Night Watch

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 to 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 the back of his neck. The conversations around him grew louder, became a clamor 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 anymore. There was a general bustle.
    “No offense, 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 bull’s-eye 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…
    “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 wanted 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 doll-like old lady, all