Night Watch (Discworld 29)

'Yes, sir. But-'

'You want to do a spell in a regiment, Fred, and one of the things I think you'll find they're very hot on indeed is knowing who's on your side and who is not, Fred.'

'But, sir, they are-'

'I mean, how long have I known you, Fred?'

'Two or three days, sir.'

'Er . . . right. Yeah. Of course. Seems longer. So why, Fred, do I arrive here and find you've let in what seems like a platoon? You haven't been thinking metaphysically again, have you?'

'It started with Billy Wiglet's brother, sir,' said Colon nervously. 'A few of his mates came with him. All local lads. And there's a lad Nancyball grew up with and a bloke who's the son of Waddy's next-door neighbour who he used to go out drinking with, and then there's-'

'How many, Fred?' said Vimes wearily. 'Sixty, sir. Might be a few more by now.'

'And it doesn't occur to you that they might be part of some clever plan?'

'No, sarge, it never did. 'cos I can't see Wally Wiglet being part of a clever plan, sarge, on account of him not being much of a thinker, sir. They only allowed him to be in the regiment after he got someone to paint L and R on his boots. See, we know 'em all sarge. Most of the lads join up for a bit, just to get out of the city and maybe show Johnny Foreigner who's boss. They never expected to have old grannies spitting on them in their own city, sarge. That can get a lad down, that sort of thing. And getting cobblestones chucked at them too, of course.' Vimes gave in. It was all true. 'All right,' he said. 'But if this goes on, everyone is going to be inside the barricade, Fred.'

And there could be worse ways of ending it, he thought. People had lit fires in the streets. Some cooking pots had been brought out. But most of the people were engaging in Ankh-Morpork's traditional pastime, which was hanging around to see what'd happen next. 'What's going to happen next, sarge?' said Sam. 'I think they'll attack in two places,' said Vimes. The cavalry will go right outside the city and try to come in through the Shambling Gate because that'll look easy. And the soldiers and . . . the rest of the Watch who aren't on our side will probably creep across Misbegot Bridge under cover.'

'Are you sure, sir?'

'Positive,' said Vimes. After all, it had already happened ... or something . . . He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't quite remember when he'd slept last. Slept, not dozed or been unconscious. He knew his thinking was a little fuzzy around the edges. But he did know how the Treacle Mine Road barricade had been broken. It had been only one sentence in the history book, but he remembered it. Sieges that weren't broken via treachery were breached via some small door around the back. It was a fact of history. 'But it won't be for an hour or two,' he said aloud. 'We're not important enough. It's all been quiet down here. It's when they start to wonder why that the midden will hit the windmill.'

'Lots of people are getting through, sarge. Some of the men said they could hear screaming in the distance. People are just piling in. There's robberies and everything going on out there . . .'

'Lance-constable?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'You know when you wanted to swing a club at that torturing bastard and I stopped you?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'That's why, lad. Once we break down, it all breaks down.'

'Yes, sarge, but you do bop people over the head.'

'Interesting point, lance-constable. Logical and well made, too, in a clear tone of voice bordering on the bloody cheeky. But there's a big difference.'

'And what's that, sarge?'

'You'll find out,' said Vimes. And privately thought: the answer is, It's Me Doing It. I'll grant that it is not a good answer, because people like Carcer use it too, but that's what it boils down to. Of course, it's also

to stop me knifing them and, let's be frank, them knifing me. That's quite important, too. Their walk had brought them to a big fire in the centre of the street. A cauldron was bubbling on it, and people were queuing up, holding bowls. 'Smells good,' he said, to the figure gently stirring the cauldron's contents with a ladle. 'Oh, it's you, er, Mr Dibbler . . .'

'It's called Victory Stew, sergeant,' said Dibbler. 'Tuppence a bowl or I'll cut my throat, eh?'

'Close enough,' said Vimes, and looked at the strange (and, what was worse, occasionally hauntingly familiar) lumps seething in the scum. 'What's in it?'

'It's stew,' explained Dibbler. 'Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.'

'Yes, I can see that some of those bits of meat have got bristles on them already,' said Vimes. 'Right! That's how good it is!'

'It looks . . . very nice,' said Sam weakly. 'You'll have to excuse the lance-constable, Mr Dibbler,' said Vimes. The poor lad was brought up not to eat stew that winks at him.' He sat down with his bowl and his back against the wall and looked up at the barricade. People had been busy. In truth, there wasn't much else to do. The one here, from side to side of Heroes Street, was fourteen feet high and even had a crude walkway. It looked businesslike. He leaned back and shut his eyes. There was a hesitant slurping sound beside him as young Sam tried the stew, and then: 'Is it going to come down to fighting, sarge?'

'Yes,' said Vimes, without opening his eyes. 'Like, really fighting?'