Terry Pratchett - Night Watch

And now, Vimes thought, it ends.

“I think they are very bad men!” said a high, rather elderly but nevertheless determined voice from somewhere in the crowd, and there was a glimpse of a skinny hand waving a knitting needle.

“And I shall need a volunteer to escort Mrs Soupson home,” he said.

Carcer surveyed the length of Lobsneaks.

“Looks like we just follow the trail of egg,” he said. “Looks like Keel has a yellow streak.”

It didn't get quite the laugh he'd expected. A lot of the men he'd been able to collect had a more physical sense of humour. But Carcer had, in his own way, some of Vimes's qualities, only they were inverted. A certain kind of man looks up to someone who's brave enough to be really bad.

“Are we going to get into trouble for this, captain?”

And of course, you got those who were just along for the ride. He turned to Sergeant Knock, with Corporal Quirke lurking behind him. He fully shared Vimes's view of them although he approached it, as it were, from the other direction. You couldn't trust either of them. But they hated Keel with that gnawing, nerve-sapping hatred that only the mediocre can really bring to bear, and that was useful.

“How do you think we're going to get into trouble , sergeant?” he said. “We're working for the government .”

“He's a devious devil, sir!” said Knock, as if this was a character flaw in a copper.

“Now you lot listen to me, right?” said Carcer. “No mess-ups this time! I want Keel alive, okay? And that kid Vimes. You can do what the hell you like to the rest of them.”

“Why d'you want him taken alive?” said a quiet voice behind Carcer. “I thought Snapcase wanted him dead. And what's the kid done that's so wrong?”

Carcer turned. To his mild surprise, the watchman behind him didn't flinch.

“What's your name, mister?” he said.

“Coates.”

“Ned's the one I told you about, sir,” said Knock urgently, leaning over Carcer's shoulder. “Keel gave him the push, sir, after—”

“Shut up,” said Carcer, without taking his eyes off Coates. There wasn't a hint of fear there, not even a glimmer of bravado. Coates just stared back.

“Did you just come along for the ride, Coates?” he said.

“No, captain. I don't like Keel. But Vimesy is just a kid that got dragged along. What're you going to do to him?”

Carcer leaned forward; Coates did not lean back.

“You were a rebel, weren't you?” he said. “Don't like to do what you're told, eh?”

“They're going to get a big bottle of ginger beer!” said a voice drunk with evil delight.

Carcer turned and looked down at the skinny, black-clad Ferret. He was somewhat battered, partly because he'd put up a fight when the watchmen had tried to pry him out of his cell, and mostly because Todzy and Muffer had been waiting outside. But he'd been allowed to live; beating something like Ferret to death was, to the other two, an embarrassing and demeaning waste of fist.

He certainly flinched under Carcer's gaze. His whole body was a flinch.

“Did I ask you to speak, you little dog's tonker?” Carcer enquired.

“Nosir!”

“Right. Remember that. It could save your life one day.” Carcer turned his attention back to Ned. “Okay, sunshine, this is the bright new dawn you wanted. You asked for it, you got it. We've just got to sweep away a few of yesterday's leftovers. By order of Lord Snapcase, your mate. And it ain't your job to ask why and who, but young Vimesy? Why, I think he's a game lad who'll be a credit to the city if he's kept out of the way of bad company. Now, Knock says you're good at thinking. So now you tell me what you think Keel's gonna do.”

Ned gave him a look that went on for slightly longer than Carcer felt comfortable with.

“He's a defender,” he said, eventually. “He'll be back at the Watch House. He'll set a few traps, get the men tooled up and wait for you.”

“Hah?” said Carcer.

“He doesn't like to see his men hurt,” said Ned.

“This is not going to be his day, then,” said Carcer.

Halfway down Cable Street was a barricade. It wasn't much. A few doors, a table or two…by the standards of the big one that was even now being turned back into unbelligerent dining-room furniture, it barely existed at all.

Carcer's informal crew walked slowly, staring up at buildings and into the mouths of alleys. People in the street fled at their approach. Some men walk in a way that projects bad news ahead of them.

Vimes crouched behind the makeshift wall and peered through a crack. They'd snatched a few crossbows from aimless soldiers on the way here, but by the look of it Carcer's men had at least fifteen between them. And they outnumbered the lilac lads two to one.

If push came to shove, he'd take Carcer out right now. It wasn't the way it ought to go. He wanted people to see the man hang, he wanted the city to execute him. Going back empty-handed would leave a loose end flapping.

He heard the sound of sobbing from further along the barricade. It wasn't young Sam, he knew, and Nobby Nobbs had probably cried all the tears a body was capable of some time ago. It was Reg. He sat with his back to the makeshift defence, the threadbare flag across his knees, and tears dripping off his chin.

“Reg, you ought to go,” Vimes hissed. “You don't even have a weapon.”

“What's the good of it, eh?” said Reg. “You were bloody right, sarge! Things just go round and round! You got rid of the bloody Unmentionables and here they are again! What's the point, eh? This city could be such a great place but no , oh no, the bastards always end up on top! Nothing ever bloody changes! They just take their money and mess us around!”

Carcer had stopped twenty yards from the barricade, and was watching it carefully.

“Way of the world, Reg,” murmured Vimes, counting enemies under his breath.

And a big covered cart came around the corner, rocking under its load. It rolled to a halt a little way from Carcer's crew, partly because the way was blocked but mostly, perhaps, because one of the men had walked up to the driver and aimed a crossbow at his head.

“And now the bloody bastards have won,” moaned Reg.

“Every day of the week, Reg,” said Vimes absently, trying to follow the movements of too many people at once.

The other men were spreading out. After all, they had the firepower.

The man holding up Mr Dibbler, the cart driver, wasn't paying too much attention. Now Vimes wished he'd put himself in the wagon. Oh, well, someone had to start the rumble—

“Yeah? You want to shoot something? Bastards!”

They all stared, Carcer too. Reg had stood up, was waving the flag back and forth, was clambering over the barricade…

He held the flag like a banner of defiance. “You can take our lives but you'll never take our freedom!” he screamed.

Carcer's men looked at one another, puzzled by what sounded like the most badly thought-out war cry in the history of the universe. Vimes could see their lips moving as they tried to work it out.

Carcer raised his crossbow, gestured to his men, and said: “Wrong!”

Reg was hit by five heavy bolts so that he did a little dance before falling to his knees. It happened in seconds.

Vimes opened his mouth to give the order to charge, and shut it when he saw Reg raise his head. In silence, using the flag pole as an aid, Reg got back to his feet.

Three more arrows hit him. He looked down at his skinny chest, bristling with feathers, and took a step forward. And another.

One of the crossbowmen drew his sword and ran at the stricken man, and was knocked into the air by a blow from Reg that must have felt like it had come from a sledgehammer. And in the ranks of the crew there was a fight. Someone in a copper's uniform had drawn his own sword and taken out two bowmen. And the man at the cart was running back to the action…