Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [138]
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 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