Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [97]
A barrage of missiles was coming over the barricade. Throwing things was an old Ankh-Morpork custom, and there was something about Rust that made him a natural target. With what dignity he could muster, he raised the megaphone again and got as far as “I hereby warn you—” before a stone spun it out of his hand.
“Very well, then,” he said and marched stiffly back to the squad. “Sergeant Keel, order the men to fire. One round of arrows, over the top of the barricade.”
“No,” said Vimes, standing up.
“I can only assume you’ve been stunned, Sergeant,” said Rust. “Men, prepare to execute that order.”
“First man that fires, I will personally cut that man down,” said Vimes. He didn’t shout. It was a simple, confident statement of precisely what the future would hold.
Rust’s expression did not change. He looked Vimes up and down.
“Is this mutiny, then, Sergeant?” said the Captain.
“No. I’m not a soldier, sir. I can’t mutiny.”
“Martial law, Sergeant!” snapped Rust. “It is official!”
“Really?” said Vimes, as another rain of rocks and old vegetables came down. “Shields up, lads.”
Rust turned to Fred Colon. “Corporal, you will put this man under arrest!”
Colon swallowed.
“Me?”
“You, Corporal. Now.”
Colon’s pink face mottled with white as the blood drained from it.
“But he—” he began.
“You won’t? Then it seems I must,” said the captain. He drew his sword.
At that Vimes heard the click of a crossbow’s safety catch going off, and groaned. He didn’t remember this happening.
“You just put that sword away, sir, please,” said the voice of Lance Constable Vimes.
“You will not shoot me, you young idiot. That would be murder,” said the captain calmly.
“Not where I’m aiming, sir.”
Bloody hell, thought Vimes. Maybe the lad was simple. Because one thing Rust wasn’t, was a coward. He thought idiot stubbornness was bravery. He wouldn’t back down in the face of a dozen armed men.
“Ah, I think I can see the problem, Captain,” Vimes said brightly. “As you were, Lance Constable. There’s been a slight misunderstanding, sir, but this should sort it out—”
It was a blow he’d remember for a long time. It was sweet. It was textbook. Rust went down like a log.
By the light of all his burning bridges, Vimes slipped his hand back into his hip pocket. Thank you, Mrs. Goodbody, and your range of little equalizers.
He turned to the watchmen, who were a tableau of silent horror.
“Let the record show Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel did that,” he said. “Vimes, what did I tell you about waving weapons around when you’re not going to use them?”
“You laid him out, Sarge!” Sam squeaked, still staring at the sleeping captain.
Vimes shook some life back into his hand.
“Let the record show that I took command after the captain’s sudden attack of obvious insanity,” he said. “Waddy, Wiglet…drag him back to the house and lock him up, will you?”
“What we gonna do, Sarge?” wailed Colon.
Ah…
Keep the peace. That was the thing. People often failed to understand what that meant. You’d go to some life-threatening disturbance, like a couple of neighbors scrapping in the street over who owned the hedge between their properties, and they’d both be bursting with aggrieved self-righteousness, both yelling, their wives would either be having a private scrap on the side or would have adjourned to a kitchen for a shared pot of tea and a chat, and they all expected you to sort it out.
And they could never understand that it wasn’t your job. Sorting it out was a job for a good surveyor and a couple of lawyers, maybe. Your job was to quell the impulse to bang their stupid fat heads together, to ignore the affronted speeches of dodgy self-justification, to get them to stop shouting, and to get them off the street. Once that had been achieved, you job was over. You weren’t some walking god, dispensing finely tuned natural justice. Your job was simply to bring back peace.
Of course, if your few strict words didn’t work, and Mr. Smith subsequently clambered over the disputed