“Hmm?” said Vimes, as the real world returned.
“You were well away,” said Fred. “Staring at nothing. You ought to have had a proper sleep last night, sarge.”
“There's plenty of time to sleep in the grave,” said Vimes, looking at the ranks of the Watch.
“Yeah, I heard that, sarge, but no one wakes you up with a cup of tea. I got 'em lined up, sarge.”
Fred had made an effort, Vimes could see. So had the men themselves. He'd never seen them looking quite so…formal. Usually they had a helmet and breastplate apiece. Beyond that, equipment was varied and optional. But today, at least, they looked neat.
Shame about the heights. No man could easily inspect a row that included Wiglet at one end and Nancyball at the other. Wiglet was so short that he'd once been accused of navelling a sergeant, being far too short to eyeball anyone, while Nancyball was always the first man on duty to know when it was raining. You had to stand well back to get both of them into vision without eyestrain.
“Well done, lads,” he managed, and heard Rust coming down the stairs.
It must have been the first time the man had seen his new command in full. In the circumstances, he bore up quite well. He merely sighed.
He turned to Vimes and said: “I require something to stand on.”
Vimes looked blank. “Sir?”
“I wish to address the men in order to inspire them and stiffen their resolve. They must understand the political background to the current crisis.”
“Oh, we know all about Lord Winder being a loony, sir,” said Wiglet cheerfully.
Frost nearly formed on Rust's forehead.
Vimes drew himself up. “Squad diiiiismiss!” he shouted, and then leaned towards Rust as the men scuttled away. “A quiet word, sir?”
“Did that man really say—” Rust began.
“Yes, sir. These are simple men, sir,” said Vimes, thinking quickly. “Best not to disturb them, if you take my meaning.”
Rust inserted this into his range of options. Vimes could see him thinking. It was a way out, and it suited his opinion of the Watch in general. It meant that he hadn't been cheeked by a constable, he'd merely dealt with a simpleton.
“They know their duty, sir,” Vimes added, for reinforcement.
“Their duty, sergeant, is to do what they are told.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Rust stroked his moustache. “There is something in what you say, sergeant. And you trust them?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, yes.”
“Hmm. We will make a circuit of the surrounding streets in ten minutes. This is a time for action. Reports are disturbing. We must hold the line, sergeant.”
And he believes it, thought Vimes. He really does.
The watchmen marched out into the afternoon sunshine, and did so badly. They were not used to marching. Their normal method of progress was the stroll, which is not a recognized military manoeuvre, or the frantic withdrawal, which is.
In addition, the convection currents of prudent cowardice were operating in the ranks. There was a definite sideways component to each man's progress as he sought to be in the middle. The watchmen had shields, but they were light wicker-work things intended to turn blows and deflect stones; they wouldn't stand up to anything with an edge. The advance, therefore, was by means of a slowly elongating huddle.
Rust didn't notice. He had a gift for not seeing things he did not want to see and not hearing things he did not want to hear. But he could not ignore a barricade.
Ankh-Morpork wasn't really a city, not when the chips were down. Places like Dolly Sisters and Nap Hill and Seven Sleepers had been villages once, before they were absorbed by the urban sprawl. On some level, they still held themselves separate. As for the rest…well, once you got off the main streets it was all down to neighbourhoods. People didn't move around much. When tension was high, you relied on your mates and your family. Whatever was going down, you tried to make sure wasn't going down your street. It wasn't revolution. It was quite the reverse. It was defending your doorstep.
They were building a barricade in Whalebone Lane. It wasn't a particularly good one, being made up mostly of overturned market stalls, a small cart and quite a lot of household furniture, but it was a Symbol.
Rust's moustache bristled. “Right in our faces,” he snapped. “Absolute defiance of constituted authority, sergeant. Do your duty!”
“And what would that be at this point, sir?” said Vimes.
“Arrest the ringleaders! And your men will pull the barricade down!”
Vimes sighed. “Very well, sir. If you will stand back, I shall seek them out.”
He walked up to the domestic clutter, aware of eyes watching him before and behind. When he was a few feet away he cupped his hands. “All right, all right, what's going on here?” he shouted.
He was aware of whispering. And he was ready for what happened next. When the stone flew over the top of the furniture he caught it in both hands.
“I asked a civil question,” he said. “Come on!”
