that his whole body had just gone plib.

  Sweeper stood up. “I hate to do this,” he said, “but we're in the temple and we can pretty much dampen out the paradoxes. On your feet, Mister Vimes. I'm going to tell you everything.”

  “You just said you couldn't!”

  Sweeper smiled. “Need any help with those handcuffs?”

  “What, these old Capstick Mark Ones? No, just give me a nail and a couple of minutes. How come I'm in a temple?”

  “I brought you here.”

  “You carried me?”

  “No. You walked with me. Blindfolded, of course. And then when you were here, I gave you a little drink…”

  “I don't remember that!”

  “Of course not. That was the purpose of the drink. Not very mystical, but it does the job. We don't want you coming back here, now, do we? This place is supposed to be a secret–”

  “You messed up my memory? Now you see here—” Vimes half stood, but Sweeper held up his hands placatingly.

  “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 this thing here?”

  Sweeper picked up an open-work box that lay beside his chair. It had straps 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 when 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 different. 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,” said Vimes.

  “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 when you're a loony monk dancing through the streets banging a drum.”

  “When I was a kid most of my clothes came from the shonky shop in Clay Lane,” said Vimes. “Everyone we knew got their clothes from the shonky shop. Used to be run by a foreign guy with a funny name.”

  “Brother Soon Shine Sun,” said Sweeper. “Not a hugely enlightened operative, but a genius when it comes to pricing fourth-hand schmutter.”

  “Shirts so worn you could see daylight through 'em and trousers as shiny as glass,” said Vimes. “And by the end of the week half the stuff was in the pawn shop.”

  “That's right,” said Sweeper. “You'd pawn your clothes in the pawn shop, but you'd never buy clothes from the pawn shop, 'cos there were Standards, right?”

  Vimes nodded. When you got right down to the bottom of the ladder the rungs were very close together and, oh my, weren't the women careful about them. In their own way, they were as haughty as any duchess. You might not have much, but you could have Standards. Clothes might be cheap and old but at least they could be scrubbed. There might be nothing behind the front door worth stealing but at least the doorstep could be clean enough to eat your dinner off, if you could've afforded dinner. And no one ever bought their clothes from the pawn shop. You'd hit bottom when you did that. No, you bought them from Mr Sun at the shonky shop, and you never asked where he got them from.

  “I went off to my first proper job in a suit from the shonky shop,” he said. “Seems like centuries ago now.”

  “No,” said Sweeper. “It was only last week.”

  Silence ballooned. The only sound was the purr of the cylinders dotted around the room.

  Then Sweeper added: “It must have occurred to you.”

  “Why? I've spent most of the time here being beaten up or unconscious or trying to get home! You mean I'm out there somewhere?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact last night you saved the day for your squad by aiming a crossbow at a dangerous miscreant who was attacking your sergeant.”

  The silence ballooned larger this time. It seemed to fill the universe.

  Eventually, Vimes said: “No. That's not right. That never happened. I would have remembered that. And I can remember a lot about my first weeks in the job.”

  “Interesting, isn't it?” said Sweeper. “But is it not written: ‘There's a lot goes on we don't get told’? Mister Vimes, you need a short spell in the Garden of Inner City Tranquillity.”

  It was indeed a garden, like a lot of other gardens you got in areas such as Clay Lane. The grey soil was nothing more than old brick dust, elderly cat mess and generalized, semi-rotted dross. At the far end was a three-hole privy. It was built handily by the gate to the back lane so the night-soil men didn't have far to go, but this one had a small stone cylinder turning gently beside it and the gate was barred shut.

  The garden didn't get much proper light. Gardens like this never did. You got second-hand light once the richer folk in the taller buildings had finished with it. Some people kept pigeons or rabbits or pigs on their plots, or planted against all experience a few vegetables. But it'd take magic beans to reach the real sunlight in gardens like this.

  Nevertheless, someone had made an effort. Most of the spare ground had been covered with gravel of different sizes, and this had been carefully raked into swirls and curves. Here and there, apparently with great thought, some individual larger stones had been positioned.

  Vimes stared at the garden of rocks, desperate for anything to occupy his attention.

  He could see what the designer had in mind, he thought, but the effect had been spoiled. This was the big city, after all. Garbage got everywhere. The main disposal method was throwing it over a wall. Sooner or later someone would sell it or, possibly, eat it.

  A young monk was carefully raking the gravel. He gave a respectful bow as Sweeper approached.

  The old man sat down on a stone bench.

  “Push off and get us two cups of tea, lad, will you?” he said. “One green with yak butter, and Mister Vimes will have it boiled orange in a builder's boot with two sugars and yesterday's milk, right?”

  “That's how I like it,” said Vimes weakly, sitting down.

  Sweeper took a deep, long breath. “And I like building gardens,” he said. “Life should be a garden.”

  Vimes stared blankly at what was in front of them. “Okay,” he said. “The gravel and rocks, yes, I can see that. Shame about all the rubbish. It always turns up, doesn't it…”

  “Yes,” said Lu-Tze. “It's part of the pattern.”

  “What? The old cigarette packet?”

  “Certainly. That invokes the element of air,” said Sweeper.

  “And the cat doings?”

  “To remind us that disharmony, like a cat, gets everywhere.”

  “The cabbage stalks? The used sonky?”5

  “At our peril we forget the role of the organic in the total harmony. What arrives seemingly by chance in the pattern is part of a higher organization that we can only dimly comprehend. This is a very important fact, and has a bearing on your case.”

  “And the beer bottle?”

  For the first time since Vimes had met him, the monk frowned.

  “Y'know, some bugger always tosses one over the wall on his way back from the pub on Friday nights. If it wasn't forbidden to do that kind of thing, he'd feel the flat of my hand and no mistake.”

  “It's not part of the higher organization
?”

  “Possibly. Who cares? That sort of thing gets on my thungas, it really does,” said Sweeper. He sat back with his hands on his knees. Serenity flowed once more. “Well now, Mister Vimes…you know the universe is made up of very small items?”

  “Huh?”

  “We've got to work up to things gradually, Mister Vimes. You're a bright man. I can't keep telling you everything is done by magic.”

  “Am I really here too? In the city? I mean, a younger me?”

  “Of course. Why not? Where was I? Oh, yes. Made up of very small items, and—”

  “This is not a good time to be in the Watch. I remember! There's the curfew. And that was only the start!”

  “Small items, Mister Vimes,” said Sweeper sharply. “You need to know this.”

  “Oh, all right. How small?”

  “Very, very small. So tiny that they have some very strange ways indeed.”

  Vimes sighed. “And I ask you: what ways are these, yeah?”

  “I'm glad you asked that question. For one thing, they can be in many places at once. Try to think, Mister Vimes.”

  Vimes tried to concentrate on what was probably the discarded fish-and-chip wrapper of Infinity. Oddly enough, with so many horrible thoughts crowding his head, it was almost a relief to put them on one side in order to consider this. The brain did things like that. He remembered once when he'd been stabbed and would've bled to death if Sergeant Angua hadn't caught up with him, and how, as he lay there, he'd found himself taking a very intense interest in the pattern of the carpet. The senses say: we've only got a few minutes, let's record everything, in every detail…

  “That can't be right,” he said. “If this seat is made up of lots of tiny things that can be in lots of places at once, why is it standing still?”

  “Give the man a small cigar!” said Sweeper jubilantly. “That's the big problem, Mister Vimes. And the answer, our Abbot tells us, is that it is in lots of places at once. Ah, here's the tea. And in order for it to be in lots of places at once, the multiverse is made up of a vast number of alternative universes. An oodleplex of oodleplexes. That's like the biggest number anyone can think of, ever. Just so's it can accommodate all the quantum. Am I going too fast for you?”