Night Watch

inclined to be well-behaved toward armed men in any case, and were also in a state of some apprehension. They relieved this by kicking the hell out of anyone close.
    It was hard for the watchers along the barricade to see much of what happened after that, but the noises were very interesting for quite some time.
    Sergeant Colon’s mouth shut.
    “Bloody hell, Sarge,” he said admiringly. In the distance, glass shattered.
    “They’ll be back,” said Vimes.
    “Yeah, but not all of ’em,” said Wiglet. “Well done, Sarge.”
    Vimes turned and saw Sam staring at him in wide-eyed hero worship.
    “I was lucky, lad,” he said. “But it helps to remember little details and not mind getting your hands dirty.”
    “But we could win now, Sarge,” said Sam.
    “No, we can’t. But we can put off losing until it doesn’t hurt too much.” Vimes turned to the others. “Right, lads, back to work. We’ve had some fun, but dawn’s a long way off.”
    But the news got around even before he’d climbed down from the barricade. There was a cheer from the crowd, and a general struttiness about the armed men. We’d shown them, eh? They don’t like the taste of cold steel, those…er…other people from Ankh-Morpork! We’ll show ’em, eh?
    And it had taken a few wedges, some raw ginger, and a lot of luck. That wouldn’t happen twice.
    Maybe it wouldn’t need to. He remembered hearing about the assassination. It was all very mysterious. Winder had been killed in a room full of people, and no one saw a thing. Magic had been suggested, and hotly denied by the wizards. Some historians had said that it happened because troops around the Palace had been sent to attack the barricades, but that didn’t answer the question. Anyone who could stab a man to death in a brightly lit room full of people surely wouldn’t find some guards in the darkness any kind of obstacle…
    Of course, with Snapcase as the new Patrician, no one had tried very hard to establish the facts in any case. People said things like “Quite possibly we shall never know the truth” which meant, in Vimes’s personal lexicon, “I know, or think I know what the truth is, and hope like hell it doesn’t come out, because things are all smoothed over now.”
    Supposing we don’t lose?
    Keel hadn’t killed Big Mary. She hadn’t been used in the other present. The soldiers hadn’t been stupid enough to try it. That sort of thing was okay to deal with little local affairs manned by civilians, but they were a joke if you put them up against stout defenses manned by professionals. Now she was a wreck, the attackers would have to think up a new plan in a hurry, and time was moving on…
    Supposing we don’t lose?
    All they had to do was hold out. The people at the top had very short memories. Winder is mysteriously dead, long live Lord Snapcase! And suddenly all the rebels become glorious freedom fighters. And there’s seven unfilled graves in the cemetery…
    Would he be able to go back then? Supposing Madam was right, and he got offered the post of commander not as a bribe but because he’d earned it? That’d change history!
    He took out the cigar case and stared hard at the inscription.
    Let’s see, he thought…if I’d never met Sybil, we wouldn’t get married and she wouldn’t buy me this, and so I couldn’t be looking at it…
    He stared hard at the curly engraving, almost daring it to disappear. It didn’t.
    On the other hand , that old monk had said that whatever happens, stays happened. And now Vimes had a mental picture of Sybil and Carrot and Detritus and all the rest of them, frozen in a moment that’d never have a next moment.
    He wanted to go home. He wanted it so much that he trembled at the thought. But if the price of that was selling good men to the night, if the price was filling those graves, if the price was not fighting with every trick he knew…then it was too high.
    It wasn’t a decision he was making, he knew that. It happened far below the levels of the brain where decisions were made. It was something built in. There was no universe, anywhere, where a Sam Vimes would give in on this, because if he did then he wouldn’t be Sam Vimes anymore.
    The writing stayed on the silver but it was blurred now because of the tears welling up. They were tears of anger, mostly at himself. There was not a thing that he could do. He hadn’t bought a ticket and he hadn’t wanted to come, but now he was on the ride and couldn’t get