Night Watch by Terry Pratchett Page B

and Tilden swung to them as if magnetic.
    Oh dear, thought Vimes and stood up and lifted the crossbow out of Snouty’s hands. It was all in the movement. If you moved with authority, you got a second or two extra. Authority was everything.
    He fired the bow at the floor, then handed it back.
    “A kid could open those cuffs and while Snouty here keeps a very clean jail he’s completely drawers at being a guard,” said Vimes. “This place needs shaking up.” He leaned forward, knuckles on the captain’s desk, with his face a few inches from the trembling mustache and the milky eyes.
    “Twenty-five dollars or I walk out that door,” he said. It was probably a phrase never ever said before by any prisoner anywhere on any world.
    “Twenty-five dollars,” murmured Tilden, hypnotized.
    “And the rank will be sergeant-at-arms,” said Vimes. “Not sergeant. I’m not going to be given orders by the likes of Knock.”
    “Sergeant-at-arms,” said Tilden distantly, but Vimes saw the hint of approval. It was a good military -sounding title, and it was still on the books. In fact, it was a pretty ancient pre-coppering term, back in the days when a court employed a big man with a stick to drag miscreants in front of it. Vimes had always admired the simplicity of that arrangement.
    “Well, er, Sheriff Macklewheet, er, certainly gave you a most glowing reference,” said the captain, shuffling the paper. “Very glowing. Things have been a little difficult since we lost Sergeant Wi—”
    “And I’ll be paid my first month in advance, please. I need clothes and a decent meal and somewhere to sleep.”
    Tilden cleared his throat. “Many of the unmarried men stay in the barracks in Cheapside—”
    “Not me,” said Vimes. “I’ll be lodging with Doctor Lawn in Twinkle Street.” Well, Rosie Palm did suggest he had a spare room…
    “The pox, hnah, doctor?” said Snouty.
    “Yeah, I’m particular about the company I keep,” said Vimes. “It’s also just around the corner.”
    He took his hands off the desk, stood back, and whipped off a salute of almost parodic efficiency, the sort that Tilden had always loved.
    “I’ll report for duty at three o’clock tomo—this afternoon, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”
    Tilden sat mesmerized.
    “It was twenty-five dollars, sir, I believe,” said Vimes, still maintaining the salute.
    He watched the captain get up and go to the old green safe in the corner. The man was careful not to let Vimes see him turn the dial, but Vimes was pretty certain he didn’t need to. The safe had still been there when he made captain, and by then everyone knew the combination was 4-4-7-8, and no one seemed to know how to change it. The only thing worth keeping in it had been the tea and sugar and anything you particularly wanted Nobby to read.
    Tilden came back with a small leather bag and slowly counted out the money, and was so cowed that he didn’t ask Vimes to sign anything.
    Vimes took it, saluted again, and held out his other hand.
    “Badge, sir,” he said.
    “Ah? Oh, yes, of course…”
    The captain, entirely unnerved, fumbled in the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a dull copper shield. If he’d been more observant, he’d have noticed how hungrily Vimes’s eyes watched it.
    The new sergeant-at-arms picked up his badge with care and saluted yet again.
    “Oath, sir,” he said.
    “Oh, er, that thing? Er, I believe I’ve got it written down somewh—”
    Vimes took a deep breath. This probably wasn’t a good idea, but he was flying now.
    “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, serve the public truƒt comma and defend the ƒubjects of His ƒtroke Her bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket Majeƒty bracket name of reigning monarch bracket without fear comma favor comma or thought of perƒonal