Night Watch tds-27

by Terry Pratchett

  “I expect you're wondering why I've taken you on even though you worked for my predecessor, eh?” he said.

  “No, sir,” said the secretary, without looking up. He wasn't wondering firstly because he had a pretty good idea and secondly because there were in any case things he found it safest not to wonder about.

  “It is because I recognize talent whenever it presents itself,” said Snapcase.

  “It is good of you to say so, sir,” said the secretary smoothly.

  “Many a rough stone can be polished into a gem.”

  “Exactly, my lord,” said the secretary, and he was thinking Exactly, my lord, too, because he'd also found there were things he found it safest not to think, either, and these included phrases like What a little tit.

  “Where is my new Captain of the Guard?”

  “I believe Captain Carcer is in the rear courtyard, my lord, exhorting the men in no uncertain terms.”

  “Tell him I want to see him here now,” said Snapcase.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The barricade was taking some while to dismantle. Chair legs and planks and bedsteads and doors and baulks of timber had settled into a tangled mass. Since every piece belonged to someone, and Ankh-Morpork people care about that sort of thing, it was being dismantled by collective argument. This was not least because people who had donated a three-legged stool to the common good were trying to take away a set of dining chairs, and similar problems.

  And then there was the traffic. Carts that had been held up outside the city were trying to make their way to their destinations before eggs hatched or milk got so rotten it could get out and walk the rest of the way. If Ankh-Morpork had a grid, there would have been gridlock. Since it did not it was, in the words of Sergeant Colon, “a case of no one being able to move because of everyone else”. Admittedly, this phrase, while accurate, did not have the same snap.

  Some of the watchmen had joined in the dismantling work, mostly to stop the fights that were breaking out among irate householders. But a group of them had congregated at the end of Heroes Street, where Snouty had set up a mess and a cocoa urn. There wasn't, in fact, much to do. A few hours ago they'd been fighting. Now the streets were so crowded that even patrols were impossible. Every good copper knows that there are times when the wise man keeps out of the way, and the conversation had turned to the kind of questions that follow victory, such as 1) is there going to be any extra money? and 2) are there going to be any medals? With an option on 3) which was never far from the watchmen's thoughts: are we going to get into trouble about this?

  “An amnesty means we ain't,” said Dickins. “It means everyone pretends nothing really happened.”

  “All right, then,” said Wiglet. “Are we going to get medals? What I mean is, if we've been…” he concentrated “…val-i-ant defenders of freedom, that sounds like medal time to me.”

  “I reckon we should simply have barricaded the whole city,” said Colon.

  “Yeah, Fred,” said Snouty, “but then that'd mean the bad people, hnah, would be in here with us.”

  “Right, but we'd be in charge,” said Fred.

  Sergeant Dickins puffed on his pipe, and said: “Lads, you're just flapping your mouths. There's been fighting, and here you are with all your arms and legs and walking around in the gods' good sunlight. That's winning, that is. You've won, see. The rest is just gravy.”

  No one spoke for a while until young Sam said: “But Nancyball didn't win.”

  “We lost five men in all,” said Dickins. “Two got hit by arrows, one fell off the barricade and one cut his own throat by accident. It happens.”

  They stared at him.

  “Oh, you thought it didn't?” said Dickins. “You get a lot of worried people and edged weapons and a lot of scurrying, all in one place. You'd be amazed at the casualties you can get even when you're fifty miles from an enemy. People die.”

  “Did Nancyball have a mum?” said Sam.

  “He was brought up by his gran, but she's dead,” said Wiglet.

  “No one else?”

  “Dunno. He never talked about them. He never talked about anything much,” said Wiglet.

  “What you do is, you have a whip-round,” said Dickins firmly. “Wreath, coffin, the lot. You don't let anyone else do it. And another thing…”

  Vimes sat a little way from the men, watching the street. There were groups of former defenders and veterans and watchmen everywhere. He watched a man buy a pie from Dibbler, and shook his head, and grinned. On a day when you couldn't give steak away, some people would still buy a pie from Dibbler. It was a triumph of salesmanship and the city's famously atrophied taste buds.

  The song began. Whether it was a requiem or a victory chant he didn't know, but Dickins started it and the rest joined in, each man singing as though he was all by himself and unaware of the rest.

  “—see the little angels rise up high…” Others were picking up the tune.

  Reg Shoe was also sitting all alone, on a piece of barricade currently not in dispute, still clutching the flag and looking so miserable that Vimes felt moved to go and speak to him.

  “—do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high?”

  “It could have been good, sergeant,” said Reg, looking up. “It really could. A city where a man can breathe free.”

  “—they rise ARSE up, arse up, arse up, see the little angels rise up high…”

  “Wheeze free, Reg,” said Vimes, sitting down next to him. “This is Ankh-Morpork.” And they all hit that line together, thought the part of him that was listening with the other ear. Strange that they should do that, or maybe not.

  “Yeah, make a joke of it. Everyone thinks it's funny,” said Reg, looking at his feet.

  “I don't know if this'll help, Reg, but I didn't even get my hard-boiled egg,” said Vimes.

  “And what's going to happen next?” said Reg, far too sunk in misery to sympathize or, for that matter, notice.

  “All the little angels rise up, rise up–”

  “I really don't know. Things'll get better for a while, I expect. But I don't know what I'm—”

  Vimes stopped. On the far side of the street, oblivious of the traffic, a little wizened old man was sweeping dust out of a doorway.

  Vimes stood up and stared. The little man saw him, and gave him a wave. And at that moment yet another cart rumbled down the road, piled high with former barricade.

  Vimes flung himself flat and stared between the legs and wheels. Yes, the slightly bandy legs and the battered sandals were still there, and still there too when the cart had passed, and still there when Vimes started to run across the street, and may have been there when the unregarded following cart almost knocked him over, and were completely not there when he straightened up.

  He stood where they had been, in the busy street, on the sunny morning, and felt the night sweep over him. He felt the hairs stand up on his neck. The conversations around him grew louder, became a clamour in his ears. And the light was too bright. There were no shadows, and he was looking for shadows now.

  He dodged and jinked across the street to the singing men, and waved them into silence.

  “Get ready,” he growled. “Something's going to happen…”

  “What, sarge?” said Sam.

  “Something not good, I think. An attack, maybe.” Vimes scanned the street for…what? Little old men with brooms? If anything, the scene was less menacing than before the troubles, because now the other shoe had dropped. People weren't standing around waiting for it any more. There was a general bustle.

  “No offence, sarge,” said Dickins, “but it all looks peaceful enough to me. There's an amnesty, sarge. No one's fighting anyone.”

  “Sarge! Sarge!”

  They all turned. Nobby Nobbs was sidling and skipping down the street. They saw his lips shape a message, completely drowned out by the squeals from a wagonload of pigs.

  Lance-Constable Sam Vimes looked at the face of
his sergeant. “Something is wrong,” he said. “Look at sarge!”

  “Well, what?” said Fred Colon. “A giant bird's going to drop out of the sky or something?”

  There was a thud, and a gasp from Wiglet. An arrow had hit him in the chest and had gone right through.

  Another one smacked into the wall above Vimes's head, showering dust.

  “In here!” he yelled. The door to the shop behind them was open, and he plunged through. People piled in behind him. He heard the noise of arrows outside, and one or two screams.

  “Amnesty, sergeant?” he said. Outside, the rumbling carts had stopped, blocking out the light to the bullseye panes of the shop windows and temporarily shielding it.

  “Then it's got to be some idiots,” said Dickins. “Rebels, maybe.”

  “Why? There were never that many rebels, we know that! Anyway, they won!” Now there was shouting outside, beyond the carts. Nothing like a cart for blocking the road…

  “Counter-revolutionaries, then?” Dickins suggested.

  “What, people who want to put Winder back in charge?” said Vimes. “Well, I don't know about you, but I'd join.” He looked around the shop. It was packed wall to wall. “Who are all these people?”

  “You said ‘in here’, sergeant,” said a soldier.

  “Yeah, and we didn't need telling 'cos it was raining arrows,” said another soldier.

  “I didn't mean to come but I couldn't swim against the tide,” said Dibbler.

  “I want to show solidarity,” said Reg.

  “Sarge, sarge, it's me, sarge!” said Nobby, waving his hands.

  A firm, authoritative voice, thought Vimes. It's amazing the trouble it can get you into. There were about thirty people crowded into the shop, and he didn't recognize half of them.

  “Can I help any of you gentlemen?” said a thin, querulous little voice behind him. He turned and saw a very small, almost doll-like old lady, all in black, cowering behind her counter.

  He looked desperately at the shelves behind her. They were piled with skeins of wool.

  “Er, I don't think so,” he said.

  “Then do you mind if I finish serving Mrs Soupson? Four ounces of grey two-ply was it, Mrs Soupson?”

  “Yes please, Ethel!” quavered a tiny, frightened voice somewhere in the middle of the crowd of armed men.

  “We'd better get out of here,” muttered Vimes. He turned to the men and waved his hands frantically to suggest that, as far as possible, no one should upset any old ladies. “Do you have a back way, please?”

  The shopkeeper's innocent old eyes looked up at him. “It helps if people buy something, sergeant,” she said meaningfully.

  “Er, we, um…” Vimes looked around desperately, and inspiration struck. “Ah, right, yes…I'd like a mushroom,” he said. “You know, one of those wooden things for—”

  “Yes, sergeant, I know. That will be sixpence, thank you, sergeant. I always like to see a gentleman ready to do it for himself, I must say. Could I interest you in a—”

  “I'm in a big hurry, please!” said Vimes. “I've got to darn all my socks.” He nodded at the men, who responded heroically.

  “Me, too—”

  “Full of holes, it's disgusting!”

  “Got to patch them up right now!”

  “It's me, sarge, Nobby, sarge!”

  “You could use mine for fishing nets!”

  The lady unhooked a big key ring. “I think it's this one, no, I tell a lie, I think it's, no…wait a moment…ah, yes, this is the one…”

  “Here, sarge, there's a bunch of men with crossbows in the street,” said Fred Colon, from the window. “About fifty of 'em!”

  “…no, that's the one, dear me, that's for the lock we used to have…does this one look right to you? Let's try this one…”

  Very carefully, and very slowly, she unlocked and unbolted the door.

  Vimes poked his head out. They were in an alley, filled with trash and old boxes and the horrible smell of alleys everywhere. No one seemed to be around.

  “Okay, everybody out,” he said. “We need a bit of space. Who's got a bow?”

  “Just me, sarge,” said Dickins. “It's not like we were expecting trouble, see.”

  “One bow against fifty men, that's bad odds,” said Vimes. “Let's get out of here!”

  “Are they after us, sarge?”

  “They shot Wiglet, didn't they? Let's move!”

  They scuttled along the alleyway. As they crossed a wider one, there was the distant sound of the shop door being kicked open again, and a gleeful shout.

  “I got you now, Duke!”

  Carcer…

  An arrow clattered off a wall and pinwheeled end over end along the alley.

  Vimes had run before. Every watchman knew about running. They called it the Backyard Handicap. Vimes had taken that route many times, ducking through alleys, leaping on wings of terror over the walls from one dog-infested yard to the next, falling into the chicken runs and slipping down privy roofs, looking for safety or his mates or, failing that, somewhere to stand with his back to the wall. Sometimes you had to run.

  And, like the herd, you stayed together by instinct. In a crowd of thirty or so, you were harder to hit.

  Fortunately, Dickins had taken the lead. The old coppers were best at running, having run so much during their lives. As on the battlefield, only the cunning and the fast survived.

  And so he didn't bother to stop as the cart appeared at the end of the alley. It was a heggler's wagon, probably trying to take a short cut and escape the “no one being able to move because of everyone else” chaos in the main streets. The man, the back of his wagon piled ten feet high with boxes, his vehicle scraping the walls, looked in horror at the stampede heading for him. No one had any brakes and absolutely no one was going to go backwards.

  Vimes, in the rear, watched the group flow over and under the wagon, to the splintering of boxes and the pop of exploding eggs. The horse danced in the shafts and men dived through its legs or clear over its back.

  When Vimes reached it he clambered on to the box just as an arrow hit the woodwork. He grinned desperately at the driver.

  “Jump,” he suggested, and smacked the horse on the flank with the flat of his sword. Both men were thrown back as it reared and sent the remains of the stricken load sliding off the wagon.

  Vimes hauled the driver upright as soon as the debris stopped falling. He was covered in egg.

  “Sorry about that, sir. Watch business. Ask for Sergeant Keel. Got to rush!”

  Behind them the wagon rattled up the alley, wheel rims knocking sparks off the walls. There were doorways and side alleys to escape into, but Carcer's crew would certainly be slowed down.

  The rest of his crew had stopped when they heard the noise, but Vimes piled into them and forced them on until they reached a road, blocked with carts and thronged with people.

  “Well, you got your soldiers covered in egg, sarge,” said Sam, with a worried grin. “What's all that about?”

  “It's some of the Unmentionables,” said Vimes. “Probably want to settle the score.” Well, that was close enough.

  “But I saw watchmen and soldiers with 'em,” said Fred Colon.

  “Sarge, it's me, sarge! Please, sarge!” Nobby elbowed his way through the men.

  “Is this a good time, Nobby?” said Vimes.

  “There's men after you, sarge!”

  “Well done, Nobby!”

  “Carcer, sarge! He's got a job with Snapcase! Captain of the Palace Guard, sarge! And they gonna get you! Snapcase told 'em to, sarge! My mate Scratch'n'Sniff is the under-bootboy at the palace and he was in the yard and heard 'em talking, sarge!”

  I should have known, Vimes thought. Snapcase was a devious devil. And now Carcer's got his feet under another bastard's table. Captain of the Guard…

  “I haven't been making a lot of friends lately,” said Vimes.

  “Okay, gentlemen, I'm going to run. If you lot melt away into t
he crowd you'll be fine, I expect.”

  “No fear, sarge,” said Sam, and there was a general murmur of agreement.

  “We had an amnesty,” said Dickins. “They can't do this!”

  “Anyway, they were shooting at everyone,” said one of the soldiers. “Bastards! They need a good going-over!”

  “They've got bows,” said Vimes.

  “So we ambush 'em, sarge,” said Dickins. “Choose your ground and fight up close and a crossbow's just a piece of wood.”

  “Did any of you hear me?” said Vimes. “They're after me. Not you. You do not want to mix it with Carcer. You, Snouty, you shouldn't be doing this at your time of life.”

  The old jailer glared at him through runny eyes. “That's a hell of a thing for you, hnah, to say to me, sarge,” he said.

  “How do we know he won't decide to come after us anyway?” said Dickins. “An amnesty's an amnesty, right? They can't do this!” There was a general chorus on the lines of “Yeah, that's right!”

  It's happening, Vimes thought. They are talking themselves right into it. But what can I do? We've got to face 'em. I've got to face 'em. I've got to face Carcer. The thought of leaving him here, with all he knows…

  “How about if we head down Cable Street?” said Dickins. “Lots of little alleyways off there. They'll go rushing along, thinking we've bolted for the Watch House, and we'll 'ave 'em! We ain't standing for this, sarge.”

  Vimes sighed. “Okay,' he said. Thank you. You're of one mind?”

  There was a cheer.

  “Then I won't make a speech,” said Vimes. “There isn't time. I'll just say this. If we don't win this, if we don't see them off…well, we've got to, that's all. Otherwise it'll be…very bad for this city. Very bad.”

  “That's right,” Dickins cut in, insistently. “There was an amnesty.”

  “But, look,” said one of the soldiers. “I don't know half the men here. If we're going to close in, we want to know who's on our side…”

  “That's right, hnah,” said Snouty. “I mean, some of them chasing us was watchmen!”

  Vimes raised his eyes. The wide alley in front of them, known as Lobsneaks, stretched all the way to Cable Street. It was lined with gardens, and there were purple flowers on the bushes.