Night Watch

flowed rather than happened; that is, you'd sometimes have to look quite hard to find the point of change between “hasn't been done yet” and “already taken care of, old boy”. And that was how it was done. Things were taken care of.

It was twenty minutes before Mr Snapcase arrived and twenty-five minutes before he was duly sworn in as Patrician, had magically become Lord Snapcase and was sitting in the Oblong Office; this included the one minute's silence for the late Lord Winder, whose body had been taken care of.

A number of servants were shown the door without any great unpleasantness, and even Spymould was allowed to remove his toad farm in peace. But those who filled the grates and dusted the furniture and swept the floors stayed on, as they had stayed on before, because they seldom paid any attention to, or possibly didn't even know, who their lord was, and in any case were too useful and knew where the brooms were kept. Lords come and go, but dust accumulates.

And it was the morning of a new day which looked, seen from below, quite like the old ones.

After a while, someone raised the question of the fighting, which clearly needed to be taken care of.

There were scuffles all along the barricade now, but they were going only one way. Siege ladders had been brought up and at several places along the parapet men had managed to climb in. But they could never get enough in one place. There were far more defenders than attackers, and they weren't all men under arms. One thing Vimes was learning fast was the natural vindictiveness of old ladies, who had no sense of fair play when it came to fighting soldiers; give a granny a spear and a hole to jab it through, and young men on the other side were in big trouble.

And then there was Reg Shoe's inspired idea of the use of steak dinners as a weapon. The attackers did not come from homes where steak was ever on the table. Meat tended to be the flavouring, not the meal. But here and there men who'd achieved the top of the ladders, in darkness, with the groans and yells of their unsuccessful comrades below them, had their weapons dragged from their hands by well-fed former colleagues who were not unkind and who directed them down the ladder inside for steak and eggs and roast chicken and a promise that every day would be like this, come the revolution.

Vimes didn't want that news to get out, in case there was a rush to invade.

But the grannies, oh, the grannies…The neighbourhoods of the Republic were a natural recruiting ground for the regiments. It was also an area of big families and matriarchs whose word was family law. It had almost been cheating, putting them on the parapet with a megaphone during the lulls.

“I knows you're out there, our Ron! This is your Nan! You climb up one more time and you'll feel the back of my hand! Our Rita sends her love and wants you to hurry home. Grandpa is feeling a lot better with the new ointment! Now stop being a silly boy!”

It was a dirty trick, and he was proud of it. Messages like that sapped a fighting spirit better than arrows.

And then Vimes realized there were no more men on the ropes and ladders. He could hear yells and groans below, but those soldiers who could stand were withdrawing to a safe distance.

Now me, thought Vimes, I'd have gone down to the cellars of the houses near the street. Ankh-Morpork is all cellars. And I'd have chipped my way through the rotten walls, and half the cellars on this side of the barricades would have men in them now, nice and snug.

Admittedly last night I had the men nail up and bar every cellar door they could find but, after all, I wouldn't be fighting me, now, would I?

He peered through a gap between planks, and was amazed to see a man walking gingerly forward among the wreckage and the groaning men. He was carrying a white flag, and stopped occasionally to wave it but not to shout “Hurrah!”

When he was as close as possible to the barricade, he called up: “I say?”

Behind his planking, Vimes shut his eyes. Oh gods, he thought.

He called down: “Yes? Can we help you?”

“Who are you?”

“Sergeant Keel, Night Watch. And you?”

“Sub-lieutenant Harrap. Er…we ask for a brief truce.”

“Why?”

“Er…so that we can recover our wounded.”

The rules of war, Vimes thought. The field of honour. Good grief…

“And then?” he said.

“Sorry?”

“What happens after that? We start fighting again?”

“Um…hasn't anyone told you?” said the sub-lieutenant.

“Told us what?”

“We've just heard. Lord Winder is dead. Um. Lord Snapcase is Patrician.”

A cheer began among the nearby defenders, and was taken up below. Vimes felt the relief rise. But he wouldn't be Vimes if he just let things lie.

He called out: “So would you like to change ends?”

“Er…sorry?”

“I mean, would your chaps like to have a go at defending the barricade and we can try attacking it?”

Vimes heard laughter from the defenders.

There was a pause. Then the young man said: “Um…why?”

“Because, correct me if I am wrong, we are now the loyal supporters of the official government and you are the rebellious rump of a discredited administration. Am I right?”

“Um…I think we did have, um, legitimate orders—”

“Heard of a man called Captain Swing?”

“Um…yes…”

“He thought he had legitimate orders, too,” said Vimes.

“Um…yes?”

“Boy, was he surprised. All right, all right. A truce. We agree. Would you like my lads to give you a hand? We've got a doctor here. Very good. I've yet to hear screaming.”

“Um…thank you, sir.” The young man saluted. Vimes saluted back.

Then he relaxed, and turned to the defenders. “Okay, lads,” he said. “Stand down. Steal 'em if you haven't got 'em.”

He shinned down the ladder. Well, then, that was it. It was over. Ring out bells, dance in streets…

“Sarge, did you mean that about helping them others with their wounded?” said Sam, who was standing at the bottom of the ladder.

“Well, it makes as much sense as anything else that's been happening,” said Vimes. “They're city lads just like us, not their fault they were given the wrong orders.” And it messes with their heads, he thought, makes 'em wonder why all this is happening…

“Only…Nancyball's dead, sarge.”

Vimes took a deep breath. He'd known it anyway, up there on the wobbling ramparts, but hearing it said aloud was still a shock.

“I daresay there's a few of theirs who won't make it through to morning,” he said.

“Yes, but they were the enemy, sarge.”

“It's always worth thinking about who your enemy really is,” said Vimes, tugging at the barricade.

“How about the man who's trying to stick a sword into you?” said Sam.

“That's a good start,” said Vimes. “But there are times when it pays to be a little less tightly focused.”

In the Oblong Office, Snapcase put his hands together and tapped his front teeth with his forefingers. Quite a lot of paperwork was spread in front of him.

“What to do, what to do,” he said thoughtfully.