Night Watch

The barricade was taking some while to dismantle. Chair legs and planks and bedsteads and doors and baulks of timber had settled into a tangled mass. Since every piece belonged to someone, and Ankh-Morpork people care about that sort of thing, it was being dismantled by collective argument. This was not least because people who had donated a three-legged stool to the common good were trying to take away a set of dining chairs, and similar problems.

And then there was the traffic. Carts that had been held up outside the city were trying to make their way to their destinations before eggs hatched or milk got so rotten it could get out and walk the rest of the way. If Ankh-Morpork had a grid, there would have been gridlock. Since it did not it was, in the words of Sergeant Colon, “a case of no one being able to move because of everyone else”. Admittedly, this phrase, while accurate, did not have the same snap.

Some of the watchmen had joined in the dismantling work, mostly to stop the fights that were breaking out among irate householders. But a group of them had congregated at the end of Heroes Street, where Snouty had set up a mess and a cocoa urn. There wasn't, in fact, much to do. A few hours ago they'd been fighting. Now the streets were so crowded that even patrols were impossible. Every good copper knows that there are times when the wise man keeps out of the way, and the conversation had turned to the kind of questions that follow victory, such as 1) is there going to be any extra money? and 2) are there going to be any medals? With an option on 3) which was never far from the watchmen's thoughts: are we going to get into trouble about this?

“An amnesty means we ain't,” said Dickins. “It means everyone pretends nothing really happened.”

“All right, then,” said Wiglet. “Are we going to get medals? What I mean is, if we've been…” he concentrated “…val-i-ant defenders of freedom, that sounds like medal time to me.”

“I reckon we should simply have barricaded the whole city,” said Colon.

“Yeah, Fred,” said Snouty, “but then that'd mean the bad people, hnah, would be in here with us.”

“Right, but we'd be in charge,” said Fred.

Sergeant Dickins puffed on his pipe, and said: “Lads, you're just flapping your mouths. There's been fighting, and here you are with all your arms and legs and walking around in the gods' good sunlight. That's winning, that is. You've won, see. The rest is just gravy.”

No one spoke for a while until young Sam said: “But Nancyball didn't win.”

“We lost five men in all,” said Dickins. “Two got hit by arrows, one fell off the barricade and one cut his own throat by accident. It happens.”

They stared at him.

“Oh, you thought it didn't?” said Dickins. “You get a lot of worried people and edged weapons and a lot of scurrying, all in one place. You'd be amazed at the casualties you can get even when you're fifty miles from an enemy. People die.”

“Did Nancyball have a mum?” said Sam.

“He was brought up by his gran, but she's dead,” said Wiglet.

“No one else?”

“Dunno. He never talked about them. He never talked about anything much,” said Wiglet.

“What you do is, you have a whip-round,” said Dickins firmly. “Wreath, coffin, the lot. You don't let anyone else do it. And another thing…”

Vimes sat a little way from the men, watching the street. There were groups of former defenders and veterans and watchmen everywhere. He watched a man buy a pie from Dibbler, and shook his head, and grinned. On a day when you couldn't give steak away, some people would still buy a pie from Dibbler. It was a triumph of salesmanship and the city's famously atrophied taste buds.

The song began. Whether it was a requiem or a victory chant he didn't know, but Dickins started it and the rest joined in, each man singing as though he was all by himself and unaware of the rest.

“—see the little angels rise up high…” Others were picking up the tune.

Reg Shoe was also sitting all alone, on a piece of barricade currently not in dispute, still clutching the flag and looking so miserable that Vimes felt moved to go and speak to him.

“—do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high?”

“It could have been good, sergeant,” said Reg, looking up. “It really could. A city where a man can breathe free.”

“—they rise ARSE up, arse up, arse up, see the little angels rise up high…”

“Wheeze free, Reg,” said Vimes, sitting down next to him. “This is Ankh- Morpork.” And they all hit that line together, thought the part of him that was listening with the other ear. Strange that they should do that, or maybe not.

“Yeah, make a joke of it. Everyone thinks it's funny,” said Reg, looking at his feet.

“I don't know if this'll help, Reg, but I didn't even get my hard-boiled egg,” said Vimes.

“And what's going to happen next?” said Reg, far too sunk in misery to sympathize or, for that matter, notice.

“All the little angels rise up, rise up–”

“I really don't know. Things'll get better for a while, I expect. But I don't know what I'm—”

Vimes stopped. On the far side of the street, oblivious of the traffic, a little wizened old man was sweeping dust out of a doorway.

Vimes stood up and stared. The little man saw him, and gave him a wave. And at that moment yet another cart rumbled down the road, piled high with former barricade.

Vimes flung himself flat and stared between the legs and wheels. Yes, the slightly bandy legs and the battered sandals were still there, and still there too when the cart had passed, and still there when Vimes started to run across the street, and may have been there when the unregarded following cart almost knocked him over, and were completely not there when he straightened up.

He stood where they had been, in the busy street, on the sunny morning, and felt the night sweep over him. He felt the hairs stand up on his neck. The conversations around him grew louder, became a clamour in his ears. And the light was too bright. There were no shadows, and he was looking for shadows now.

He dodged and jinked across the street to the singing men, and waved them into silence.

“Get ready,” he growled. “Something's going to happen…”

“What, sarge?” said Sam.

“Something not good, I think. An attack, maybe.” Vimes scanned the street for…what? Little old men with brooms? If anything, the scene was less menacing than before the troubles, because now the other shoe had dropped. People weren't standing around waiting for it any more. There was a general bustle.

“No offence, sarge,” said Dickins, “but it all looks peaceful enough to me. There's an amnesty, sarge. No one's fighting anyone.”

“Sarge! Sarge!”

They all turned. Nobby Nobbs was sidling and skipping down the street. They saw his lips shape a message, completely drowned out by the squeals from a wagonload of pigs.

Lance-Constable Sam Vimes looked at the face of his sergeant. “Something is wrong,” he said. “Look at sarge!”

“Well, what?” said Fred Colon. “A giant bird's going to drop out of the sky or something?”

There was a thud, and a gasp from Wiglet. An arrow had hit him in the chest and had gone right through.

Another one smacked into the wall above Vimes's head, showering dust.

“In here!” he yelled. The door to the shop behind them was open, and he plunged through. People piled in behind him. He heard the noise of arrows outside, and one or two screams.

“Amnesty, sergeant?” he said. Outside, the rumbling carts had stopped, blocking out the light to the bullseye panes of the shop windows and temporarily shielding it.

“Then it's got to be some idiots,” said Dickins. “Rebels, maybe.”

“Why? There were never that many rebels, we know that! Anyway, they won!” Now there was shouting outside, beyond the carts. Nothing like a cart for blocking the road…

“Counter-revolutionaries, then?” Dickins suggested.

“What, people who want to put Winder back in charge?” said Vimes. “Well, I don't know about you, but