Night Watch

show.”

He sat down at his desk and put his feet up as Colon locked the door and Waddy pulled the bar across.

This is happening, he thought, but it didn't happen before. Not exactly like this. This time, the Morphic Street mob did a runner. They weren't ambushed in their meeting. There wasn't a fight. The sight of all those coppers must've scared them rigid. They weren't much anyway, just sloganeers and skivers and me-too-ists, the people who crowd behind the poor slob who's the spokesman shouting “yeah, right” and leg it up an alley when the law gets rough. But some had died in the ambush, and some fought back, and one thing led, as always, to another. Except, this time, there was no ambush, because some thick sergeant made too much noise…

Two different presents. One past, one future…

I don't know what's going to happen next.

However, I've got a damn good idea.

“Well done, lads,” he said, standing up. “You finish trapping us inside and I'll go and tell the old man what's happening.”

He heard the puzzled muttering behind him as he climbed the stairs.

Captain Tilden was sitting at his desk, staring at the wall. Vimes coughed loudly, and saluted.

“Had a bit of—” he began, and Tilden turned his ashen face to him. He looked as though he had seen a ghost, and it had been in the mirror.

“You've heard the news too?”

“Sir?”

“The riot up at Dolly Sisters,” said Tilden. “It was only a couple of hours ago.”

I'm too close, Vimes thought, as the words sank in. All those things were just names, it all seemed to happen at once. Dolly Sisters, yeah. They were a right mob of hotheads up there…

“The lieutenant of the Day Watch called in one of the regiments,” said Tilden. “Which he was duly authorized to do. Of course.”

“Which one?” said Vimes, for the look of the thing. The name was in the history books, after all.

“Lord Venturi's Medium Dragoons, sergeant. My old regiment.”

That's right, thought Vimes. And cavalry are highly trained at civilian crowd control. Everyone knows that.

“And, er, there were some, er, accidental deaths…”

Vimes felt sorry for the man. In truth, it was never proved that anyone was given an order to ride people down, but did it matter? Horses pushing, and people unable to get away because of the press of people behind them…it was too easy for small children to lose grip of a hand…

“But, in fairness, missiles were thrown at the officers and one soldier was badly injured,” said Tilden, as if reading the words off a card.

That's all right, then? Vimes thought.

“What kind of missiles, sir?”

“Fruit, I gather. Although there may have been some stones as well.” Vimes realized that Tilden's hand was shaking. “The riot was over the price of bread, I understand.”

No. The protest was over the price of bread, said Vimes's inner voice. The riot was what happens when you have panicking people trapped between idiots on horseback and other idiots shouting “yeah, right!” and trying to push forward, and the whole thing in the charge of a fool advised by a maniac with a steel rule.

“The feeling of the palace,” said Tilden slowly, “is that revolutionary elements may attack the Watch Houses.”

“Really, sir? Why?”

“It's the sort of thing they do,” said Tilden.

“As a matter of fact, sir, the men are putting up shutters and—”

“Do whatever you feel necessary, sergeant,” said Tilden, waving a hand with a scrawled letter in it. “We are told we must be mindful of the curfew regulations. That has been underlined.”

Vimes paused before answering. He'd bitten back the first answer. He contented himself with “Very well, sir,” and left.

The man wasn't a bad man, he knew; he must have been badly affected by the news to give such a stupid, dangerous order. “Do what you feel necessary.” Give an order like that to a man who's liable to panic when he sees a bunch of people waving their fists and you got the Dolly Sisters Massacre.

He walked back down the stairs. The squad were standing around looking nervous.

“Prisoner in the cells?” said Vimes.

Corporal Colon nodded. “Yessir. Sarge, Snouty says that up at Dolly Sisters—”

“I know. Now here's what I feel is necessary. Take the shutters down, unbar the door, leave it open and light all the lamps. Why isn't the blue lamp over the door lit?”

“Dunno, sarge. But what if—”

“Get it lit, corporal. And then you and Waddy go and stand guard outside, where you can be seen. You're friendly-looking local lads. Take your bells but, and I want to make this very clear, no swords, right?”

“No swords?” Colon burst out. “But what if a bloody great mob comes round the corner and I'm not armed?”

Vimes reached him in two swift strides and stood nose to nose.

“And if you have got a sword, what will you do, eh? Against a bloody great mob? What do you want 'em to see? Now what I want 'em to see is Fatty Colon, decent lad, not too bright, I knew 'is dad, an' there's ol' Waddy, he drinks in my pub. 'cos if they just see a couple of men in uniform with swords you'll be in trouble, and if you draw those swords you'll be in real trouble, and if by any chance, corporal, you draw swords tonight without my order and survive then you'll wish you hadn't done either because you'll have to face me, see? And then you'll know what trouble is, 'cos everything up until then will look like a bleedin' day at the soddin' seaside. Understand?”

Fred Colon goggled at him. There was no other word for it.

“Don't let my sugary sweet tones lead you to believe that I'm not damn well giving you orders,” said Vimes, turning away. “Vimes?”

“Yes, sarge?” said young Sam.

“Have we got a saw in this place?”

Snouty stepped forward. “I've got a toolbox, sarge.”

“Nails, too?”

“Yessir!”

“Right. Rip the door off my locker and hammer a lot of nails right through it, will you? Then lay it down on the upstairs landing, points up. I'll take the saw, 'cos I'm going to the privy.”

After the silence that followed, Corporal Colon obviously felt he had to make a contribution. He cleared his throat and said, “If you've got a problem in that area, sarge, Mrs Colon's got a wonderful medicine she—”

“I won't be long,” said Vimes. In fact, he was four minutes.

“All done,” he said, returning to the sound of hammering from the locker room. “Come with me, lance- constable. Time for a lesson in interrogation. Oh…and bring the toolbox.”

“Fred and Waddy don't like being outside,” said Sam, as they went down the stone steps. “They say what if that bunch of Unmentionables turn up?”

“They needn't worry. Our friends at Cable Street are not front-door kind of people.”

He pushed open the door to the cells. The prisoner stood up and grabbed the bars.

“Okay, they've come, now you let me out,” he said. “Come on, and I'll put in a good word for you.”

“No one's come for you, sir,” said Vimes. He locked the main door behind him, and then unlocked the cell.

“It's probably a busy time for them,” he added. “Been a bit of a riot over in Dolly Sisters. A few deaths. Might be a while before they get around to you.”

The man eyed the toolbox that the lance-constable was holding. It was only a flicker, but Vimes saw the