Some arrows fell short, some did not. And there were people who fired back.
And then, one after another, horrible things would happen. By then it was too late for them not to. The tension would unwind like a huge spring, scything through the city.
There were plotters, there was no doubt about it. Some had been ordinary people who'd had enough. Some were young people with no money who objected to the fact that the world was run by old people who were rich. Some were in it to get girls. And some had been idiots as mad as Swing, with a view of the world just as rigid and unreal, who were on the side of what they called “the people”. Vimes had spent his life on the streets, and had met decent men and fools and people who'd steal a penny from a blind beggar and people who performed silent miracles or desperate crimes every day behind the grubby windows of little houses, but he'd never met The People.
People on the side of The People always ended up disappointed, in any case. They found that The People tended not to be grateful or appreciative or forward-thinking or obedient. The People tended to be small-minded and conservative and not very clever and were even distrustful of cleverness. And so the children of the revolution were faced with the age-old problem: it wasn't that you had the wrong kind of government, which was obvious, but that you had the wrong kind of people.
As soon as you saw people as things to be measured, they didn't measure up. What would run through the streets soon enough wouldn't be a revolution or a riot. It'd be people who were frightened and panicking. It was what happened when the machinery of city life faltered, the wheels stopped turning and all the little rules broke down. And when that happened, humans were worse than sheep. Sheep just ran; they didn't try to bite the sheep next to them.
By sunset a uniform would automatically be a target. Then it wouldn't matter where a watchman's sympathies lay. He'd be just another man in armour—
“What?” he said, snapping back to the present.
“You all right, sarge?” said Corporal Colon.
“Hmm?” said Vimes, as the real world returned.
“You were well away,” said Fred. “Staring at nothing. You ought to have had a proper sleep last night, sarge.”
“There's plenty of time to sleep in the grave,” said Vimes, looking at the ranks of the Watch.
“Yeah, I heard that, sarge, but no one wakes you up with a cup of tea. I got 'em lined up, sarge.”
Fred had made an effort, Vimes could see. So had the men themselves. He'd never seen them looking quite so…formal. Usually they had a helmet and breastplate apiece. Beyond that, equipment was varied and optional. But today, at least, they looked neat.
Shame about the heights. No man could easily inspect a row that included Wiglet at one end and Nancyball at the other. Wiglet was so short that he'd once been accused of navelling a sergeant, being far too short to eyeball anyone, while Nancyball was always the first man on duty to know when it was raining. You had to stand well back to get both of them into vision without eyestrain.
“Well done, lads,” he managed, and heard Rust coming down the stairs.
It must have been the first time the man had seen his new command in full. In the circumstances, he bore up quite well. He merely sighed.
He turned to Vimes and said: “I require something to stand on.”
Vimes looked blank. “Sir?”
“I wish to address the men in order to inspire them and stiffen their resolve. They must understand the political background to the current crisis.”
“Oh, we know all about Lord Winder being a loony, sir,” said Wiglet cheerfully.
Frost nearly formed on Rust's forehead.
Vimes drew himself up. “Squad diiiiismiss!” he shouted, and then leaned towards Rust as the men scuttled away. “A quiet word, sir?”
“Did that man really say—” Rust began.
“Yes, sir. These are simple men, sir,” said Vimes, thinking quickly. “Best not to disturb them, if you take my meaning.”
Rust inserted this into his range of options. Vimes could see him thinking. It was a way out, and it suited his opinion of the Watch in general. It meant that he hadn't been cheeked by a constable, he'd merely dealt with a simpleton.
“They know their duty, sir,” Vimes added, for reinforcement.
“Their duty, sergeant, is to do what they are told.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Rust stroked his moustache. “There is something in what you say, sergeant. And you trust them?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, yes.”
“Hmm. We will make a circuit of the surrounding streets in ten minutes. This is a time for action. Reports are disturbing. We must hold the line, sergeant.”
And he believes it, thought Vimes. He really does.
The watchmen marched out into the afternoon sunshine, and did so badly. They were not used to marching. Their normal method of progress was the stroll, which is not a recognized military manoeuvre, or the frantic withdrawal, which is.
In addition, the convection currents of prudent cowardice were operating in the ranks. There was a definite sideways component to each man's progress as he sought to be in the middle. The watchmen had shields, but they were light wicker-work things intended to turn blows and deflect stones; they wouldn't stand up to anything with an edge. The advance, therefore, was by means of a slowly elongating huddle.
Rust didn't notice. He had a gift for not seeing things he did not want to see and not hearing things he did not want to hear. But he could not ignore a barricade.
Ankh-Morpork wasn't really a city, not when the chips were down. Places like Dolly Sisters and Nap Hill and Seven Sleepers had been villages once, before they were absorbed by the urban sprawl. On some level, they still held themselves separate. As for the rest…well, once you got off the main streets it was all down to neighbourhoods. People didn't move around much. When tension was high, you relied on your mates and your family. Whatever was going down, you tried to make sure wasn't going down your street. It wasn't revolution. It was quite the reverse. It was defending your doorstep.
They were building a barricade in Whalebone Lane. It wasn't a particularly good one, being made up mostly of overturned market stalls, a small cart and quite a lot of household furniture, but it was a Symbol.
Rust's moustache bristled. “Right in our faces,” he snapped. “Absolute defiance of constituted authority, sergeant. Do your duty!”
“And what would that be at this point, sir?” said Vimes.
“Arrest the ringleaders! And your men will pull the barricade down!”
Vimes sighed. “Very well, sir. If you will stand back, I shall seek them out.”
He walked up to the domestic clutter, aware of eyes watching him before and behind. When he was a few feet away he cupped his hands. “All right, all right, what's going on here?” he shouted.
He was aware of whispering. And he was ready for what happened next. When the stone flew over the top of the furniture he caught it in both hands.
“I asked a civil question,” he said. “Come on!”
There was more whispering. He distinctly heard “—that's the sergeant from last night—” and some sort of sotto voce argument. Then a voice shouted, “Death to the Fascist Oppressors!”
This time the argument was more frantic. He heard someone say “oh, all right”, and then “Death to the Fascist Oppressors, Present Company Excepted! There, is everyone happy now?”
He knew that voice. “Mr Reginald Shoe, is it?” he said.
“I regret that I have only one life to lay down for Whalebone Lane!” the voice shouted, from somewhere behind a wardrobe.
If only you knew, Vimes thought.
“I don't think that will be necessary,” he said. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen. Is this any way to behave? You can't take…the law…into your own…hands…” His voice faltered.
Sometimes it takes the brain a little while to catch up with the mouth.
Vimes turned and looked at the squad, who'd
needed no prompting at all to hang back. And then he turned to look at the barricade.
Where, exactly, was the law? Right now?
What did he think he was doing?
The Job, of course. The one that's in front of you. He'd always done it. And the law had always been…out there, but somewhere close. He'd always been pretty sure where it was, and it definitely had something to do with the badge.
The badge was important. Yes. It was shield-shaped. For protection. He'd thought about that, in the long nights in the darkness. It protected him from the beast, because the beast was waiting in the darkness of his head.
He'd killed werewolves with his bare hands. He'd been mad with terror at the time, but the beast had been there inside, giving him strength…
Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men? A copper, that's who. After ten years you thought you'd seen it all, but the shadows always dished up more. You saw how close men lived to the beast. You realized that people like Carcer were not mad. They were incredibly sane. They were simply men without a shield. They'd looked at the world and realized that all the rules didn't have to apply to them, not if they didn't want them to. They weren't fooled by all the little stories. They shook hands with the beast.
But he, Sam Vimes, had stuck by the badge, except for that time when even that hadn't been enough and he'd stuck by the bottle instead…
He felt as if he'd stuck by the bottle now. The world was spinning. Where was the law? There was the barricade. Who was it protecting from what? The city was run by a madman and his shadowy chums so where was the law?
Coppers liked to say that people shouldn't take the law into their own hands, and they thought they knew what they meant. They were thinking about the normal times, and men who went round to sort out a neighbour with a club because his dog had crapped once too often on their doorstep. But at times like these, who did the law belong to? If it shouldn't be in the hands of people, where the hell should it be? People who knew better? Then you got Winder and his pals, and how good was that?
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 any more. 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 were 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 towards him. “And where are we off to today, sir?”
“General reconnoitring, Mr Maroon. Just generally looking around.”
“Ah, I said to Mrs Maroon last night, 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, were a number of envelopes. The word “Active” was inscribed at the top of the rack.
“Good afternoon, Mr Maroon.”
“'afternoon, sir. Good, er, looking around.”
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 teaching myself 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 next door, 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 twirled around the corner, all chanting at the tops of their voices.
Vimes, sagging to his knees, was aware of dozens of sandalled 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. But now Vimes no longer felt like a drifting ship. Now he felt the tug of the anchor, pulling him round to face the rising tide.
A barrage of missiles was coming over the barricade. Throwing things was an old Ankh-Morpork custom, and there was something about Rust that made him a target. With what dignity he could muster, he raised the megaphone again and got as far as “I hereby warn you—” before a stone spun it out of his hand.
“Very well, then,” he said, and marched stiffly back to the squad. “Sergeant Keel, order the men to fire. One round of arrows, over the top of the barricade.”
“No,” said Vimes, standing up.
“I can only assume you've been stunned, sergeant,” said Rust. “Men, prepare to execute that order.”
“First man that fires, I will personally cut that man down,” said Vimes. He didn't shout. It was a simple, confident statement of precisely what the future would hold.
Rust's expression did not change. He looked Vimes up and down.
“Is this mutiny, then, sergeant?” said the captain.
“No. I'm not a soldier, sir. I can't mutiny.”
“Martial law, sergeant!” snapped Rust. “It is official!”
“Really?” said Vimes, as another rain of rocks and old vegetables came down. “Shields up, lads.”
Rust turned to Fred Colon. “Corporal, you will put this man under arrest!”
Colon swallowed. “Me?”
“You, corporal. Now.”
Colon's pink face mottled with white as the blood drained from it. “But he—” he began.
“You won't? Then it seems I must,” said the captain. He drew his sword.
At that Vimes heard the click of a crossbow's safety catch going off, and groaned. He didn't remem
ber this happening.
“You just put that sword away, sir, please,” said the voice of Lance-Constable Vimes.
“You will not shoot me, you young idiot. That would be murder,” said the captain calmly.
“Not where I'm aiming, sir.”
Bloody hell, thought Vimes. Maybe the lad was simple. Because one thing Rust wasn't, was a coward. He thought idiot stubbornness was bravery. He wouldn't back down in the face of a dozen armed men.
“Ah, I think I can see the problem, captain,” Vimes said brightly. “As you were, lance-constable. There's been a slight misunderstanding, sir, but this should sort it out—”
It was a blow he'd remember for a long time. It was sweet. It was textbook. Rust went down like a log.
In the light of all his burning bridges, Vimes slipped his hand back into his hip pocket. Thank you, Mrs Goodbody and your range of little equalizers.
He turned to the watchmen, who were a tableau of silent horror.
“Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you're not going to use them?”
“You laid him out, sarge!” Sam squeaked, still staring at the sleeping captain.
Vimes shook some life back into his hand. “Let the record show that I took command after the captain's sudden attack of insanity,” he said. “Waddy, Wiglet…drag him back to the House and lock him up, will you?”
“What we gonna do, sarge?” wailed Colon.
Ah…
Keep the peace. That was the thing. People often failed to understand what that meant. You'd go to some life-threatening disturbance like a couple of neighbours scrapping in the street over who owned the hedge between their properties, and they'd both be bursting with aggrieved self-righteousness, both yelling, their wives would either be having a private scrap on the side or would have adjourned to a kitchen for a shared pot of tea and a chat, and they all expected you to sort it out.
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