And they could never understand that it wasn't your job. Sorting it out was a job for a good surveyor and a couple of lawyers, maybe. Your job was to quell the impulse to bang their stupid fat heads together, to ignore the affronted speeches of dodgy self-justification, to get them to stop shouting and to get them off the street. Once that had been achieved, your job was over. You weren't some walking god, dispensing finely tuned natural justice. Your job was simply to bring back peace.
Of course, if your few strict words didn't work and Mr Smith subsequently clambered over the disputed hedge and stabbed Mr Jones to death with a pair of gardening shears, then you had a different job, sorting out the notorious Hedge-Argument Murder. But at least it was one you were trained to do.
People expected all kinds of things from coppers, but there was one thing that sooner or later they all wanted: make this not be happening.
Make this not be happening…
“What?” he said, suddenly noticing a voice that had, in fact, been on the edge of awareness for some time.
“I said, was he insane, sarge?”
But when you're falling off the cliff it's too late to wonder if there might have been a better way up the mountain…
“He asked you to shoot at people who weren't shooting back,” growled Vimes, striding forward. “That makes him insane, wouldn't you say?”
“They are throwing stones, sarge,” said Colon.
“So? Stay out of range. They'll get tired before we do.”
In fact the barrage of missiles from the barricade had ceased; even in a time of crisis, the people of Ankh-Morpork would stop for a decent piece of street theatre. Vimes walked back towards them, stopping on the way to retrieve Rust's bent megaphone.
As he approached he cast his eye over faces just visible through the chair legs and junk. There would be Unmentionables somewhere, he knew, helping matters along. With luck they wouldn't have bothered with Whalebone Lane.
There was muttering from the defenders. Most of them had a look Vimes recognized, because it was the one he was trying to keep off his own face. It was the look of people whose world had suddenly been swept from under them, and now they were trying to tap-dance on quicksand.
He tossed away the stupid pompous megaphone. He cupped his hands.
“Some of you know me!” he shouted. “I'm Sergeant Keel, currently in command of the Treacle Mine Road Watch House! And I order you to dismantle this barricade—”
There was a chorus of jeers and one or two badly thrown missiles. Vimes waited, stock still, until they'd died away. Then he raised his hands again.
“I repeat, I order you to dismantle this barricade.” He took a breath, and went on: “And rebuild it on the other side on the corner with Cable Street! And put up another one at the top of Sheer Street! Properly built! Good grief, you don't just pile stuff up, for gods' sake! A barricade is something you construct! Who's in charge here?”
There were sounds of consternation behind the overturned furniture, but a voice called out, “You?” There was nervous laughter.
“Very funny! Now laugh this one off! No one's interested in us yet! This is a quiet part of town! But when things really go bad you're going to have cavalry on your backs! With sabres! How long would you last? But if you shut off this end of Treacle Mine and the end of Sheer then they're left with alleyways, and they don't like that! It's up to you, of course! We'd like to protect you, but me and my men'll be behind the barricades over here–”
He turned on his heel and marched back to the waiting watchmen.
“Right, lads,” he said. “You heard. Pounce and Gaskin, you take the hurry-up wagon up to the bridge and turn it over. Waddy and Nancyball and you too, Fred…go and nick some carts. You grew up round here, so don't tell me you've never done that before. I want a couple blocking the streets down here, and the rest, I want you to run them into the alley mouths until they wedge. You men know the area. Block up all the little back ways.”
Colon rubbed his nose. “We could do that on the river side, sarge, but it's all alleys on the Shades side. Can't block 'em all.”
“I wouldn't worry about those,” said Vimes. “Cavalry can't come through there. You know what they call a horse in the Shades?”
Colon grinned. “Yeah, sarge. Lunch.”
“Right. The rest of you, get all the benches and tables out of the Watch House—”
It dawned on him that none of the men had moved. There was a certain…problem in the air.
“Well?”
Billy Wiglet removed his helmet and wiped his forehead. “Er…how far is this going to go, sarge?”
“All the way, Billy.”
“But we took the oath, sarge, and now we're disobeying orders and helping rebels. Doesn't seem right, sarge,” said Wiglet, wretchedly.
“You took an oath to uphold the law and defend the citizens without fear or favour,” said Vimes. “And to protect the innocent. That's all they put in. Maybe they thought those were the important things. Nothing in there about orders, even from me. You're an officer of the law, not a soldier of the government.”
One or two of the men looked longingly at the other end of the street, empty and inviting.
“But I won't stop anyone who wants to walk,” said Vimes. They stopped looking.
“'ullo, Mister Keel,” said a sticky voice behind him.
“Yes, Nobby?” he said, without turning round.
“'ere, how did you detect it was me, sergeant?”
“It's an amazing talent, kid,” said Vimes, turning, against all wisdom, to look at the urchin. “What's been happening?”
“Big riot in Sator Square, sarge. And they say people've broke into the Dolly Sisters Watch House and thrown the lieutenant out the window. An' there's lootin' all over the place, they say, an' the Day Watch are out chasin' people^ only most of 'em are hidin' now 'cos—”
“Yeah, I get the picture,” sighed Vimes. Carcer had been right. Coppers were always outnumbered, so being a copper only worked when people let it work. If they refocused and realized you were just another standard idiot with a pennyworth of metal for a badge, you could end up a smear on the pavement.
He could hear shouting now, a long way off.
He looked around at the hesitant watchmen.
“On the other hand, gentlemen,” he said, “if you are going to leave, where are you going to go to?”
The same thought had clearly occurred to Colon and the others.
“We'll get the carts,” he said, hurrying off.
“And I wants a penny,” said Nobby, holding out a grubby hand. To the boy's amazement, Vimes gave him a dollar, saying, “And just keep telling me everything, will you?”
Tables and benches were already being dragged out of the Watch House and after only a couple of minutes Waddy arrived with a cartload of empty barrels. Barricades were easy in these streets; it was keeping them clear that had always been the problem.
The watchmen set to work. This was something they understood. They'd done it when they were kids. And perhaps they thought, hey, this time we're wearing uniforms. We can't be in the wrong.
While Vimes was struggling to wedge a bench into the growing wall he was aware of people behind him. He worked steadily, however, until someone gave a delicate cough. Then he turned.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
There was a small group of people, and it was clear to Vimes that it was a group pushed together out of shared terror because, by the look of them, they'd have nothing to do with one another if they could possibly avoid it.
The spokesman, or at least the one in front, looked almost exactly like the kind of person Vimes had pictured when thinking about the Hedge-Argument Murder.
“Erm, officer…”
“Yes, sir?”
“What, er, are you doing, exactly?”
“Keeping the peace, sir. This piece, to be exact.”
“You said that there's, er, rioting and soldiers on the way…”
“Very l
ikely, sir.”
“You don't have to ask him, Rutherford, it's his duty to protect us,” snapped the woman who was standing beside the man with an air of proprietorship. Vimes changed his mind about the man. Yes, he had that furtive look of a timid domestic poisoner about him, the kind of man who'd be appalled at the idea of divorce but would plot womanslaughter every day. And you could see why.
He gave the lady a nice warm smile. She was holding a blue vase. “Can I help you, ma'am?” he said.
“What are you intending to do about us being murdered in our beds?” she demanded.
“Well, it's not four o'clock yet, ma'am, but if you'll let me know when you want to retire—”
Vimes was impressed at the way the woman drew herself up. Even Sybil, in full Duchess mode, with the blood of twenty generations of arrogant ancestors behind her, could not have matched her.
“Rutherford, are you going to do something about this man?” she said.
Rutherford looked up at Vimes. Vimes was aware that he was villainously unshaven, dishevelled, dirty and probably starting to smell. He decided not to load more troubles on the man's back.
“Would you and your lady care to assist with our barricade?” he said.
“Oh, yes, thank you very—” Rutherford began, but was outgunned again.
“Some of that furniture looks very dirty,” said Mrs Rutherford. “And aren't those beer barrels?”
“Yes, ma'am, but they're empty ones,” said Vimes.
“Are you sure? I refuse to cower behind alcohol! I have never approved of alcohol, and neither has Rutherford!”
“I can assure you, ma'am, that any beer barrel in the presence of my men for any length of time will be empty,” said Vimes. “You may rest assured on that score.”
“And are your men sober and clean-living?” the woman demanded.
“Whenever no alternative presents itself, ma'am,” said Vimes. This seemed acceptable. Mrs Rutherford was like Rust in that respect. She listened to the tone of voice, not the words.
“I think perhaps it would be a good idea, dear, if we made haste to—” Rutherford began.
“Not without Father!” said his wife.
“No problem, ma'am,” said Vimes. “Where is he?”
“On our barricade, of course! Which was, let me tell you, a rather better barricade altogether.”
“Jolly good, ma'am,” said Vimes. “If he'd like to come over here we'll—”
“Erm, you don't quite understand, sir,” murmured Rutherford. “He is, erm, on the barricade…”
Vimes looked at the other barricade, and then looked harder. It was just possible to see, near the top of the piled-up furniture, an overstuffed armchair. Further examination suggested that it was occupied by a sleeping figure in carpet slippers.
“He's very attached to his armchair,” sighed Rutherford.
“It's going to be an heirloom,” said his wife. “Be so kind as to send your young men to collect our furniture, will you? And be careful with it. Put it at the back somewhere where it won't get shot at.”
Vimes nodded at Sam and a couple of the other men as Mrs Rutherford picked her way over the debris and headed for the Watch House.
“Is there going to be any fighting?” said Mr Rutherford anxiously.
“Possibly, sir.”
“I'm not very good at that sort of thing, I'm afraid.”
“Don't worry about that, sir.” Vimes propelled the man over the barricade, and turned to the rest of the little group. He'd been aware of eyes boring into him, and now he traced the rays back to source, a young man with black trousers, a frilly shirt and long curly hair.
“This is a ruse, isn't it,” said the man. “You'll get us in your power and we'll never be seen again, eh?”
“Stay out then, Reg,” said Vimes. He cupped his hands and turned back to the Whalebone Lane barricade. “Anyone else wants to join us had better get a move on!” he shouted.
“You don't know that's my name!” said Reg Shoe.
Vimes stared into the big protruding eyes. The only difference between Reg now and the Reg he'd left back in the future was that Constable Shoe was rather greyer and was held together in places by stitches. Zombiehood would come naturally to Reg. He was born to be dead. He believed so strongly in things that some kind of inner spring kept him going. He'd make a good copper. He didn't make a very good revolutionary. People as meticulously fervent as Reg got real revolutionaries worried. It was the way he stared.
“You're Reg Shoe,” he said. “You live in Whalebone Lane.”
“Aha, you've got secret files on me, eh?” said Reg, with terrifying happiness.
“Not really, no. Now if you'd be so good—”
“I bet you've got a big file on me a mile long,” said Reg.
“Not a whole mile, Reg, no,” said Vimes. “Listen, Reg, we—”
“I demand to see it!”
Vimes sighed. “Mr Shoe, we don't have a file on you. We don't have a file on anyone, understand? Half of us can't read without using a finger. Reg, we are not interested in you.”
Reg Shoe's slightly worrying eyes remained fixed on Vimes's face for a moment, and then his brain rejected the information as contrary to whatever total fantasy was going on inside.
“Well, it's no good you torturing me because I won't reveal any details about my comrades in the other revolutionary cells!” said Reg.
“Okay. I won't, then. Now perhaps—”
“That's how we work, see? None of the cadres knows about the other ones!”
“Really. Do they know about you?” said Vimes.
For a moment, Reg's face clouded. “Pardon?”
“Well, you said you don't know about them,” said Vimes. “So…do they know about you?” He wanted to add: you're a cell of one, Reg. The real revolutionaries are silent men with poker-player eyes and probably don't know or care if you exist. You've got the shirt and the haircut and the sash and you know all the songs, but you're no urban guerrilla. You're an urban dreamer. You turn over rubbish bins and scrawl on walls in the name of The People, who'd clip you round the ear if they found you doing it. But you believe.
“Ah, so you're a secret operative,” he said, to get the poor man off the hook.
Reg brightened. “That's right!” he said. “The people are the sea in which the revolutionary swims!”
“Like swordfishes?” Vimes tried.
“Pardon?”
And you're a flounder, thought Vimes. Ned's a revolutionary. He knows how to fight and he can think, even if he is on the skew. But Reg, you really ought to be indoors…
“Well, I can see you're a dangerous individual,” he said. “We'd better have you where we can keep an eye on you. Hey, that's right. You can undermine the enemy from within.”
The relieved Reg raised a fist in salute and carried a table to the new barricade with revolutionary speed. There was some hurried conversation behind the old makeshift barricade, already being denuded of Mrs Rutherford's furniture. This was interrupted by the clatter of hoofbeats from the far end of Treacle Mine Road and a sudden burst of instant decisiveness on the part of the remainder of the crowd.
They poured towards the new official barricade, with Lance-Constable Vimes bringing up the rear, fairly well hampered by a dining-room chair.
“Mind out for that!” shouted a female voice from somewhere behind him. “It's one of a set!”
Vimes put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Just give me your crossbow, will you?” he said.
The horsemen came closer.
Vimes was not good at horsemen. Something in him resented being addressed by anyone eight feet above the ground. He didn't like the sensation of being looked at by nostrils. He didn't like being talked down to.
By the time they'd reached the barricade he'd clambered around to the front of it and was standing in the middle of the street.
They slowed down. It was probably the way he didn't move, and held the crossbow in the nonchalant manner of someon
e who knows how to use it but has decided not to, for the moment.
“You, there!” said a trooper.
“Yes?” said Vimes.
“Are you in charge?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“Where are your men?”
Vimes jerked a thumb towards the growing barricade. On the top of the heap, Mrs Rutherford's father was snoring peacefully.
“But that's a barricade!” said the trooper.
“Well done.”
“There's a man waving a flag!”
Vimes turned. Surprisingly, it was Reg. Some of the men had brought out the old flag from Tilden's office and stuck it on the barricade, and Reg was the sort to wave any flag going.
“Probably high spirits, sir,” said Vimes. “Don't worry. We're all fine.”
“It's a damn barricade, man. A rebel barricade!” said the second trooper. Oh boy, thought Vimes. They have shiny, shiny breastplates. And wonderfully fresh pink faces.
“Not exactly. In fact it's—”
“Are you stupid, fellow? Don't you know that all barricades are to be torn down by order of the Patrician?”
The third horseman, who had been staring at Vimes, urged his horse a little closer.
“What's that pip on your shoulder, officer?” he said.
“Means I'm Sergeant-at-Arms. Special rank. And who're you?”
“He doesn't have to tell you that!” said the first trooper.
“Really?” said Vimes. The man was getting on his nerves. “Well, you're just a trooper and I'm a bleedin' sergeant and if you dare speak to me like that again I'll have you down off that horse and thump you across the ear, understand?”
Even the horse took a step backwards. The trooper opened his mouth to speak, but the third horseman raised a white-gloved hand.
Oh dear, thought Vimes, focusing on the sleeve of the red jacket. The man was a captain. Not only that, he was an intelligent one, by the look of him. He hadn't mouthed off until he'd had a chance to assess the situation. You got them sometimes. They could be dangerously bright.
“I note, sergeant-at-arms,” said the captain, enunciating the rank with care and without apparent sarcasm, “that the flag over the barricade is the flag of Ankh-Morpork.”
Night Watch tds-27 Page 24