Night Watch

“That's my advice,” he said. “Of course, you know your own business best. Me and what's left of my poor lads, we're going to go out and fight. I'm sure their lordships will appreciate anything you feel you can do.”

He strode out, the Particulars falling in behind him.

“Er…you all right, Clive?” said the captain. Only the whites of the major's eyes were showing.

“What a horrible man,” said the major quietly.

“Er…yes, of course. On the other hand—”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know. We have no choice. We have orders. That… weasel is right. If the damn thing is there in the morning, I've got no career and nor have you. Show of strength, bold front, take no prisoners…that's what our orders are. Stupid, stupid orders.” He sighed.

“I suppose we could disobey…” said the captain.

“Are you mad? And then what would we do? Don't be a fool, Tom. Muster the men, get the ox teams hitched up, let's make a bit of a show for the sake of it. Let's just get it over with!”

Vimes was shaken awake. He looked up into his own face, younger, less lined, more terrified.

“Wha'?”

“They're bringing up siege weapons, sarge! They're coming down the street, sarge!”

“What? That's stupid! The barricade is highest here! A couple of men could defend it!”

Vimes leapt to his feet. It must be a feint. A stupid feint, too. Just here Waddy and his mates had wedged two big carts across the road, and they'd become the nucleus of a solid wall of wood and rubble. But there was a narrow, low entrance for people to come through, which let them into the Republic with their head at just the right height for a gentle tap if they turned out to be a soldier. People were scrambling through now like rats.

Vimes climbed up the barricade and looked over the top. At the far end of the street a big metal wall was advancing, surrounded by flaming torches. That was all there was to see, in a city without lights. But he knew what it was.

It was called Big Mary and it was mounted on a heavy cart. Vimes had seen it before. There would be a couple of oxen behind the cart, pushing it. The walls weren't solid metal, but merely a skin to stop defenders throwing fire at the wooden planks underneath. And the whole thing was simply to defend the men who, behind that cosy shelter, had the big, big hooks on the end of the long chains…

They'd fix them in the barricade, and the oxen would be turned around in the traces, and maybe another four beasts would be added and then there was nothing you could build of wood that wouldn't be pulled apart.

Between the cart and the barricade, struggling to escape from the crush, was a mass of frightened people.

“You got any orders, sarge?” said Fred Colon, pulling himself up alongside Vimes. He looked up the street. “Oh dear,” he said.

“Yeah, this is when you need a couple of trolls on the force,” said Vimes. “I reckon Detr—”

“Trolls? Huh, wouldn't work with any trolls,” said Colon. “Too fick to take orders.”

You'll find out one day, thought Vimes, and said aloud: “Okay. Anyone that can't or shouldn't have a weapon, they get back as far as possible, right? Get a message to Dickins, tell him we'll need anyone he can spare, but—blast it!”

What'd happened before? There'd been a lot of activity against the barricades, but it had been a feint while the cavalry were sneaking around outside. He didn't remember this.

He glanced at the oncoming wagon. At the top of the wobbling wall, on the other side, there was generally a narrow ledge for bowmen to stand and fire down at anyone trying to interfere with the demolition men.

In the treacherous light of the torches, Vimes thought he saw the features of Carcer. Even at this distance, there was something horribly recognizable about that expression.

Swing was dead. And when everyone's running around in confusion a man who is firm of purpose can push his way up by sheer nerve. After all, Vimes thought, I did.

He clambered down the barricade and looked at the men.

“I want a volunteer no, not you, Sam. Wiglet, you'll do. Your dad's a carpenter, right? Well, there's a carpenter's shop round the corner. Run and get me a couple of mallets and some wooden wedges, or long nails…something spiky. Go, go, go!”

Wiglet nodded and ran off.

“And…let's see, yeah, I need two-penny-worth of fresh ginger. Nancyball, nip around the corner to the apothecary, will you?”

“What's that any good for, sarge?” said Sam.

“Gingering things up.”

Vimes removed his helmet and armour, and nodded to the gap through which people were streaming.

“Fred, we'll be going out that way. Think you can push us a path?”

“I'll give it a go, sarge.” Fred squared his shoulders.

“We're going to stop that thing. They can't move it fast and with all this noise and confusion no one will notice a thing—that was quick, Billy—”

“I just grabbed everything, sarge,” panted Wiglet, running up with a small sack. “I know what you want to do, sarge, I did it sometimes out of mischief when I was a kid—”

“Me too,” said Vimes. “And here's my ginger. Ah, lovely. It brings tears to my eyes. Okay, Billy? Ready, Fred.”

It took all of Colon's bulk, with Vimes pushing behind him, to thrust a way through the desperate mob into the world beyond the barricade. In the darkness Vimes forced his way between the bodies, up to the side of the siege engine. It was like a huge slow ram pushing its way down the street, but jerking forward more slowly than a walking pace because of the press of people. Vimes fancied that Carcer probably enjoyed this ride.

He ducked under the cart, unseen in the mob, and grabbed a mallet and a wedge from Wiglet's bag.

“You do the left rear wheel and then make a run for it, Billy,” he said.

“But sarge—”

“That was an order. Get out, get back, get people off the street as fast as possible. Do it!”

Vimes crawled up to one of the front wheels and held the wedge ready between wheel and axle. The cart stopped for a moment, and he thrust the wedge into the gap and thumped it with the hammer. He had time for another blow before the cart gave a creak that suggested the oxen were pushing again. Then he crawled back quickly and took the sack from Billy before the little man, with a reluctant glance, scuttled out into the forest of legs.

Vimes got a third wedge in before loud voices somewhere behind him indicated that the lack of progress had been noticed. The wheels rocked, and bound even further on the wedges. The wheels would have to come off before they could be got out.

Even so, oxen were powerful beasts. Enough of them would have no problem at all in dragging the cart as well as the barricade. But the nice thing, the nice thing, was that people thought of a barricade as something people tried to get into, not out of…

Vimes slipped out into the noisy, confusing night. There were soldiers, and watchmen, and refugees, all cursing at cross purposes. In the flickering shadows, Vimes was just another shape. He pushed his way confidently around to the straining oxen and their driver, who was prodding them with a stick. He was heartened by the fact that the man looked the kind of man who'd get six out of ten when answering the question: “What is your name?”

Vimes didn't even stop. The important thing was not to let the other person have a chance to say “But—”, let alone “Who the hell do you think you are?” He pushed the man aside and glared at the sweating beasts.

“Ah, right, I can see your problem right here,” he said, in the voice of one who knows everything there is to know about oxen. “They've got the glaggies. But we can fix that. Hold up that one's tail. Hurry up, man!”

The ox poker responded to the voice of authority. Vimes palmed a lump of ginger. Here goes, he thought.