‘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…
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‘Counterrevolutionaries, then?’ Dickins suggested.
‘What, people who want to put Winder back in charge?’ said Vimes. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d join.’ He looked around the shop. It was packed wall to wall. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘You said “in here”, sergeant,’ said a soldier.
‘Yeah, and we didn’t need telling ‘cos it was raining arrows,’
said another soldier.
‘I didn’t mean to come but I couldn’t swim against the tide,’
said Dibbler.
‘I want to show solidarity,’ said Reg.
‘Sarge, sarge, it’s me, sarge!’ said Nobby, waving his hands.
A firm, authoritative voice, thought Vimes. It’s amazing the trouble it can get you into. There were about thirty people crowded into the shop, and he didn’t recognize half of them.
‘Can I help any of you gentlemen?’ said a thin, querulous little voice behind him. He turned and saw a very small, almost dolllike old lady, all in black, cowering behind her counter.
He looked desperately at the shelves behind her. They were piled with skeins of wool.
‘Er, I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Then do you mind if I finish serving Mrs Soupson? Four ounces of grey twoply was it, Mrs Soupson?’
‘Yes please, Ethel!’ quavered a tiny, frightened voice
somewhere in the middle of the crowd of armed men.
‘We’d better get out of here,’ muttered Vimes. He turned to the men and waved his hands frantically to suggest that, as far as possible, no one should upset any old ladies. ‘Do you have a back way, please?’
The shopkeeper’s innocent old eyes looked up at him. ‘It helps if people buy something, sergeant,’ she said meaningfully.
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‘Er, we, um…’ Vimes looked around desperately, and inspiration struck. ‘Ah, right, yes… I’d like a mushroom,’ he said.
‘You know, one of those wooden things for-‘
‘Yes, sergeant, I know. That will be sixpence, thank you, sergeant. I always like to see a gentleman ready to do it for himself, I must say. Could I interest you in a-‘
‘I’in in a big hurry, please!’ said Vimes. ‘I’ve got to darn all my socks.’ He nodded at the men, who responded heroically.
‘Me, too-‘
‘Full of holes, it’s disgusting!’
‘Got to patch them up right now!’
‘It’s me, sarge, Nobby, sarge!’
‘You could use mine for fishing nets!’
The lady unhooked a big key ring. ‘I think it’s this one, no, I tell a lie, I think it’s, no… wait a moment… ah, yes, this is the one…’
‘Here, sarge, there’s a bunch of men with crossbows in the street,’ said Fred Colon, from the window. ‘About fifty of ’em!’
‘… no, that’s the one, dear me, that’s for the lock we used to have… does this one look right to you? Let’s try this one…’
Very carefully, and very slowly, she unlocked and unbolted the door.
Vimes poked his head out. They were in an alley, filled with trash and old boxes and the horrible smell of alleys everywhere.
No one seemed to be around.
‘Okay, everybody out,’ he said. ‘We need a bit of space. Who’s got a bow?’
‘Just me, sarge,’ said Dickins. ‘It’s not like we were expecting trouble, see.’
‘One bow against fifty men, that’s bad odds,’ said Vimes.
‘Let’s get out of here!’
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‘Are they after us, sarge?’
‘They shot Wiglet, didn’t they? Let’s move!’
They scuttled along the alleyway. As they crossed a wider one, there was the distant sound of the shop door being kicked open again, and a gleeful shout.
‘I got you now, Duke!’
Carcer…
An arrow clattered off a wall and pinwheeled end over end along the alley.
Vimes had run before. Every watchman knew about running.
They called it the Backyard Handicap. Vimes had taken that route many times, ducking through alleys, leaping on wings of terror over the walls from one doginfested yard to the next, falling into the chicken runs and slipping down privy roofs, looking for safety or his mates or, failing that, somewhere to stand with his back to the wall. Sometimes you had to run.
And, like the herd, you stayed together by instinct. In a crowd of thirty or so, you were harder to hit.
Fortunately, Dickins had taken the lead. The old coppers were best at running, having run so much during their lives. As on the battlefield, only the cunning and the fast survived.
And so he didn’t bother to stop as the cart appeared at the end of the alley. It was a heggler’s wagon, probably trying to take a short cut and escape the ‘no one being able to move because of everyone else’ chaos in the main streets. The man, the back of his wagon piled ten feet high with boxes, his vehicle scraping the walls, looked in horror at the stampede heading for him. No one had any brakes and absolutely no one was going to go backwards.
Vimes, in the rear, watched the group flow over and under the wagon, to the splintering of boxes and the pop of exploding eggs. The horse danced in the shafts and men dived through its
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legs or clear over its back.
When Vimes reached it he clambered on to the box just as an arrow hit the woodwork. He grinned desperately at the driver.
‘Jump,’ he suggested, and smacked the horse on the flank with the flat of his sword. Both men were thrown back as it reared and sent the remains of the stricken load sliding off the wagon.
Vimes hauled the driver upright as soon as the debris stopped falling. He was covered in egg.
‘Sorry about that, sir. Watch business. Ask for Sergeant Keel.
Got to rush!’
Behind them the wagon rattled up the alley, wheel rims
knocking sparks off the walls. There were doorways and side alleys to escape into, but Carcer’s crew would certainly be slowed down.
The rest of his crew had stopped when they heard the noise, but Vimes piled into them and forced them on until they reached a road, blocked with carts and thronged with people.
‘Well, you got your soldiers covered in egg, sarge,’ said Sam, with a worried grin. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘It’s some of the Unmentionables,’ said Vimes. ‘Probably want to settle the score.’ Well, that was close enough.
‘But I saw watchmen and soldiers with ’em,’ said Fred Colon.
‘Sarge, it’s me, sarge! Please, sarge!’ Nobby elbowed his way through the men.
‘Is this a good time, Nobby?’ said Vimes.
‘There’s men after you, sarge!’
‘Well done, Nobby!’
‘Carcer, sarge! He’s got a job with Snapcase! Captain of the Palace Guard, sarge! And they gonna get you! Snapcase told ’em to, sarge! My mate Scratch’n’Sniff is the underbootboy at the palace and he was in the yard and heard ’em talking, sarge!’
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I should have known, Vimes thought. Snapcase was a devious devil. And now Carcer’s got his feet under another bastard’s table. Captain of the Guard…
‘I haven’t been making a lot of friends lately,’ said Vimes.
‘Okay, gentlemen, I’in going to run. If you lot melt away into the crowd you’ll be fine, I expect.’
‘No fear, sarge,’ said Sam, and there was a general murmur of agreement.
‘We had an amnesty,’ said Dickins. They can’t do this!’
‘Anyway, they were shooting at everyone,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Bastards! They need a good goingover!’
‘They’ve got bows,’ said Vimes.
‘So we ambush ’em, sarge,’ said Dickins. ‘Choose your ground and fight up close and a crossbow’s just a piece of wood.’
‘Did any of you hear me?’ said Vimes. They’re after me. Not you. You do not want to mix it with Carcer. You, Snouty, you shouldn’t be doing this at your time of life.’
The old jailer glared at him through runny eyes. That’s a hell of a thing for you, hnah, to say to me, sarge,’ he said.