Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  “Look at Trooper Gabitass there!” said the major, now quite upset. “Twenty years' service, a fine figure of a soldier! He wouldn't stoop to stealing the boots of a fallen enemy, would you, trooper?”

  “No, sir! Mug's game, sir!” said Trooper Gabitass.8

  “Er…yes. Right!” said the major. “You could learn a lot from men like Trooper Gabitass, young man. By the sound of it, your time with the rebels has filled your head with very wrong ideas indeed.”

  “I ain't a rebel!” Nobby shouted. “Don't you go calling me a rebel, I ain't a rebel, I'm an Ankh-Morpork lad, I am, and proud of it! Hah, you are wrong, I've never been a rebel and you're cruel to say so! I'm an honest lad, I am!”

  Big tears began to run down his cheeks, washing aside the grime to reveal the lower strata of grime beneath.

  The major had no experience of this sort of thing. Every available orifice on the little lad's face seemed to be gushing. He looked for help to Gabitass.

  “You're a married man, aren't you, trooper? What are we supposed to do now?”

  “I could give him a clout alongside the ear, sir,” said Trooper Gabitass.

  “That's very unfeeling, trooper! Look here, I had a handkerchief on me somewhere…”

  “Huh, I have my own wiper, thank you very much, I don't have to be condescended at,” sniffed Nobby, and pulled one out of his pocket. In fact, he pulled several dozen, including one with the initials C. M.-S. on it. They were tangled together like a conjuror's flags-of-all-nations, and dragged with them several purses and half a dozen spoons.

  Nobby wiped his face with the first one, and thrust the entire collection back into his pocket. At this point he realized that all the men were staring at him.

  “What? What?” he said defiantly.

  “Tell us about this man Keel,” said the major.

  “I don't know nuffin',” said Nobby automatically.

  “Aha, that means you do know something,” said the major, who was indeed the sort of person who liked this kind of little triumph.

  Nobby looked blank. The captain leaned forward to whisper to his superior officer.

  “Er, only under the rules of mathematics, sir,” he said. “Under the rules of common grammar, he is merely being emphat—”

  “Tell us about Keel!” the major shouted.

  “Tell you what, major, why not leave that sort of thing to the experts?” said a voice.

  The major looked up. Carcer and his men had entered the tent. The sergeant was grinning again.

  “Got yourself a little prisoner, have you?” he said, stepping forward to examine Nobby. “Reckon you've got a ringleader here, yeah. Told you anything, has he? I shouldn't think so. You need special training to get the best out of lads like this, haha.”

  He slipped his hand into his pocket. When it came out, the knuckles were ringed with brass.

  “Now then, lad,” he said, as the soldiers watched in horror, “you know who I am, do you? I'm in the Particulars, me. And I can see two of you. One of them's a lively lad who's going to help the proper authorities with their business and the other is a lippy little bugger who's going to try to be clever. One of these lads has a future, and all his teeth. Now the funny thing about me, it's a little habit of mine, is that I never ask a question twice. So…you're not a criminal, are you?”

  Nobby, his eyes huge and fixed on the brass knuckles, shook his head.

  “You just do what you have to to survive, right?”

  Nobby nodded.

  “In fact you were probably a decent lad before you fell in with the rebels, I expect. Sang hymns and that.”

  Nobby nodded.

  “This man who calls himself Sergeant Keel is the ringleader of the rebels, yes?”

  There was a moment of hesitation, and then Nobby raised a hand. “Um…everyone does what he tells them, is that the same thing?” he said.

  “Yep. Is he charismatic?”

  Nobby kept staring at the brass knuckles. “Um, um, um, I don't know. I haven't heard him cough much.”

  “And what do they talk about beyond the barricade, my little lad?”

  “Um…well, Justice an' Truth an' Freedom and stuff,” said Nobby.

  “Aha. Rebel talk!” said Carcer, straightening up.

  “Is it?” said the major.

  “Take it from me, major,” said Carcer. “When you get a bunch of people using words like that, they're up to no good.” He looked down at Nobby. “Now, I wonder what I've got in my pocket for a good boy, eh? Oh, yes…someone's ear. Still warm. Here you go, kid!”

  “Cor, thanks, mister!”

  “Now run a long way away or I'll gut yer.”

  Nobby fled.

  Carcer glanced at the map spread on the desk. “Oh, you're planning a little sortie. That's nice. Don't want to upset the rebels, do we? Why aren't you bloody well attacking, major?”

  “Well, they're not—”

  “You're losing your troops to 'em! They hold a quarter of the city! And you're gonna sneak round the back. Across the bridge, I see, and up Elm Street. Quiet, like. Like you are frightened!” Carcer's hand smashed down on to the table, making the major jump.

  “I'm frightened of no man!” he lied.

  “You're the city right now!” said Carcer, a little speck of white foam appearing at the corner of his mouth. “They sneak. You don't. You ride right up to them and damn them to hell, that's what you do. They're stealing the streets from you! You take 'em back! They've put 'emselves beyond the Law! You take the Law to 'em!”

  He stepped back, and the manic rage subsided as quickly as it had arrived.

  “That's my advice,” he said. “Of course, you know your own business best. Me and what's left of my poor lads, we're going to go out and fight. I'm sure their lordships will appreciate anything you feel you can do.”

  He strode out, the Particulars falling in behind him.

  “Er…you all right, Clive?” said the captain. Only the whites of the major's eyes were showing.

  “What a horrible man,” said the major quietly.

  “Er…yes, of course. On the other hand—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know. We have no choice. We have orders. That…weasel is right. If the damn thing is there in the morning, I've got no career and nor have you. Show of strength, bold front, take no prisoners…that's what our orders are. Stupid, stupid orders.” He sighed.

  “I suppose we could disobey…” said the captain.

  “Are you mad? And then what would we do? Don't be a fool, Tom. Muster the men, get the ox teams hitched up, let's make a bit of a show for the sake of it. Let's just get it over with!”

  Vimes was shaken awake. He looked up into his own face, younger, less lined, more terrified.

  “Wha'?”

  “They're bringing up siege weapons, sarge! They're coming down the street, sarge!”

  “What? That's stupid! The barricade is highest here! A couple of men could defend it!”

  Vimes leapt to his feet. It must be a feint. A stupid feint, too. Just here Waddy and his mates had wedged two big carts across the road, and they'd become the nucleus of a solid wall of wood and rubble. But there was a narrow, low entrance for people to come through, which let them into the Republic with their head at just the right height for a gentle tap if they turned out to be a soldier. People were scrambling through now like rats.

  Vimes climbed up the barricade and looked over the top. At the far end of the street a big metal wall was advancing, surrounded by flaming torches. That was all there was to see, in a city without lights. But he knew what it was.

  It was called Big Mary and it was mounted on a heavy cart. Vimes had seen it before. There would be a couple of oxen behind the cart, pushing it. The walls weren't solid metal, but merely a skin to stop defenders throwing fire at the wooden planks underneath. And the whole thing was simply to defend the men who, behind that cosy shelter, had the big, big hooks on the end of the long chains…

  They'd fix them in the barricade, a
nd the oxen would be turned around in the traces, and maybe another four beasts would be added and then there was nothing you could build of wood that wouldn't be pulled apart.

  Between the cart and the barricade, struggling to escape from the crush, was a mass of frightened people.

  “You got any orders, sarge?” said Fred Colon, pulling himself up alongside Vimes. He looked up the street. “Oh dear,” he said.

  “Yeah, this is when you need a couple of trolls on the force,” said Vimes. “I reckon Detr—”

  “Trolls? Huh, wouldn't work with any trolls,” said Colon. “Too fick to take orders.”

  You'll find out one day, thought Vimes, and said aloud: “Okay. Anyone that can't or shouldn't have a weapon, they get back as far as possible, right? Get a message to Dickins, tell him we'll need anyone he can spare, but—blast it!”

  What'd happened before? There'd been a lot of activity against the barricades, but it had been a feint while the cavalry were sneaking around outside. He didn't remember this.

  He glanced at the oncoming wagon. At the top of the wobbling wall, on the other side, there was generally a narrow ledge for bowmen to stand and fire down at anyone trying to interfere with the demolition men.

  In the treacherous light of the torches, Vimes thought he saw the features of Carcer. Even at this distance, there was something horribly recognizable about that expression.

  Swing was dead. And when everyone's running around in confusion a man who is firm of purpose can push his way up by sheer nerve. After all, Vimes thought, I did.

  He clambered down the barricade and looked at the men.

  “I want a volunteer no, not you, Sam. Wiglet, you'll do. Your dad's a carpenter, right? Well, there's a carpenter's shop round the corner. Run and get me a couple of mallets and some wooden wedges, or long nails…something spiky. Go, go, go!”

  Wiglet nodded and ran off.

  “And…let's see, yeah, I need two-penny-worth of fresh ginger. Nancyball, nip around the corner to the apothecary, will you?”

  “What's that any good for, sarge?” said Sam.

  “Gingering things up.”

  Vimes removed his helmet and armour, and nodded to the gap through which people were streaming.

  “Fred, we'll be going out that way. Think you can push us a path?”

  “I'll give it a go, sarge.” Fred squared his shoulders.

  “We're going to stop that thing. They can't move it fast and with all this noise and confusion no one will notice a thing—that was quick, Billy—”

  “I just grabbed everything, sarge,” panted Wiglet, running up with a small sack. “I know what you want to do, sarge, I did it sometimes out of mischief when I was a kid—”

  “Me too,” said Vimes. “And here's my ginger. Ah, lovely. It brings tears to my eyes. Okay, Billy? Ready, Fred.”

  It took all of Colon's bulk, with Vimes pushing behind him, to thrust a way through the desperate mob into the world beyond the barricade. In the darkness Vimes forced his way between the bodies, up to the side of the siege engine. It was like a huge slow ram pushing its way down the street, but jerking forward more slowly than a walking pace because of the press of people. Vimes fancied that Carcer probably enjoyed this ride.

  He ducked under the cart, unseen in the mob, and grabbed a mallet and a wedge from Wiglet's bag.

  “You do the left rear wheel and then make a run for it, Billy,” he said.

  “But sarge—”

  “That was an order. Get out, get back, get people off the street as fast as possible. Do it!”

  Vimes crawled up to one of the front wheels and held the wedge ready between wheel and axle. The cart stopped for a moment, and he thrust the wedge into the gap and thumped it with the hammer. He had time for another blow before the cart gave a creak that suggested the oxen were pushing again. Then he crawled back quickly and took the sack from Billy before the little man, with a reluctant glance, scuttled out into the forest of legs.

  Vimes got a third wedge in before loud voices somewhere behind him indicated that the lack of progress had been noticed. The wheels rocked, and bound even further on the wedges. The wheels would have to come off before they could be got out.

  Even so, oxen were powerful beasts. Enough of them would have no problem at all in dragging the cart as well as the barricade. But the nice thing, the nice thing, was that people thought of a barricade as something people tried to get into, not out of…

  Vimes slipped out into the noisy, confusing night. There were soldiers, and watchmen, and refugees, all cursing at cross purposes. In the flickering shadows, Vimes was just another shape. He pushed his way confidently around to the straining oxen and their driver, who was prodding them with a stick. He was heartened by the fact that the man looked the kind of man who'd get six out of ten when answering the question: “What is your name?”

  Vimes didn't even stop. The important thing was not to let the other person have a chance to say “But—”, let alone “Who the hell do you think you are?” He pushed the man aside and glared at the sweating beasts.

  “Ah, right, I can see your problem right here,” he said, in the voice of one who knows everything there is to know about oxen. “They've got the glaggies. But we can fix that. Hold up that one's tail. Hurry up, man!”

  The ox poker responded to the voice of authority. Vimes palmed a lump of ginger. Here goes, he thought. At least it's somewhere warm on a cold night…

  “Okay. Now the other one…right. Okay. Now, I'll just go around and, er…just go round…” said Vimes, hurrying back into the shadows.

  He shouldered his way through the throng and dived through the tiny hole.

  “It's all right, sarge, I spied you coming through Mrs Rutherford's dining-room chairs,” said Fred Colon, hauling him upright. “Well, you stopped it, sarge, and no mistake. You really…urrrhg…”

  “Yes, don't shake hands with me until I've had a wash,” said Vimes, heading for the pump.

  He kept an ear cocked for any strange noises on the other side of the barricade. There were none for several seconds. And then he heard it…

  Nothing much had happened for some while after his visit to the oxen except that, very slowly, their eyes had begun to cross and then, also quite slowly, turn red. It takes a long time for anything to happen inside the head of an ox, but, when it does, it happens extensively.

  The moo started off low and rose slowly. It was a visceral sound that had rolled across the ancient tundra and told early man that here came dinner or death, and either way it was pissed off. It was the sound of a big beast that was still too small to restrain all the emotions that were welling up inside it. And it was a duet.

  Vimes, hauling himself up the barricade, saw people running. Then the whole of Big Mary shuddered. That didn't look too impressive unless you knew that a couple of tons of wood had just jumped sideways. Then there was the sound of splintering, two of Big Mary's locked wheels collapsed, and she toppled sideways in a mass of flame, splinters, smoke and dust.

  Vimes counted under his breath, and had only reached two when a cartwheel rolled out of the smoke and away down the road. This always happens.

  It wasn't over, though. The oxen, tangled in the remains of the shafts and harness, and now an enraged joint creature that could get only six legs out of eight on the ground, headed erratically but with surprising speed in the opposite direction.

  The other oxen, which had been waiting for the big pull, watched it approach. They were already spooked by the crash, and now they caught the stink of terror and fury and began a slow stampede away from it and towards, as it turned out, the waiting bowmen behind them who, in turn, tried to run into the cavalry. The horses were not inclined to be well behaved towards armed men in any case and were also in a state of some apprehension. They relieved this by kicking the hell out of anyone close.

  It was hard for the watchers along the barricade to see much of what happened after that, but the noises were very interesting for quite some ti
me.

  Sergeant Colon's mouth shut. “Bloody hell, sarge,” he said, admiringly. In the distance, glass shattered.

  “They'll be back,” said Vimes.

  “Yeah, but not all of 'em,” said Wiglet. “Well done, sarge.”

  Vimes turned, and saw Sam staring at him in wide-eyed hero worship.

  “I was lucky, lad,” he said. “But it helps to remember little details and not mind getting your hands dirty.”

  “But we could win now, sarge,” said Sam.

  “No, we can't. But we can put off losing until it doesn't hurt too much.” Vimes turned to the others. “Right, lads, back to work. We've had some fun, but dawn's a long way off.”

  The news had got around even before he'd climbed down from the barricade. There was a cheer from the crowd, and a general struttiness about the armed men. We'd shown them, eh? They don't like the taste of cold steel, those…er…other people from Ankh-Morpork! We'll show 'em, eh?

  And it had taken a few wedges, some raw ginger and a lot of luck. That wouldn't happen twice.

  Maybe it wouldn't need to. He remembered hearing about the assassination. It was all very mysterious. Winder had been killed in a room full of people, and no one saw a thing. Magic had been suggested, and hotly denied by the wizards. Some historians had said that it happened because troops around the palace had been sent to attack the barricades, but that didn't answer the question. Anyone who could stab a man to death in a brightly lit room full of people surely wouldn't find some guards in the darkness any kind of obstacle…

  Of course, with Snapcase as new Patrician, no one had tried very hard to establish the facts in any case. People said things like “quite possibly we shall never know the truth” which meant, in Vimes's personal lexicon, “I know, or think I know what the truth is, and hope like hell it doesn't come out, because things are all smoothed over now.”

  Supposing we don't lose?

  Keel hadn't killed Big Mary. She hadn't been used in the other present. The soldiers hadn't been stupid enough to try it. That sort of thing was okay to deal with little local affairs manned by civilians, but it was a joke if you put it up against stout defences manned by professionals. Now she was a wreck, the attackers would have to think up a new plan in a hurry, and time was moving on…