'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?'

'Yep.'

'But won't there be some talking first?'

'Nope,' said Vimes, trying to make himself comfortable. 'Maybe some talking afterwards.'

'Seems the wrong way round!'

'Yes, lad, but it's a tried and tested method.' There was no further comment. Slowly, with the sounds of the street in his ears, Vimes slid into sleep.

Major Mountjoy-Standfast knew what would happen if he sent a message to the palace. 'What do I do now, sir?' was not something his lordship wanted to hear. It was not the sort of question a major was supposed to ask, given that the original orders had been very clear. Barricades were to be torn down, rebels were to be repelled. Grasp the nettle firmly and all that. He had, as a child, grasped nettles firmly, and had sometimes had a hand the size of a small pig. There were deserters behind the barricade. Deserters! How did that happen? It was a huge barricade, it was lined with armed men, there were deserters on it, and he had his orders. It was all clear. If only they'd, well, rebel. He'd sent Trooper Gabitass down there again, and by his account it seemed very peaceful. Normal city life appeared to be going on behind the barricade, which was more than you could say for the chaos outside it. If they'd fired on Gabitass, or thrown things, that would have made it so much easier. Instead they were acting . . . well . . . decently. That was no way for enemies of the state to behave! An enemy of the state was in front of the major now. Gabitass had not come back empty-handed. 'Caught it sneakin' after me,' he said. To the captive he said, 'Been behind the barricade, haven't we, my lad!'

'Can it speak?' said the major, staring at the thing. 'There's no need to be like that,' said Nobby Nobbs. 'It's a street urchin, sir,' said the trooper. The major stared at all he could see of the prisoner, which was an oversized helmet and a nose. 'Get it something to stand on, will you, captain?' he said, and waited while a stool was found. It did not, all things considered, improve matters. It just gave rise to questions. 'It's got a Watch badge, trooper. Is it some kind of mascot?'

'Carved it meself out of soap,' said Nobby. 'So I can be a copper.'

'Why?' said the major. There was something about the apparition that, despite the urgency, called for a kind of horrified yet fascinated study. 'But I'm thinking of going for a soldier if I grow up,' Nobby went on, giving the major a happy grin. 'Much better pickin's, the way things are going.'

'I'm afraid you're not tall enough,' said the major quickly. 'Don't see why not, the enemy reaches all the way to the ground,' said Nobby. 'Anyway, people're lyin' down when you get their boots off. Ol' Sconner, he says the money's in teeth and earrings but I say every man's bound to have a pair of boots, right? Whereas there's a lot of bad teeth around these days and the false-teeth makers always demand a decent set-'

'Do you mean to tell me that you want to join the army just to loot the battlefields?' said the major, completely shocked. 'A little ... lad like you?'

'Once when ol' Sconner was sober for two days together he made me a little set of soldiers,' said Nobby. 'An' they had these little boots that you could-'

'Shut up,' said the major. '-take off, and tiny tiny little wooden teeth that you could-'

'Will you shut up!' said the major. 'Have you no interest in honour? Glory? Love of city?'

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net