Night Watch

“It's going to be an heirloom,” said his wife. “Be so kind as to send your young men to collect our furniture, will you? And be careful with it. Put it at the back somewhere where it won't get shot at.”

Vimes nodded at Sam and a couple of the other men as Mrs Rutherford picked her way over the debris and headed for the Watch House.

“Is there going to be any fighting?” said Mr Rutherford anxiously.

“Possibly, sir.”

“I'm not very good at that sort of thing, I'm afraid.”

“Don't worry about that, sir.” Vimes propelled the man over the barricade, and turned to the rest of the little group. He'd been aware of eyes boring into him, and now he traced the rays back to source, a young man with black trousers, a frilly shirt and long curly hair.

“This is a ruse, isn't it,” said the man. “You'll get us in your power and we'll never be seen again, eh?”

“Stay out then, Reg,” said Vimes. He cupped his hands and turned back to the Whalebone Lane barricade. “Anyone else wants to join us had better get a move on!” he shouted.

“You don't know that's my name!” said Reg Shoe.

Vimes stared into the big protruding eyes. The only difference between Reg now and the Reg he'd left back in the future was that Constable Shoe was rather greyer and was held together in places by stitches. Zombiehood would come naturally to Reg. He was born to be dead. He believed so strongly in things that some kind of inner spring kept him going. He'd make a good copper. He didn't make a very good revolutionary. People as meticulously fervent as Reg got real revolutionaries worried. It was the way he stared.

“You're Reg Shoe,” he said. “You live in Whalebone Lane.”

“Aha, you've got secret files on me, eh?” said Reg, with terrifying happiness.

“Not really, no. Now if you'd be so good—”

“I bet you've got a big file on me a mile long,” said Reg.

“Not a whole mile, Reg, no,” said Vimes. “Listen, Reg, we—”

“I demand to see it!”

Vimes sighed. “Mr Shoe, we don't have a file on you. We don't have a file on anyone, understand? Half of us can't read without using a finger. Reg, we are not interested in you.”

Reg Shoe's slightly worrying eyes remained fixed on Vimes's face for a moment, and then his brain rejected the information as contrary to whatever total fantasy was going on inside.

“Well, it's no good you torturing me because I won't reveal any details about my comrades in the other revolutionary cells!” said Reg.

“Okay. I won't, then. Now perhaps—”

“That's how we work, see? None of the cadres knows about the other ones!”

“Really. Do they know about you?” said Vimes.

For a moment, Reg's face clouded. “Pardon?”

“Well, you said you don't know about them,” said Vimes. “So…do they know about you?” He wanted to add: you're a cell of one, Reg. The real revolutionaries are silent men with poker-player eyes and probably don't know or care if you exist. You've got the shirt and the haircut and the sash and you know all the songs, but you're no urban guerrilla. You're an urban dreamer. You turn over rubbish bins and scrawl on walls in the name of The People, who'd clip you round the ear if they found you doing it. But you believe.

“Ah, so you're a secret operative,” he said, to get the poor man off the hook.

Reg brightened. “That's right!” he said. “The people are the sea in which the revolutionary swims!”

“Like swordfishes?” Vimes tried.

“Pardon?”

And you're a flounder, thought Vimes. Ned's a revolutionary. He knows how to fight and he can think, even if he is on the skew. But Reg, you really ought to be indoors…

“Well, I can see you're a dangerous individual,” he said. “We'd better have you where we can keep an eye on you. Hey, that's right. You can undermine the enemy from within.”

The relieved Reg raised a fist in salute and carried a table to the new barricade with revolutionary speed. There was some hurried conversation behind the old makeshift barricade, already being denuded of Mrs Rutherford's furniture. This was interrupted by the clatter of hoofbeats from the far end of Treacle Mine Road and a sudden burst of instant decisiveness on the part of the remainder of the crowd.

They poured towards the new official barricade, with Lance-Constable Vimes bringing up the rear, fairly well hampered by a dining-room chair.

“Mind out for that!” shouted a female voice from somewhere behind him. “It's one of a set!”

Vimes put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “Just give me your crossbow, will you?” he said.

The horsemen came closer.

Vimes was not good at horsemen. Something in him resented being addressed by anyone eight feet above the ground. He didn't like the sensation of being looked at by nostrils. He didn't like being talked down to.

By the time they'd reached the barricade he'd clambered around to the front of it and was standing in the middle of the street.

They slowed down. It was probably the way he didn't move, and held the crossbow in the nonchalant manner of someone who knows how to use it but has decided not to, for the moment.

“You, there!” said a trooper.

“Yes?” said Vimes.

“Are you in charge?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“Where are your men?”

Vimes jerked a thumb towards the growing barricade. On the top of the heap, Mrs Rutherford's father was snoring peacefully.

“But that's a barricade!” said the trooper.

“Well done.”

“There's a man waving a flag!”

Vimes turned. Surprisingly, it was Reg. Some of the men had brought out the old flag from Tilden's office and stuck it on the barricade, and Reg was the sort to wave any flag going.

“Probably high spirits, sir,” said Vimes. “Don't worry. We're all fine.”

“It's a damn barricade, man. A rebel barricade!” said the second trooper. Oh boy, thought Vimes. They have shiny, shiny breastplates. And wonderfully fresh pink faces.

“Not exactly. In fact it's—”

“Are you stupid, fellow? Don't you know that all barricades are to be torn down by order of the Patrician?”

The third horseman, who had been staring at Vimes, urged his horse a little closer.

“What's that pip on your shoulder, officer?” he said.

“Means I'm Sergeant-at-Arms. Special rank. And who're you?”

“He doesn't have to tell you that!” said the first trooper.

“Really?” said Vimes. The man was getting on his nerves. “Well, you're just a trooper and I'm a bleedin' sergeant and if you dare speak to me like that again I'll have you down off that horse and thump you across the ear, understand?”

Even the horse took a step backwards. The trooper opened his mouth to speak, but the third horseman raised a white-gloved hand.

Oh dear, thought Vimes, focusing on the sleeve of the red jacket. The man was a captain. Not only that, he was an intelligent one, by the look of him. He hadn't mouthed off until he'd had a chance to assess the situation. You got them sometimes. They could be dangerously bright.

“I note, sergeant-at-arms,” said the captain, enunciating the rank with care and without apparent sarcasm, “that the flag over the barricade is the flag of Ankh-Morpork.”