Night Watch

“Wretched heathens!” said Rust, striding forward. “Have you been hit, sergeant?”

Vimes reached down and picked up the silver rectangle.

A stone clanged off Rust's breastplate. As he raised his megaphone, a cabbage hit him on the knee.

Vimes stared at the thing in his hand. It was a cigar case, slim and slightly curved.

He fumbled it open and read: To Sam With Love From Your Sybil.

The world moved. But now Vimes no longer felt like a drifting ship. Now he felt the tug of the anchor, pulling him round to face the rising tide.

A barrage of missiles was coming over the barricade. Throwing things was an old Ankh-Morpork custom, and there was something about Rust that made him a target. With what dignity he could muster, he raised the megaphone again and got as far as “I hereby warn you—” before a stone spun it out of his hand.

“Very well, then,” he said, and marched stiffly back to the squad. “Sergeant Keel, order the men to fire. One round of arrows, over the top of the barricade.”

“No,” said Vimes, standing up.

“I can only assume you've been stunned, sergeant,” said Rust. “Men, prepare to execute that order.”

“First man that fires, I will personally cut that man down,” said Vimes. He didn't shout. It was a simple, confident statement of precisely what the future would hold.

Rust's expression did not change. He looked Vimes up and down.

“Is this mutiny, then, sergeant?” said the captain.

“No. I'm not a soldier, sir. I can't mutiny.”

“Martial law, sergeant!” snapped Rust. “It is official!”

“Really?” said Vimes, as another rain of rocks and old vegetables came down. “Shields up, lads.”

Rust turned to Fred Colon. “Corporal, you will put this man under arrest!”

Colon swallowed. “Me?”

“You, corporal. Now.”

Colon's pink face mottled with white as the blood drained from it. “But he—” he began.

“You won't? Then it seems I must,” said the captain. He drew his sword.

At that Vimes heard the click of a crossbow's safety catch going off, and groaned. He didn't remember this happening.

“You just put that sword away, sir, please,” said the voice of Lance-Constable Vimes.

“You will not shoot me, you young idiot. That would be murder,” said the captain calmly.

“Not where I'm aiming, sir.”

Bloody hell, thought Vimes. Maybe the lad was simple. Because one thing Rust wasn't, was a coward. He thought idiot stubbornness was bravery. He wouldn't back down in the face of a dozen armed men.

“Ah, I think I can see the problem, captain,” Vimes said brightly. “As you were, lance-constable. There's been a slight misunderstanding, sir, but this should sort it out—”

It was a blow he'd remember for a long time. It was sweet. It was textbook. Rust went down like a log.

In the light of all his burning bridges, Vimes slipped his hand back into his hip pocket. Thank you, Mrs Goodbody and your range of little equalizers.

He turned to the watchmen, who were a tableau of silent horror.

“Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you're not going to use them?”

“You laid him out, sarge!” Sam squeaked, still staring at the sleeping captain.

Vimes shook some life back into his hand. “Let the record show that I took command after the captain's sudden attack of insanity,” he said. “Waddy, Wiglet…drag him back to the House and lock him up, will you?”

“What we gonna do, sarge?” wailed Colon.

Ah…

Keep the peace. That was the thing. People often failed to understand what that meant. You'd go to some life-threatening disturbance like a couple of neighbours scrapping in the street over who owned the hedge between their properties, and they'd both be bursting with aggrieved self-righteousness, both yelling, their wives would either be having a private scrap on the side or would have adjourned to a kitchen for a shared pot of tea and a chat, and they all expected you to sort it out.

And they could never understand that it wasn't your job. Sorting it out was a job for a good surveyor and a couple of lawyers, maybe. Your job was to quell the impulse to bang their stupid fat heads together, to ignore the affronted speeches of dodgy self-justification, to get them to stop shouting and to get them off the street. Once that had been achieved, your job was over. You weren't some walking god, dispensing finely tuned natural justice. Your job was simply to bring back peace.

Of course, if your few strict words didn't work and Mr Smith subsequently clambered over the disputed hedge and stabbed Mr Jones to death with a pair of gardening shears, then you had a different job, sorting out the notorious Hedge-Argument Murder. But at least it was one you were trained to do.

People expected all kinds of things from coppers, but there was one thing that sooner or later they all wanted: make this not be happening.

Make this not be happening…

“What?” he said, suddenly noticing a voice that had, in fact, been on the edge of awareness for some time.

“I said, was he insane, sarge?”

But when you're falling off the cliff it's too late to wonder if there might have been a better way up the mountain…

“He asked you to shoot at people who weren't shooting back,” growled Vimes, striding forward. “That makes him insane, wouldn't you say?”

“They are throwing stones, sarge,” said Colon.

“So? Stay out of range. They'll get tired before we do.”

In fact the barrage of missiles from the barricade had ceased; even in a time of crisis, the people of Ankh- Morpork would stop for a decent piece of street theatre. Vimes walked back towards them, stopping on the way to retrieve Rust's bent megaphone.

As he approached he cast his eye over faces just visible through the chair legs and junk. There would be Unmentionables somewhere, he knew, helping matters along. With luck they wouldn't have bothered with Whalebone Lane.

There was muttering from the defenders. Most of them had a look Vimes recognized, because it was the one he was trying to keep off his own face. It was the look of people whose world had suddenly been swept from under them, and now they were trying to tap-dance on quicksand.

He tossed away the stupid pompous megaphone. He cupped his hands.

“Some of you know me!” he shouted. “I'm Sergeant Keel, currently in command of the Treacle Mine Road Watch House! And I order you to dismantle this barricade—”

There was a chorus of jeers and one or two badly thrown missiles. Vimes waited, stock still, until they'd died away. Then he raised his hands again.

“I repeat, I order you to dismantle this barricade.” He took a breath, and went on: “And rebuild it on the other side on the corner with Cable Street! And put up another one at the top of Sheer Street! Properly built! Good grief, you don't just pile stuff up, for gods' sake! A barricade is something you construct! Who's in charge here?”

There were sounds of consternation behind the overturned furniture, but a voice called out, “You?” There was nervous laughter.

“Very funny! Now laugh this one off! No one's interested in us yet! This is a quiet part of town! But when things really go bad you're going to have cavalry on your backs! With sabres! How long would you last? But if you