And there could be worse ways of ending it, he thought. People had lit fires in the streets. Some cooking pots had been brought out. But most of the people were engaging in Ankh-Morpork's traditional pastime, which was hanging around to see what'd happen next. 'What's going to happen next, sarge?' said Sam. 'I think they'll attack in two places,' said Vimes. The cavalry will go right outside the city and try to come in through the Shambling Gate because that'll look easy. And the soldiers and . . . the rest of the Watch who aren't on our side will probably creep across Misbegot Bridge under cover.'

'Are you sure, sir?'

'Positive,' said Vimes. After all, it had already happened ... or something . . . He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't quite remember when he'd slept last. Slept, not dozed or been unconscious. He knew his thinking was a little fuzzy around the edges. But he did know how the Treacle Mine Road barricade had been broken. It had been only one sentence in the history book, but he remembered it. Sieges that weren't broken via treachery were breached via some small door around the back. It was a fact of history. 'But it won't be for an hour or two,' he said aloud. 'We're not important enough. It's all been quiet down here. It's when they start to wonder why that the midden will hit the windmill.'

'Lots of people are getting through, sarge. Some of the men said they could hear screaming in the distance. People are just piling in. There's robberies and everything going on out there . . .'

'Lance-constable?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'You know when you wanted to swing a club at that torturing bastard and I stopped you?'

'Yes, sarge?'

'That's why, lad. Once we break down, it all breaks down.'

'Yes, sarge, but you do bop people over the head.'

'Interesting point, lance-constable. Logical and well made, too, in a clear tone of voice bordering on the bloody cheeky. But there's a big difference.'

'And what's that, sarge?'

'You'll find out,' said Vimes. And privately thought: the answer is, It's Me Doing It. I'll grant that it is not a good answer, because people like Carcer use it too, but that's what it boils down to. Of course, it's also

to stop me knifing them and, let's be frank, them knifing me. That's quite important, too. Their walk had brought them to a big fire in the centre of the street. A cauldron was bubbling on it, and people were queuing up, holding bowls. 'Smells good,' he said, to the figure gently stirring the cauldron's contents with a ladle. 'Oh, it's you, er, Mr Dibbler . . .'

'It's called Victory Stew, sergeant,' said Dibbler. 'Tuppence a bowl or I'll cut my throat, eh?'

'Close enough,' said Vimes, and looked at the strange (and, what was worse, occasionally hauntingly familiar) lumps seething in the scum. 'What's in it?'

'It's stew,' explained Dibbler. 'Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.'

'Yes, I can see that some of those bits of meat have got bristles on them already,' said Vimes. 'Right! That's how good it is!'

'It looks . . . very nice,' said Sam weakly. 'You'll have to excuse the lance-constable, Mr Dibbler,' said Vimes. The poor lad was brought up not to eat stew that winks at him.' He sat down with his bowl and his back against the wall and looked up at the barricade. People had been busy. In truth, there wasn't much else to do. The one here, from side to side of Heroes Street, was fourteen feet high and even had a crude walkway. It looked businesslike. He leaned back and shut his eyes. There was a hesitant slurping sound beside him as young Sam tried the stew, and then: 'Is it going to come down to fighting, sarge?'

'Yes,' said Vimes, without opening his eyes. 'Like, really fighting?'

'Yep.'

'But won't there be some talking first?'

'Nope,' said Vimes, trying to make himself comfortable. 'Maybe some talking afterwards.'

'Seems the wrong way round!'

'Yes, lad, but it's a tried and tested method.' There was no further comment. Slowly, with the sounds of the street in his ears, Vimes slid into sleep.

Major Mountjoy-Standfast knew what would happen if he sent a message to the palace. 'What do I do now, sir?' was not something his lordship wanted to hear. It was not the sort of question a major was supposed to ask, given that the original orders had been very clear. Barricades were to be torn down, rebels were to be repelled. Grasp the nettle firmly and all that. He had, as a child, grasped nettles firmly, and had sometimes had a hand the size of a small pig. There were deserters behind the barricade. Deserters! How did that happen? It was a huge barricade, it was lined with armed men, there were deserters on it, and he had his orders. It was all clear. If only they'd, well, rebel. He'd sent Trooper Gabitass down there again, and by his account it seemed very peaceful. Normal city life appeared to be going on behind the barricade, which was more than you could say for the chaos outside it. If they'd fired on Gabitass, or thrown things, that would have made it so much easier. Instead they were acting . . . well . . . decently. That was no way for enemies of the state to behave! An enemy of the state was in front of the major now. Gabitass had not come back empty-handed. 'Caught it sneakin' after me,' he said. To the captive he said, 'Been behind the barricade, haven't we, my lad!'

'Can it speak?' said the major, staring at the thing. 'There's no need to be like that,' said Nobby Nobbs. 'It's a street urchin, sir,' said the trooper. The major stared at all he could see of the prisoner, which was an oversized helmet and a nose. 'Get it something to stand on, will you, captain?' he said, and waited while a stool was found. It did not, all things considered, improve matters. It just gave rise to questions. 'It's got a Watch badge, trooper. Is it some kind of mascot?'

'Carved it meself out of soap,' said Nobby. 'So I can be a copper.'

'Why?' said the major. There was something about the apparition that, despite the urgency, called for a kind of horrified yet fascinated study. 'But I'm thinking of going for a soldier if I grow up,' Nobby went on, giving the major a happy grin. 'Much better pickin's, the way things are going.'

'I'm afraid you're not tall enough,' said the major quickly. 'Don't see why not, the enemy reaches all the way to the ground,' said Nobby. 'Anyway, people're lyin' down when you get their boots off. Ol' Sconner, he says the money's in teeth and earrings but I say every man's bound to have a pair of boots, right? Whereas there's a lot of bad teeth around these days and the false-teeth makers always demand a decent set-'

'Do you mean to tell me that you want to join the army just to loot the battlefields?' said the major, completely shocked. 'A little ... lad like you?'

'Once when ol' Sconner was sober for two days together he made me a little set of soldiers,' said Nobby. 'An' they had these little boots that you could-'

'Shut up,' said the major. '-take off, and tiny tiny little wooden teeth that you could-'

'Will you shut up!' said the major. 'Have you no interest in honour? Glory? Love of city?'

'Dunno. Can you get much for 'em?' said Nobby. 'They are priceless!'

'Oh, well, in that case I'll stick with the boots, if it's all the same to you,' said Nobby. 'You can sell them for ten pence a pair if you know the right shop-'

'Look at Trooper Gabitass there!' said the major, now quite upset. 'Twenty years' service, a fine figure of a soldier! He wouldn't stoop to stealing the boots of a fallen enemy, would you, trooper?'

'No, sir! Mug's game, sir!' said Trooper Gabitass.* * And this was true. Don't bother with the boots, would have been Trooper Gabitass's advice, had he been inclined to part with it. You need to bribe someone on the baggage carts to build up stock and when all's said and done you'll only make a few dollars. Stick to jewellery. It's portable. Trooper Gabitass had seen too many battlefields up close to use the word 'glory' without wincing. 'Er . . . yes. Right!' said the major. 'You could learn a lot from men like Trooper Gabitass, young man. By the sound of it, your time with the rebels has filled your head with very wrong ideas indeed.'

'I ain't a rebel!' Nobby shouted. 'Don't you go calling me a rebel, I ain't a rebel, I'm an Ankh-Morpork lad, I am, and proud of it! Hah, you are wrong, I've never been a rebel and you're cruel to say so! I'm an honest lad, I am!' Big tears began to run down his cheeks, washing aside the grime to reveal the lower strata of grime beneath. The major had no experience of this sort of thing. Every available orifice on the little lad's face seemed to be gushing. He looked for help to Gabitass. 'You're a married man, aren't you, trooper? What are we supposed to do now?'

'I could give him a clout alongside the ear, sir,' said Trooper Gabitass.

'That's very unfeeling, trooper! Look here, I had a handkerchief on me somewhere . . .'

'Huh, I have my own wiper, thank you very much, I don't have to be condescended at,' sniffed Nobby, and pulled one out of his pocket. In fact, he pulled several dozen, including one with the initials C. M.-S. on it. They were tangled together like a conjuror's flags-of-all-nations, and dragged with them several purses and half a dozen spoons. Nobby wiped his face with the first one, and thrust the entire collection back into his pocket. At this point he realized that all the men were staring at him. 'What? What?' he said defiantly. 'Tell us about this man Keel,' said the major. 'I don't know nuffin',' said Nobby automatically. 'Aha, that means you do know something,' said the major, who was indeed the sort of person who liked this kind of little triumph. Nobby looked blank. The captain leaned forward to whisper to his superior officer. 'Er, only under the rules of mathematics, sir,' he said. 'Under the rules of common grammar, he is merely being emphat-'

'Tell us about Keel!' the major shouted. 'Tell you what, major, why not leave that sort of thing to the experts?' said a voice. The major looked up. Carcer and his men had entered the tent. The sergeant was grinning again. 'Got yourself a little prisoner, have you?' he said, stepping forward to examine Nobby. 'Reckon you've got a ringleader here, yeah. Told you anything, has he? I shouldn't think so. You need special training to get the best out of lads like this, haha.' He slipped his hand into his pocket. When it came out, the knuckles were ringed with brass. 'Now then, lad,' he said, as the soldiers watched in horror, 'you know who I am, do you? I'm in the Particulars, me. And I can see two of you. One of them's a lively lad who's going to help the proper authorities with their business and the other is a lippy little bugger who's going to try to be clever. One of these lads has a future, and all his teeth. Now the funny thing about me, it's a little habit of mine, is that I never ask a question twice. So ... you're not a criminal, are you?' Nobby, his eyes huge and fixed on the brass knuckles, shook his head. 'You just do what you have to to survive, right?' Nobby nodded.

'In fact you were probably a decent lad before you fell in with the rebels, I expect. Sang hymns and that.' Nobby nodded. 'This man who.calls himself Sergeant Keel is the ringleader of the rebels, yes?' There was a moment of hesitation, and then Nobby raised a hand. 'Um . . . everyone does what he tells them, is that the same thing?' he said. 'Yep. Is he charismatic?' Nobby kept staring at the brass knuckles. 'Um, um, um, I don't know. I haven't heard him cough much.'

'And what do they talk about beyond the barricade, my little lad?'

'Um . . . well, Justice an' Truth an' Freedom and stuff,' said Nobby. 'Aha. Rebel talk!' said Carcer, straightening up. 'Is it?' said the major. 'Take it from me, major,' said Carcer. 'When you get a bunch of people using words like that, they're up to no good.' He looked down at Nobby. 'Now, I wonder what I've got in my pocket for a good boy, eh? Oh, yes . . . someone's ear. Still warm. Here you go, kid!'