“I do beg your pardon so very much,” he said. “However, while you gentlemen have been keeping your desk nice and clean, a canker, as they say, haha, is eating at the very heart of the city. Has anyone told you that the Cable Street Watch House has been burned to the ground? With, we believe, the loss of the lives of poor Captain Swing and at least one of our…technical people.”

“Swing, bigods,” said Captain Wrangle.

“That is what I said. All the scum your lads have been driving out of Dolly Sisters and all the other nests, well, they've ended up down there.”

The major looked at the report. “But our patrol said that everything seemed to be in hand, the Watch were very visible on the streets, and people were showing the flag and singing the national anthem,” he said.

“There you are, then,” said Carcer. “Do you ever sing the national anthem in the street, major?”

“Well, no—”

“Who did his lordship send down there?” said Wrangle.

Major Mountjoy-Standfast thumbed through his papers. His face fell. “Rust,” he said.

“Oh dear. That's a blow.”

“I daresay the man is dead,” said Carcer, and the major tried not to look slightly more cheerful. “The person in charge down there now calls himself Sergeant Keel. But he is a impostor. The real Keel is in the mortuary.”

“How do you know all this?” said the major.

“We in the Particulars have ways of finding things out,” said Carcer.

“I've heard,” murmured the captain.

“Martial law, gentlemen, means that the military comes to the aid of the civil power,” said Carcer. “And that's me, right now. O'course, you could send a couple of runners up to the ball, but I don't reckon that would be a good career move. So what I'm asking is for your men to assist us with a little…surgical strike.”

The major stared at him. There was now no limit to the distaste he had for Carcer. But he hadn't been a major for very long, and when you've just been promoted you hope to stay that way long enough for the braid to get a tarnish.

He forced himself to smile. “You and your men have had a long day, sergeant,” he said. “Why don't you go along to the mess tent while I consult with my fellow officers?”

Carcer stood up with a suddenness that made the major flinch, then leaned forward with his knuckles on the desk.

“You do that, sonny Jim,” he said, with a grin like the edge of a rusty saw. Then he turned and strode out into the night.

In the silence that followed Wrangle said, “His name is on the list of officers that Swing sent us yesterday, I'm afraid. And, er, he's technically correct about the law.”

“You mean we have to take orders from him?”

“No. But he's entitled to request assistance from you.”

“Am I entitled to refuse?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. But…”

“…I'd have to tell his lordship why?”

“Exactly.”

“But that man's an evil bastard! You know the sort. The kind that joins up for the pillaging? The kind you have to end up hanging as an example to the men?”

“Um…”

“What now?”

“Well, he's right about one thing. I've been looking at the reports and, well, it's odd. It's all been very quiet down towards Treacle Mine Road.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

“It's unbelievable, Clive, when you put it all together. Even the Watch House didn't get attacked, it says here. Er…and your Captain Burns says he met this Keel chap, or someone who said he was Keel, and he says that if the man's a Watch sergeant then he, Burns, is a monkey's uncle. He says the man is used to serious command. I think he rather took to him, to tell you the truth.”

“Ye gods, Tom, I need some help here!” said the major.

“Then send out some gallopers right away. A little informal patrolling, perhaps. Get some proper intelligence. You can afford to wait half an hour.”

“Right! Right! Good idea!” said the major, steaming with relief. “See to it, could you?”

After the flurry of orders, he sat back and stared at the map. Some things at least made sense. All these barricades looked inward. People were barricading themselves against the palace and the centre of the city. No one would be bothered much about the outside world. If you had to take an outlying part of the city in those circumstances, then the thing to do would be to go in via a gatehouse in the city wall. They might not be quite so guarded as they ought to be.

“Tom?”

“Yes, Clive?”

“Have you ever sung the national anthem?”

“Oh, lots of times, sir.”

“I don't mean officially.”

“You mean just to show I'm patriotic? Good gods, no. That would be a rather odd thing to do,” said the captain.

“And how about the flag?”

“Well, obviously I salute it every day, sir.”

“But you don't wave it, at all?” the major enquired.

“I think I waved a paper one a few times when I was a little boy. Patrician's birthday or something. We stood in the streets as he rode by and we shouted ‘Hurrah!’”

“Never since then?”

“Well, no, Clive,” said the captain, looking embarrassed. “I'd be very worried if I saw a man singing the national anthem and waving the flag, sir. It's really a thing foreigners do.”

“Really? Why?”

“We don't need to show we're patriotic, sir. I mean, this is Ankh-Morpork. We don't have to make a big fuss about being the best, sir. We just know.”

@It was a beguiling theory that might have arisen in the minds of Wiglet and Waddy and, yes, even in the not overly exercised mind of Fred Colon, and as far as Vimes could understand it, it went like this.

1. Supposing the area behind the barricades was bigger than the area in front of the barricades, right?

2. Like, sort of, it had more people in it and more of the city, if you follow me.

3. Then, correct me if I'm wrong, sarge, but that'd mean in a manner of speaking we are now in front of the barricades, am I right?

4. Then, as it were, it's not like we're rebellin', is it? 'cos there's more of us, so the majority can't rebel, it stands to reason.

5. So that makes us the good guys. Obviously we've been the good guys all along, but now it'd be kind of official, right? Like, mathematical?

6. So we thought we'd push on to Short Street and then we could nip down into Dimwell and up the other side of the river…

7. Are we going to get into trouble for this, sarge?

8. You're looking at me in a funny way, sarge.

9. Sorry, sarge.

Vimes, with an increasingly worried Fred Colon in front of him, and some of the other barricadeers standing around as if caught in an illicit game of Knocking On Doors And Running Away, thought about this. The men watched him carefully, in case of explosion.

And it actually made a weird kind of logic, if you didn't factor in considerations like “real life” and “common sense”.

They'd worked hard. It was easy enough to block a city street, heavens knew. You just nailed planks around a couple of wagons and piled it high with furniture and junk. That took care of the main streets, and with enough pushing you could move it forwards.

As for the rest, it really hadn't been that hard. There had been lots of small barricades in any case. The lads had simply joined them up. Without anyone really noticing, The People's Republic of Treacle Mine Road now occupied almost a quarter of the city.

Vimes took a few deep breaths.

“Fred?” he said.

“Yes, sarge?”

“Did I tell you to do this?”

“No, sarge.”

“There's too many alleys. There's too many people, Fred.”

Colon brightened. “Ah, well, there's more coppers too, sarge. A lot of the lads found their way here. Good lads, too. And Sergeant Dickins, he knows about this stuff, he remembers the last time this happened, sarge, so he asked every able-bodied man who knew how to use a weapon to muster up, sarge. There's a lot of 'em, sarge! We got an army, sarge!”