The morning air smelled of lilac.
“I recall a battle once,” said Dickins, looking up at a tree. “In history, it was. And there was this company, see, and they was a ragtag of different squads and all covered in mud in any case, and they found themselves hiding in a field of carrots. So as a badge they all pulled up carrots and stuck them on their helmets, so's they'd know who their friends were and incidentally have a nourishing snack for later, which is never to be sneezed at on a battlefield.”
“Well? So what?” said Dibbler.
“So what's wrong with a lilac flower?” said Dickins, reaching up and pulling down a laden branch. “Makes a spanking plume, even if you can't eat it…”
And now, Vimes thought, it ends.
“I think they are very bad men!” said a high, rather elderly but nevertheless determined voice from somewhere in the crowd, and there was a glimpse of a skinny hand waving a knitting needle.
“And I shall need a volunteer to escort Mrs Soupson home,” he said.
Carcer surveyed the length of Lobsneaks.
“Looks like we just follow the trail of egg,” he said. “Looks like Keel has a yellow streak.”
It didn't get quite the laugh he'd expected. A lot of the men he'd been able to collect had a more physical sense of humour. But Carcer had, in his own way, some of Vimes's qualities, only they were inverted. A certain kind of man looks up to someone who's brave enough to be really bad.
“Are we going to get into trouble for this, captain?”
And of course, you got those who were just along for the ride. He turned to Sergeant Knock, with Corporal Quirke lurking behind him. He fully shared Vimes's view of them although he approached it, as it were, from the other direction. You couldn't trust either of them. But they hated Keel with that gnawing, nerve-sapping hatred that only the mediocre can really bring to bear, and that was useful.
“How do you think we're going to get into trouble, sergeant?” he said. “We're working for the government.”
“He's a devious devil, sir!” said Knock, as if this was a character flaw in a copper.
“Now you lot listen to me, right?” said Carcer. “No mess-ups this time! I want Keel alive, okay? And that kid Vimes. You can do what the hell you like to the rest of them.”
“Why d'you want him taken alive?” said a quiet voice behind Carcer. “I thought Snapcase wanted him dead. And what's the kid done that's so wrong?”
Carcer turned. To his mild surprise, the watchman behind him didn't flinch.
“What's your name, mister?” he said.
“Coates.”
“Ned's the one I told you about, sir,” said Knock urgently, leaning over Carcer's shoulder. “Keel gave him the push, sir, after—”
“Shut up,” said Carcer, without taking his eyes off Coates. There wasn't a hint of fear there, not even a glimmer of bravado. Coates just stared back.
“Did you just come along for the ride, Coates?” he said.
“No, captain. I don't like Keel. But Vimesy is just a kid that got dragged along. What're you going to do to him?”
Carcer leaned forward; Coates did not lean back.
“You were a rebel, weren't you?” he said. “Don't like to do what you're told, eh?”
“They're going to get a big bottle of ginger beer!” said a voice drunk with evil delight.
Carcer turned and looked down at the skinny, black-clad Ferret. He was somewhat battered, partly because he'd put up a fight when the watchmen had tried to pry him out of his cell, and mostly because Todzy and Muffer had been waiting outside. But he'd been allowed to live; beating something like Ferret to death was, to the other two, an embarrassing and demeaning waste of fist.
He certainly flinched under Carcer's gaze. His whole body was a flinch.
“Did I ask you to speak, you little dog's tonker?” Carcer enquired.
“Nosir!”
“Right. Remember that. It could save your life one day.” Carcer turned his attention back to Ned. “Okay, sunshine, this is the bright new dawn you wanted. You asked for it, you got it. We've just got to sweep away a few of yesterday's leftovers. By order of Lord Snapcase, your mate. And it ain't your job to ask why and who, but young Vimesy? Why, I think he's a game lad who'll be a credit to the city if he's kept out of the way of bad company. Now, Knock says you're good at thinking. So now you tell me what you think Keel's gonna do.”
Ned gave him a look that went on for slightly longer than Carcer felt comfortable with.
“He's a defender,” he said, eventually. “He'll be back at the Watch House. He'll set a few traps, get the men tooled up and wait for you.”
“Hah?” said Carcer.
“He doesn't like to see his men hurt,” said Ned.
“This is not going to be his day, then,” said Carcer.
Halfway down Cable Street was a barricade. It wasn't much. A few doors, a table or two…by the standards of the big one that was even now being turned back into unbelligerent dining-room furniture, it barely existed at all.
Carcer's informal crew walked slowly, staring up at buildings and into the mouths of alleys. People in the street fled at their approach. Some men walk in a way that projects bad news ahead of them.
Vimes crouched behind the makeshift wall and peered through a crack. They'd snatched a few crossbows from aimless soldiers on the way here, but by the look of it Carcer's men had at least fifteen between them. And they outnumbered the lilac lads two to one.
If push came to shove, he'd take Carcer out right now. It wasn't the way it ought to go. He wanted people to see the man hang, he wanted the city to execute him. Going back empty-handed would leave a loose end flapping.
He heard the sound of sobbing from further along the barricade. It wasn't young Sam, he knew, and Nobby Nobbs had probably cried all the tears a body was capable of some time ago. It was Reg. He sat with his back to the makeshift defence, the threadbare flag across his knees, and tears dripping off his chin.
“Reg, you ought to go,” Vimes hissed. “You don't even have a weapon.”
“What's the good of it, eh?” said Reg. “You were bloody right, sarge! Things just go round and round! You got rid of the bloody Unmentionables and here they are again! What's the point, eh? This city could be such a great place but no, oh no, the bastards always end up on top! Nothing ever bloody changes! They just take their money and mess us around!”
Carcer had stopped twenty yards from the barricade, and was watching it carefully.
“Way of the world, Reg,” murmured Vimes, counting enemies under his breath.
And a big covered cart came around the corner, rocking under its load. It rolled to a halt a little way from Carcer's crew, partly because the way was blocked but mostly, perhaps, because one of the men had walked up to the driver and aimed a crossbow at his head.
“And now the bloody bastards have won,” moaned Reg.
“Every day of the week, Reg,” said Vimes absently, trying to follow the movements of too many people at once.
The other men were spreading out. After all, they had the firepower.
The man holding up Mr Dibbler, the cart driver, wasn't paying too much attention. Now Vimes wished he'd put himself in the wagon. Oh, well, someone had to start the rumble—
“Yeah? You want to shoot something? Bastards!”
They all stared, Carcer too. Reg had stood up, was waving the flag back and forth, was clambering over the barricade…
He held the flag like a banner of defiance. “You can take our lives but you'll never take our freedom!” he screamed.
Carcer's men looked at one another, puzzled by what sounded like the most badly thought-out war cry in the history of the universe. Vimes could see their lips moving as they tried to work it out.
Carcer raised his crossbow, gestured to his men, and said: “Wrong!”
Reg was hit by five heavy bolts so that he did a little dance before falling to his knees. It happened in seconds.
Vimes opened hi
s mouth to give the order to charge, and shut it when he saw Reg raise his head. In silence, using the flag pole as an aid, Reg got back to his feet.
Three more arrows hit him. He looked down at his skinny chest, bristling with feathers, and took a step forward. And another.
One of the crossbowmen drew his sword and ran at the stricken man, and was knocked into the air by a blow from Reg that must have felt like it had come from a sledgehammer. And in the ranks of the crew there was a fight. Someone in a copper's uniform had drawn his own sword and taken out two bowmen. And the man at the cart was running back to the action…
“Get them!” Vimes yelled, and leapt the barricade.
There was no plan any more. Dickins and his men poured out of the cart. There were still loaded crossbows out there, but a bow is suddenly not the weapon you want to be holding when angry swords are approaching from both directions.
It'll come when you call…
All plans, all futures, all politics…were elsewhere. Vimes scooped up a fallen sword and with a weapon in either hand screamed wordless defiance and launched himself at the nearest enemy. The man went down headless.
He saw Snouty go down in the melee, and sprang over him to catch his attacker in a windmill of blades. And then he spun around to confront Knock, who dropped his sword and fled. And Vimes ran on, not fighting but hacking, ducking strokes without seeing them, blocking attacks without turning his head, letting the ancient senses do their work. Someone was slicing towards young Sam; Vimes brought a sword down on the arm in true self-defence. He moved on, in the centre of a widening circle. He wasn't an enemy, he was a nemesis.
And as suddenly as it had come the beast withdrew, leaving an angry man with two swords.
Carcer had retreated to the side of the street, with his men—far fewer men now.
Colon was on his knees, throwing up. Dickins was down, and Vimes knew he was dead. Nobby was down too, but that was just because someone had kicked him hard and he'd probably decided that staying down was best. There were a lot of Carcer's men down, more than half. Some more had fled a maniac with two swords. Some had even fled Reg Shoe, who was sitting on the barricade, staring at the sheer weight of arrows in him. As he watched, his brain seemingly decided that he must be dead on this evidence, and he fell backwards. But in a few hours, his brain would be in for a surprise.
No one knew why some people became natural zombies, substituting sheer stubborn will power for blind life force. But attitude played a part. For Reg Shoe, life was only just beginning…
Young Sam was upright. He looked as though he'd thrown up, but he'd done well to survive his first real melee. He gave Vimes a weak smile.
“What's happening now, sarge?” he managed, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead.
Vimes sheathed a sword and quietly slipped one of Mrs Goodbody's little friends out of his pocket.
“That depends on what happens over there,” he said, nodding towards the other end of the street. Sam obediently turned to look, and fell asleep.
Vimes pocketed the cosh, and saw Coates looking at him.
“Whose side are you on, Ned?” he said.
“What did you hit the kid for?” said Ned.
“So he's out of it. You got anything to say?”
“Not much, sarge.” Ned grinned. “We're all learning a lot today, ain't we?”
"True enough,' said Vimes.
“There's even bigger bastards than you, for a start.”
This time Vimes grinned. “But I try harder, Ned.”
“You know Carcer?”
“He's a murderer. And just about everything else, too. A stone-cold killer. With brains,” said Vimes.
“This is going to go the distance?”
“Yep. It's got to. We've got to stop this, Ned. This is the only chance. It stops here or not at all. Can you imagine him loose now he's pally with Snapcase?”
“Yes. I can,” said Ned. “Just as well I wasn't planning anything this evening, eh? But you can tell me one thing, sarge. How do you know all this?”
Vimes hesitated. But at a time like this, what difference did it make?
“I'm from this city,” said Vimes. “But, oh, there was a hole in time, something like that. You want to know? I travelled here in time, Ned, and that's the truth.”
Ned Coates looked him up and down. Blood covered Vimes's armour, and his hands, and half his face, and he was holding a bloody sword in his hand.
“From how far back?” he said.
Time stopped. Coates froze and faded in colour, into a world made up of shades of grey.
“Nearly there, your grace,” said Sweeper, behind Vimes.
“Ye gods!” yelled Vimes, flinging his sword to the ground. “You are not making any friends here, you know?”
The sword hadn't hit the ground. It hung a few inches from his hands, and had faded to greyness.
“There's just a few things we need to tell you,” said Sweeper, as if a sword in mid-air was a minor consideration.
“What's happened to the bloody sword?” said Vimes, to whom it wasn't.
“Time has stopped for everyone but you,” said Sweeper patiently. “Actually that sentence is wrong in every particular, but it's quite a useful lie. It'll just take us a moment to set things up…”
Now Vimes had time, of some kind, to look around. The whole street was darker, as if the fight had been taking place in the half-light just before dawn. The only colour was in the robes and faces of Sweeper and Qu as they manoeuvred a handcart out of an alley. It held a couple of small stone columns, and the body of John Keel, wrapped in a shroud.
“We have some good news,” said Sweeper.
“You have?” said Vimes weakly. He walked over to the body.
“Indeed,” said Qu, unshipping the stone cylinders. “We thought we might have to persuade you to remove all your armour but you will not, I think, need to do this.”
“That's because it will stay here,” said Lu-Tze. “Belongs here, see?”
“No,” said Vimes, “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” He touched the body. “So cold,” he said. “That's what I remember. He was so cold.”
“A morgue does that to people,” said Sweeper, in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Now please pay attention, commander,” said Qu. “When we operate the—”
Vimes looked up, violence in his eyes. Sweeper laid a hand on Qu's arm.
“We've got things to do for a minute or two,” he said.
“Yes, but it's vital that he knows how—”
“We've got things to do for a minute or two,” Sweeper repeated, making a face.
“Oh? What? Oh. Yes. Er…we've got, er…things. To do. Things to do…er…things.”
They wandered away. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes saw them walking back and forth across the street, as if taking measurements.
He looked back at John Keel. But what could you say? Sorry you're dead? Keel had originally died on the barricades, not in a street fight. But he was just as dead, all the same.
Vimes was hazy on religion. He attended Watch funerals and went to such religious events as the proper fulfilling of the office of Commander entailed, but as for the rest…well, you saw things sometimes that made it impossible to believe not only in gods, but also in common humanity and your own eyes. From what he could remember, Keel had felt the same way. You got on with things. If there were any gods, you expected them to get on with things, too, and didn't interrupt them while they were working.
What could you say to a dead copper? What would he want said?
Ah…
He leaned closer. “Carcer's going to bloody swing for this,” he said, and stood back.
Behind him, Sweeper coughed theatrically. “Ready, your grace?” he said.
“Ready enough,” said Vimes.
“We were telling you about the armour,” said Sweeper. “It'll—”
“The thing is, commander,” Qu interrupted, “that you and this fellow
Carcer and all the clothes and possessions you arrived with form an elongated trans-time anomaly, which is under considerable tension.”
Vimes turned and looked at Sweeper.
“It's very, very hard to move things out of the time where they belong but it takes much less effort to move them back to where they were,” Sweeper translated.
Vimes carried on staring.
“Everything really, really wants to stay where it should be,” Sweeper tried.
“You're right there,” said Vimes.
“All we do is…grease the way,” said Sweeper. “We give a little push, and it'll all snap back. And away you go. Have you had anything to eat this morning?”
“No!”
“Shouldn't be too messy, then,” said Sweeper. When Vimes looked puzzled he went on: “Undigested food. It'll stay here, you see.”
“You mean it'll come tearing out of—”
“No, no, no,” said Qu, quickly. “You won't notice. But a nourishing meal when you get back would be a good idea.”
“And the armour stays here?”
Qu beamed. “Yes, your grace. Everything. Eyepatch, socks, everything.”
“Boots, too?”
“Yes. Everything.”
“What about my drawers?”
“Yes, those too. Everything.”
“So I'll arrive in the nuddy?”
“The one costume that's in fashion anywhere,” said Sweeper, grinning.
“Then why did all my armour arrive with me when I came?” said Vimes. “And damn Carcer had his knives, that's for sure!”
Qu opened his mouth, but Sweeper answered faster.
“It takes a thousand steps to get to the top of a mountain but one little hop'll take you all the way back to the bottom,” he said. “Okay?”
“Well, I suppose it makes sen—” Vimes began.
“That isn't how it works at all, Lu-Tze!” wailed Qu.
“No,” said Sweeper, “but it's another good lie. Look, commander, we don't have a damn great thunderstorm and we don't have enough stored time. This is a field operation. It's the best we can do. We'll get you back, and your prisoner, although you almost certainly won't arrive in the same place, 'cos of quantum. It's hard enough making sure you don't arrive two hundred feet in the air, believe me. Pushing all your clothes as well, when they belong here, that just takes too much power. Now, are you ready? You need to go back to where you were standing. Get to Carcer as soon as you can. You must grab him, otherwise he'll stay behind.”
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