“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 bullseye 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
“Counter-revolutionaries, then?” Dickins suggested.
“What, people who want to put Winder back in charge?” said Vimes. “Well, I don't know about you, but
“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 want 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. They were 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 grey 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 could 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 bow against fifty men, 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, 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 or so, 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.
