Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  “It's the one out of our Watch House,” said Vimes, and added, “sir.”

  “You know that the Patrician has declared that the building of barricades is an act of rebellion?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And?” said the captain patiently.

  “Well, he would say that, sir, wouldn't he…”

  The faintest hint of a smile skimmed across the captain's face. “We can't allow lawlessness, sergeant-at-arms. If we all disobeyed the law, where would we be?”

  “There's more coppers per person behind that barricade than anywhere else in the city, sir,” said Vimes. “You could say it's the most law-abiding place around.”

  Now there was the sound of raised voices from behind the barricade.

  “—we own all your helmets, we own all your shoes, we own all your generals, Touch us and you'll loooose…Morporkia, Morporkia, Morpooroorooorooooorrroorrr–”

  “Rebel songs, sir!” said trooper number one. The captain sighed.

  “If you listen, Hepplewhite, you might note that it is the national anthem sung very badly,” he said.

  “We can't allow rebels to sing that, sir!”

  Vimes saw the captain's expression. It had a lot to say about idiots.

  “Raising the flag and singing the anthem, Hepplewhite, are, while somewhat suspicious, not in themselves acts of treason,” said the captain. “And we are urgently required elsewhere.” He saluted Vimes, who found himself returning the salute. “We shall leave you, sergeant-at-arms. I trust your day will be full of interest. I fact, I know it.”

  “But it's a barricade, sir,” the trooper insisted, glaring at Vimes.

  “It's just a pile of furniture, man. People have been spring cleaning, I expect. You'll never be an officer if you can't see straight. Follow me, if you please.”

  With a last nod to Vimes, the captain led his men away at a trot.

  Vimes leaned against the barricade, put the crossbow on the ground, and fished out the cigar case. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the battered carton of little cigars and, with some delicacy, slotted them into place.

  Hmm. To the left was Cable Street. In front, Treacle Mine Road stretched all the way to Easy Street.

  Now, if a man could get barricades all the way up to Easy Street, there'd be quite a slice of the Lower Rimside behind it, which'd be a lot easier to protect…

  We'll do it. After all, we did it.

  Of course, that'd mean having the Unmentionables' headquarters in here with us. That's like pitching your tent over a nest of vipers.

  We'll handle that. We handled it.

  A couple of elderly people pushing a cart full of miscellaneous belongings approached the barricade. They gave Vimes a look of mute pleading. He nodded towards it and they scuttled through.

  All we need now is—

  “Sarge?” Fred Colon was leaning over the top of the heap.

  He looked more out of breath than usual.

  “Yes, Fred?”

  “There's lots of people coming across the Ron's bridge. There's things happening everywhere, they say. Shall we let 'em in?”

  “Any soldiers?”

  “I don't reckon so, sarge. It's mostly old people and kids. And my granny.”

  “Trustworthy?”

  “Not when she's had a few pints.”

  “Let them in, then.”

  “Er…” said Colon.

  “Yes, Fred?”

  “Some of 'em is watchmen. A few of the lads from Dimwell and a lot from Kings Way. I know most of 'em, and those I don't are known to the ones I do, if you catch my meanin'.”

  “How many?”

  “About twenty. One of 'em's Dai Dickins, sergeant at Dimwell. He says they were told they'd got to shoot people and most of 'em deserted on the spot.”

  “Quit, Fred,” said Vimes. “We don't desert. We're civilians. Now, I want young Vimes and you and Waddy and maybe half a dozen others out here fully kitted up in two minutes, understand? And tell Wiglet to organize squads ready to move the barricades forward at my signal.”

  “Move them, sarge? I thought barricades stood still!”

  “And tell Snouty he's got two minutes to find me a bottle of brandy,” said Vimes, ignoring this. “A big one.”

  “Are we taking the law into our own hands again, sarge?” said Colon.

  Vimes stared at the entrance to Cable Street, and was aware of the weight of the cigar case in his pocket.

  “Yes, Fred,” he said. “Only this time we're going to squeeze.”

  The two guards on the Unmentionables' headquarters watched with interest as the small contingent of watchmen marched up the street and came to a halt in front of them.

  “Oo, look, it's the army,” said one of them. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Corporal Colon.

  “Then you can push off!”

  “Can't do that, sir. I'm under orders.”

  The guards stepped forward. Fred Colon was sweating, and they liked to see things like that. It was a dull job, and most of the Unmentionables were out on more interesting assignments. They entirely failed to hear the soft tread behind them.

  “Orders to do what, mister,” said one of them, looming over Colon.

  There was a sigh and a soft thud behind him.

  “Be a decoy?” quavered Colon.

  The remaining guard turned, and met a Mrs Goodbody No. 5 “Negotiator” coming the other way.

  As the man slipped to the ground Vimes winced and massaged his knuckles.

  “Important lesson, lads,” he said. “It hurts, no matter what you do. You two, drag these into the shadows to sleep it off. Vimes and Nancyball, you come with me.”

  The key to winning, as always, was looking as if you had every right, nay, duty to be where you were. It helped if you could also suggest in every line of your body that no one else had any rights to be doing anything, anywhere, whatsoever. It came easily to an old copper.

  Vimes led the way into the building. There were a couple of guards inside, heavily armed, behind a stone barrier that made them ideally placed to ambush any unwise intruders. They put their hands on the hilts of their swords when they saw Vimes.

  “What's happening out there?” said one.

  “Oh, people are getting restless,” said Vimes. “Getting very bad across the river, they say. That's why we've come for the prisoners in the cells.”

  “Yeah? On whose authority?”

  Vimes swung his crossbow up. “Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,” he said, and grinned.

  The two guards exchanged glances. “Who the hell are they?” said one.

  There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: “Lance-Constable Vimes?”

  “Yessir?”

  “What make are these crossbows?”

  “Er…Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.”

  “Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?”

  “Never heard of them, sir.”

  Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too.

  “Let me put it another way,” he said to the guards. “Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.” That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.

  “You've only got one arrow,” said a guard.

  There was a click from beside Vimes. Sam had raised his bow, too.

  “There's two now, and since my lad here is in training he might hit you anywhere,” said Vimes. “Drop your swords on the floor! Get out of the door! Run away! Do it now! Don't come back!”

  There was a moment of hesitation, just a moment, and then the men ran for it.

  “Fred will watch our backs,” said Vimes. “Come on…”

  All the Watch Houses were pretty much the same. Stone steps led down to the cellars. Vimes hurried down them, swung open a heavy door—

  And stopped.

  Cells never smelle
d that good at the best of times. At the best of times, even at Treacle Mine Road, hygiene consisted of a bucket per cell and as much slopping-out as Snouty felt inclined to do. But, at the worst of times, the cells below Treacle Mine Road never smelled of blood.

  The beast stirred.

  In this room there was a big wooden chair. In this room there was, by the chair, a rack. The chair was bolted to the floor. It had wide leather straps. The rack held clubs and hammers. In this room, that was all the furnishings.

  The floor was dark and sticky. Down the length of it, a gully ran to a drain.

  Boards had been nailed over the tiny window at street level. This wasn't a place where light was welcomed. And all the walls, and even the ceiling, were padded heavily with sacks stuffed with straw. Sacks had even been nailed to the door. This was a very thorough cell. Not even sound was meant to escape.

  A couple of torches did nothing at all for the darkness except make it dirty.

  Behind him, Vimes heard Nancyball throw up.

  In a strange kind of dream, he walked across the floor and bent down to pick up something that gleamed in the torchlight. It was a tooth.

  He stood up again.

  A closed wooden door led off on one side of the cellar; on the other, a wider tunnel almost certainly led to the cells. Vimes took a torch out of its holder, handed it to Sam and pointed along the tunnel—

  There were footsteps accompanied by a jingle of keys heading towards the door, and a light growing brighter underneath it.

  The beast tensed…

  Vimes dragged the largest club out of the rack and stepped swiftly to the wall beside the door. Someone was coming, someone who knew about this room, someone who called themselves a copper…

  Getting a firm two-handed grip, Vimes raised the club—

  And looked across the stinking room, and saw young Sam watching him, young Sam with his bright shiny badge and face full of…strangeness.

  Vimes lowered the club, leaned it delicately against the wall, and pulled the leather cosh from his pocket.

  Shackled, not quite understanding, the beast was dragged back into the night…

  A man stepped through the door, whistling under his breath, took a few steps into the room, saw young Sam, opened his mouth and then fell fast asleep. He was a big man, and hit the cobbles heavily. He had a leather hood over his head, and was naked to the waist. A big ring of keys hung from his belt.

  Vimes darted into the corridor behind the door, ran around a corner, burst into a small, brightly lit room, and grabbed a man he found in there.

  This one was a lot smaller, and suppressed a scream as Vimes dragged him up out of his chair.

  “And what does daddy do at work all day, mister?” Vimes roared.

  The little man was suddenly clairvoyant. One look at Vimes's eyes told him how short his future might be.

  “I'm just a clerk! A clerk! I just write things down!” he protested. He held up a pen by way of desperate demonstration.

  Vimes looked at the desk. There were compasses there, and other geometer's tools, symbols of Swing's insane sanity. There were books, and folders stuffed with paperwork. And there was a yard-long steel ruler. He grabbed it in his spare hand and slammed it on the desktop. The heavy steel made a satisfying noise.

  “And?” he said, his face a few inches from the struggling man.

  “And I measure people! It's all in the captain's book! I just measure people! I don't do anything wrong! I'm not a bad man!”

  Again the ruler slammed into the desk. But this time Vimes had twisted it, and the steel edge chopped into the wood.

  “Want me to cut you down to size, mister?” The little man's eyes rolled.

  “Please!”

  “Is there another way out of here?” Vimes slapped the rule down on the desk.

  The flicker of eyes was enough. Vimes saw a doorway in the wall, almost lost in the wooden panelling.

  “Good. Where does it come out?”

  “Er—”

  Now Vimes was nose to nose with the man who, in police parlance, was helping him with his inquiries.

  “You're all alone here,” he said. “You have no friends here. You sat and took notes for a torturer, a bloody torturer! And I see a desk, and it's got a desk drawer, and if you ever, ever want to hold a pen again you'll tell me everything I want to know—”

  “Warehouse!” the man gasped. “Next door!”

  “Right, sir. Thank you, sir. You've been very helpful,” said Vimes, lowering the limp body to the floor. “Now, sir, I'm just handcuffing you to this desk for a moment, sir, for your protection.”

  “Who…who from?”

  “Me. I'll kill you if you try to run away, sir.”

  Vimes hurried back to the main chamber. The torturer was still out cold. Vimes hauled him up into the chair, with great effort, and pulled off his hood, and recognized the face. The face, yes, but not the person. That is, it was the kind of face you saw a lot of in Ankh-Morpork: big, bruised, and belonging to someone who'd never quite learned that hitting people long after they'd lost consciousness was a wicked thing to do. He wondered if the man actually liked beating people to death. They often didn't think about it. It was just a job.

  Well, he wasn't about to ask him. He buckled him in, with every strap, even the one that went across the forehead, pulling the last one tight just as the man came round. The mouth opened, and Vimes stuffed the hood into it.

  Then he took the key ring and locked the main door. That should ensure a little extra privacy.

  He met young Sam coming the other way as he headed for the cells. The boy's face was white in the gloom.

  “Found anyone?” said Vimes.

  “Oh, sarge…”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, sarge…sarge…” Tears were running down the lance-constable's face.

  Vimes reached out and steadied himself. Sam felt as though there were no bones left in his body. He was trembling.

  “There's a woman in the last cell, and she…sarge…oh, sarge—”

  “Try taking deep breaths,” said Vimes. “Not that this air is fit to breathe.”

  “And there's a room right at the end, sarge…oh, sarge… Nancyball fainted again, sarge…”

  “You didn't,” said Vimes, patting him gently on the back.

  “But there's—”

  “Let's rescue what we can, shall we, lad?”

  “But we were on the hurry-up wagon, sarge!”

  “What?” said Vimes, and then it dawned. Oh, yes…

  “But we didn't hand anyone over, lad,” he said. “Remember?”

  “But I've been on it before, sarge! All the lads have! We just handed people over and went back to the Watch House for cocoa, sarge!”

  “Well, you'd had orders…” said Vimes, for what good that did.

  “We didn't know!”

  Not exactly, thought Vimes. We didn't ask. We just shut our minds to it. People went in through that front door and some of the poor devils came out through the secret door, not always in one box.

  They hadn't measured up.

  Nor did we.

  He heard a low, visceral sound from the boy. Sam had spotted the torturer in the chair. He shook himself away from Vimes, ran over to the rack, and snatched up a club.

  Vimes was ready. He grabbed the boy, swung him round, and twisted the thing out of his hand before murder was done.

  “No! That's not the way! This is not the time! Hold it back! Tame it! Don't waste it! Send it back! It'll come when you call!”

  “You know he did those things!” shouted Sam, kicking at his legs. “You said we had to take the law into our own hands!”

  Ah, thought Vimes. This is just the time for a long debate about the theory and practice of justice. Here comes the shortened version.

  “You don't bash a man's brains out when he's tied to a chair!”

  “He did!”

  “And you don't. That's because you're not him!”

  “But they—�
��

  “Stand to attention, lance-constable!” shouted Vimes, and the straw-covered ceiling drank and deadened the sound. Sam blinked through reddened eyes.

  “Okay, sarge, but—”

  “Are you going to snivel all day? Forget about this one. Let's get the living out, right?”

  “Hard to tell with—” Sam began, wiping his nose.

  “Do it! Follow me!”

  He knew what was going to be in the dark arches of the cell tunnels, but that didn't make it any better. Some people could walk, or maybe hop. One or two had just been beaten up, but not so badly that they couldn't hear what was going on just out of sight, and dwell on it. They cringed when the gates were opened, and whimpered as he touched them. No wonder Swing got his confessions.

  And some were dead. Others were…well, if they weren't dead, if they'd just gone somewhere in their heads, it was as sure as hell that there was nothing for them to come back to. The chair had broken them again and again. They were beyond the help of any man.

  Just in case, and without any feeling of guilt, Vimes removed his knife, and…gave what help he could. There was not a twitch, not a sigh.

  He stood up, black and red stormclouds in his head.

  You could almost understand a thug, simple as a fist, being paid decent money for doing something he didn't mind doing. But Swing had brains…

  Who really knew what evil lurked in the heart of men?

  @ME.

  Who knew what sane men were capable of?

  STILL ME, I'M AFRAID.

  Vimes glanced at the door of the last room. No, he wasn't going in there again. No wonder it stank here.

  YOU CAN'T HEAR ME, CAN YOU? OH I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT, said Death, and waited.

  Vimes went to help young Sam bring Nancyball round. Then they half carried, half walked the prisoners out along the passage up into the warehouse. They laid them down, and went back and dragged out the clerk, whose name was Trebilcock. Vimes explained to him the advantages of turning King's Evidence. They were not major advantages, except when they were compared with the huge disadvantages that would follow swiftly if he refused to do so.

  And Vimes stepped out into the early evening. Colon and the squad were still waiting; the whole business had taken only twenty minutes or so.

  The corporal saluted, and then his nose wrinkled.