Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [134]
Admittedly, last night I had the men nail up and bar every cellar door they could find, but, after all, I wouldn’t be fighting me, now, would I?
He peered through a gap between planks, and was amazed to see a man walking gingerly forward among the wreckage and the groaning men. He was carrying a white flag, and stopped occasionally to wave it but not to shout “Hurrah!”
When he was as close as possible to the barricade, he called up: “I say?”
Behind his planking, Vimes shut his eyes. Oh gods, he thought.
He called down: “Yes? Can we help you?”
“Who are you?”
“Sergeant Keel, Night Watch. And you?”
“Sub-lieutenant Harrap. Er…we ask for a brief truce.”
“Why?”
“Er…so that we can recover our wounded.”
The rules of war, Vimes thought. The field of honor. Good grief…
“And then?” he said.
“Sorry?”
“What happens after that? We start fighting again?”
“Um…hasn’t anyone told you?” said the sub-lieutenant.
“Told us what?”
“We’ve just heard. Lord Winder is dead. Um. Lord Snapcase is Patrician.”
A cheer began among the nearby defenders, and was taken up below. Vimes felt the relief rise. But he wouldn’t be Vimes if he just let things lie.
He called out: “So would you like to change sides?”
“Er…sorry?”
“I mean, would you chaps like to have a go at defending the barricade and we can try attacking it?”
Vimes heard laughter from the watchmen.
There was a pause. Then the young man said: “Um…why?”
“Because, correct me if I am wrong, we are now the loyal supporters of the official government and you are the rebellious rump of a discredited administration. Am I right?”
“Um…I think we did have, um, legitimate orders—”
“Heard of a man called Captain Swing?”
“Um…yes…”
“He thought he had legitimate orders, too,” said Vimes.
“Um…yes?”
“Boy, was he surprised. All right, all right. A truce. We agree. Would you like my lads to give you a hand? We’ve got a doctor here. Very good. I’ve yet to hear screaming.”
“Um…thank you, sir.” The young man saluted. Vimes saluted back.
Then he relaxed and turned to the defenders. “Okay, lads,” he said. “Stand down. Steal ’em if you haven’t got ’em.”
He shinned down the ladder. Well, then, that was it. It was over. Ring out bells, dance in the streets…
“Sarge, did you mean that about helping them others with their wounded?” said Sam, who was standing at the bottom of the ladder.
“Well, it makes as much sense as anything else that’s been happening,” said Vimes. “They’re city lads just like us, not our fault they were given the wrong orders.” And it messes with their heads, he thought, makes ’em wonder why all this is happening…
“Only…Nancyball’s dead, Sarge.”
Vimes took a deep breath. He’d known it anyway, up there on the wobbling ramparts, but hearing it said aloud was still a shock.
“I daresay there’s a few of theirs who didn’t make it through the morning,” he said.
“Yes, but they were the enemy, Sarge.”
“It’s always worth thinking about who your enemy is,” said Vimes, tugging at the barricade.
“How about the man who’s trying to stick a sword into you?” said Sam.
“That’s a good start,” said Vimes. “But there are times when it pays to be a little less tightly focused.”
In the Oblong Office, Snapcase put his hands together and tapped his front teeth with his index fingers. Quite a lot of paperwork was spread in front of him.
“What to do, what to do,” he said thoughtfully.
“A general amnesty is usual, my lord,” said Mr. Slant. Mr. Slant, as head of the Guild of Lawyers, had advised many leaders of the city. He was also a zombie, although this had, if anything, benefited his career. He was precedent. He knew how things should go.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Snapcase. “A clean start. Of course. No doubt there is a traditional form of words?”
“In fact, my lord, I happen to have a copy right here—”
“Yes, yes. Tell me about this barricade, though, will you? The one that was still standing?” He looked up at the crowd assembled in the office.
“You know about that, sir?