Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [115]
“Don’t move any more barricades. Fill up the alleys. Hold this line. Vimes, you come with me, I’ll need a runner.”
“I’m pretty runny, Sarge,” Nobby volunteered from somewhere behind him.
“Then what I want you to do, Nobby, is get out there and find out what’s happening now.”
Sergeant Dickins turned out to be younger than Vimes remembered. But he was still close to retirement. He’d maintained a flourishing sergeant’s mustache, waxed to points and clearly dyed, and the proper sergeant shape, occasioned by means of undisclosed corsetry. He’d spent a lot of time in the regiments, Vimes recalled, although he came from Llamedos originally. The men found that out because he belonged to some druid religion so strict that they didn’t even use standing stones. And they were strongly against swearing, which is a real handicap in a sergeant. Or would be, if sergeants weren’t so good at improvising.
He was currently in Welcome Soap, a continuation of Cable Street. And he had the army.
It wasn’t much of one. No two weapons were exactly alike, and most of them were not, strictly speaking, weapons. Vimes shuddered when he saw the crowd, and had a flashback, which was probably a flash forward, to all the domestic disputes he’d attended over the years. You knew where you were with strictly-speaking weapons when they came at you. It was the not-strictly-speaking ones that scared the cacky out of a new recruit. It was the meat cleavers tied to poles. It was the long spikes and the meathooks.
This was, after all, the area of small traders, porters, butchers, and longshoremen. And so, standing in raggedy lines in front of Vimes, were men who, every day, peacefully and legally, handled things with blades and spikes that made a mere sword look like a girl’s hatpin.
There were classic weapons, too. Men had come back from wars with their sword or their halberd. Weapons? Gods bless you, sir, no! Them’s mementoes. And the sword had probably been used to poke the fire, and the halberd had done duty as a support for one end of the washing line, and their original use had been forgotten…
…until now.
Vimes stared at all that metalwork. All this lot would have to do to win a battle would be to stand still. If the enemy charged them hard enough, he’d come out the other side as mince.
“Some of ’em are retired watchmen, sah,” Dickins whispered. “A lot of them have been in the regiments at one time or another, see. There’s a few kids wanting to see some action, you know how it is. What d’you think?”
“I’d certainly hate to fight them,” said Vimes. At least a quarter of the men had white hair, and more than a few were using their weapons as a means of support. “Come to that, I’d hate to be responsible for giving them an order. If I said ‘about turn!’ to this lot, it’d be raining limbs.”
“They’re resolute, sah.”
“Fair enough. But I don’t want a war.”
“Oh, it won’t come to that, sah,” said Dickins. “I’ve seen a few barricades in my time. It generally ends peaceful. The new man takes over, people get bored, everyone goes home, see.”
“But Winder is a nutter,” said Vimes.
“Tell me one that wasn’t, sah,” said Dickins.
Sir, thought Vimes. Or “sah,” at least. And he’s older than me. Oh well, I might as well be good at it.
“Sergeant,” he said, “I want you to pick twenty of the best. Men that have seen action. Men you can trust. And I want them down at the Shambling Gate, and alert.”
Dickins looked puzzled.
“But that’s barred, sah. And it’s right down behind us, it is. I thought maybe—”
“Down at the gate, Sergeant,” Vimes insisted. “They’re to watch for anyone sneaking up to unbar it. And I want the guard on the bridges to be strengthened. Put down caltrops on the bridge, string wires…I want anyone who tries to come at us over the bridge to have a really bad time, understand?”
“Do you know something, sah?” said Dickins, with his head on one side.
“Let’s just say I’m thinking like the enemy, shall we?” said Vimes. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “You know some