Night Watch

in black, cowering behind her counter.
    He looked desperately at the shelves behind her. It was 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 gray two-ply, 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.
    “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’m 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 can 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? That’s bad odds,” said Vimes. “Let’s get out of here!”
    “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 dog-infested yard to the next, falling into the chicken runs and slipping down privy roofs, looking for safety or his mates, or, failing that, for 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, 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 shortcut and escape the “no one being able to move because of everyone else” chaos in the main streets. The man, with the back of his wagon piled ten feet high with boxes and 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 backward.
    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 legs or clear over its back.
    When Vimes reached it he clambered onto the seat 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