NOTE: Okay… I apologise completely and unreservedly. Especially to Angua. In my defence, Sally is a bad influence, and I've had this idea floating around ever since that conversation in the showers during Thud. And, judging by eris86's latest review (thanks, also to all other reviewers too), I'm not the only one…

I remain in fear for my jugular.

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Vimes fidgeted self consciously. He was dressed in his full Ducal regalia, which, to Vimes' eyes, made him look like a brightly coloured ice cream, but Sybil had insisted.

The room was starting to fill up. It was the Ball Room in the Vimes-Ramkin estate, which lay empty, unused, and a source of employment for at least one cleaner, most of the year round, but tonight it had 'seasonal' (read ghastly) decorations all round it, a long trestle table laden with what was described as buffet food, and a lot of Watchmen standing around trying, and failing, to make polite conversation. Most of them were allowed to turn up in highly polished armour and some brown clothes that had seen soapy water within the last month or so. Vimes envied them.

There were only two people holding real conversations. Lady Sybil had managed to corner a few of the wives of the Watchmen who had come along, and was determinedly making conversation against stiff resistance in the form of a pair of women born on Cockbill Street getting tongue tied talking to nobility. The other was Captain Carrot, who, smelling even more of soap and polish than usual, was talking happily with a few of the newer recruits, who, powered by the sheer force of Carrot's presence, were happily chatting back.

Sergeant Detritus was introducing Lance Constable Brick to a few of the troll voulavents that he wouldn't have found on the street. It was amazing how Brick had changed since joining the Watch; granted, his odd shape had meant none of the troll armour in the Watch armoury would fit him, so he was in the old Elephant armour that Detritus had once worn, and he was proving even slower than his Sergeant at picking up the whole saluting thing, but he was still a changed troll.

Cheery Littlebottom was looking very self conscious, standing with a group of female dwarves who had decided to make a stand and had turned up in dresses. Admitedly, the dresses were very much in dwarf fashion, with copious amounts of chainmail and handbags designed more to carry an axe than meet human requirements for style.

Nobby and Colon were, of course, in a huddle with a few of the more experienced coppers, sharing dog ends and probably stories of vastly exaggerated exploits, both on the beat and with the opposite sex (in any gathering of males between 16 and 50, and sometimes above, anywhere in any multiverse, will turn into that conversation, some more veiled than others, but all on the same topic).

In a corner a small band quietly played Johann Wacker's Siege Crossbow in D minor, adding what could just about be counted as, for want of a better term, ambiance.

Vimes did a brief headcount. In the last few months he had really, really tried to learn the names of all of the new recruits and Watchmen, and as far as he could see, the only people missing were those on Nightshift tonight, and Sally and Angua.

A figure appeared in the door. Francis Throckmorton walked in, hands casually clasped behind his back, dressed in a smart, yet unmemorable suit.

He handed an invitation to Vimes. Vimes looked at it. It was an invitation identical to the ones the Guards officer's had been given, with Throckmorton's name on it. Even the type of card was identical, complete with a randomly placed ink stain fingerprint. Vimes had a feeling that if he compared them, the fingerprint would match his.

"I don't remember sending you an invitation Francis," he said, "not that this is an unpleasant surprise."

Throckmorton smiled.

"That is little barrier to our specialists, Sir Samuel. Incidentally, when Mr Quill arrives, it would be better if you had never seen him before. And his name is Elliot Pictonne."

Vimes nodded. Of course, Pictonne had been sent an invitation, but until now Vimes' exhausted mind hadn't paired it with Quill.

"Now, if you will excuse me, Sir Samuel, I shall mingle... it's a quite underrated skill outside of my line of work, you know."

Even as Throckmorton wandered off towards a gaggle of Watchmen, Vimes heard a regular clacking sound out in the hall. It was the sound of fourteen pairs of Hessian boots marching in step on the marble flagstones of the Vimes-Ramkin entrance hall.

The group of Guards Officers entered the hall. While the quiet babble of talking continued, every eye followed them. They were in dress uniform; their green jackets were dark green, with black trappings and glittering medals. White breeches and black Hessian boots below the waist, and (plumed) bicorn hats under their arms. Each had a light, curved sabre by their sides, not the heavy killing blades Vimes had seen before. The group made a beeline for Vimes.

"His Grace the Duke of Ankh," Marten said, extending a hand, seemingly genuinely pleased to meet Vimes. "We haven't met properly. I'm-"

"Colonel Marten of the 2nd Morporkian Guards," Vimes completed the sentence, shaking the hand. "You've got quite a name in the City," Vimes struck out for something to say other than 'That's a bloody awful hat'.

"Call me Jon, please, Your Grace. Jonny if you must. And my name pales into insignificance next to your own."

"Sir Samuel," Vimes conceded. He could feel he was being measured by the man, and, to be fair, was returning the favour. Marten seemed charming, well groomed, intelligent, dashing and polite. All in all, too good to be true. In Vimes' experience, if something seemed too good to be true, it was.

"Allow me to introduce my lads," Marten said, indicating his fellow Officers, half of them easily his elders.

The first man, around fifty and with greying hair, was introduced as Captain Neigh of the first company; the name was apt, as the man's laugh was like a horse's neighing, and his appearance could only be described as horsey.

The next man was Quill, introduced as Captain Pictonne of the second company; his acting was perfect; no one, not even Vimes, if he had been watching, would have suspected he had ever even seen Vimes before except on the cover of the Times.

The officers were introduced, one by one, with Vimes almost immediately forgetting almost all of their names and ranks, until they reached the fourteenth and final man of the group.

"And this fine fellow is the Lieutenant Colonel of the Regiment... Mr Frank Paine."

The man looked different to the other Officers; he seemed more stocky and features like his cheekbones and chin were less prominent; in short, the man looked like a normal man, not a result of aristocratic inbreeding.

"Honoured to meet you, you're Grace," the man said, saluting. The voice was street too.

"Frank here is the highest ranking man in the whole army that came up from the Ranks, you know!" Marten beamed. "No man I'd rather have watching my back when the arrows start flying."

"Thank you, sir," Paine said, standing to attention. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'm perishin' thirsty, sir." The man saluted again, and marched off, until he felt he was far enough away, and relaxed slightly.

That just left Vimes and Marten.

----------

"How in the names of all the Gods did I let you talk me into this?" Angua groaned as the Carriage rumbled down the street.

"Talking you into it was easy," Sally replied. "Talking you into it didn't take half as long as getting you into it."

Angua sat opposite Sally in the carriage. Sally was dressed in an incredible dress, in black, that just screamed vampire, right down to underwired bodice, with the important Black Ribbon pinned on in plain sight. Sally, of course, looked stunning in it, although the really amazing thing was that it was the kind of clothing that almost anyone could have looked stunning in (even if they were male, although then the effect might be stunning in a rather more literal sense, right down to the amnesia, if you were lucky).

Angua was also wearing a dress. It was considerably less complicated than Sally's, and involved a lot less sequins, but it was still, undeniably, a dress... perhaps even the word gown would be fitting; an article of clothing Angua hadn't worn in years.

"Next time you ask me anything about my relationship with Carrot, I'm staying silent," Angua said.

Sally spread her hands innocently.

"You told me he had never seen you in a dress; I'm just attempting to right that wrong."

"Do you have any idea how much this thing cost?" Angua moaned.

"Yes; I was there and helped you choose it, if you remember," Sally replied. "Good thing too, or you'd probably have just bought some more armour polish and taken your uniform to the laundrette."

"It was over a hundred dollars!"

"Look," Sally said, "you've been in the Watch for years now, on full pay, and what have you spent money on? Rent and the occasional chicken. It's not as if you can't afford it. Anyway, I'm paying for the carriage."

"We could have just walked," Angua muttered.

"Good Gods, girl, when was the last time you even wore a dress? You can't walk anywhere in it, especially not in this weather; it'd be filthy before you ever got to the Ball."

I can hardly walk anyway, Angua thought. Along with the dress, Sally had persuaded her to buy a pair of high heels; they were only three inches high, compared with Sally's six inch, but then Angua hadn't had practise in walking in heels. Aloud, she said,

"I'm not a dress kind of person. The lads will laugh. Or worse, they'll snigger."

Sally rolled her eyes.

"They won't," she said. Angua was offering as much resistance to the idea of dressing properly for the Ball as Sally had expected; the difference was Sally expected to come up against a solid refusal, not a long drawn out refusal that took place after all items had been bought and put on. Anyway, the only Watchmen who laughed at Angua normally were those with a death wish, and in her new clothes, the only people to laugh at her would be people with a death wish and no interest in ladies.

Sally just hoped and prayed no one would do something incredibly stupid like wolf-whistle. Angua was wearing a dress that Sally knew was more stylish than a good few vampires wore nowadays, in a deep red, and, after much arguing, Sally had even managed to get Angua wearing a pair of elbow length gloves in the same colour and even a fan, although Sally got the impression the only reason Angua had consented to such accessories was the irony at the thought of a werewolf dressing in a way so suited to a vampire.

"This is insane," Angua muttered. "Something is going to go wrong, and I'll have to change, and-"

"You're not going to have to change tonight, Angua," Sally said, in a tired voice.

"I am," Angua replied fervently, "you remember how long it took to get my hair like this? If I ever spend more than five minutes on it, I'll have to change within three hours. Cosmic law of some kind." Angua sighed. "And then... think how bloody long it will take to get back into this getup."

Sally smiled slightly. For all her complaining, Angua had offered remarkably little argument when Sally had made the suggestion of formal wear. Right now, while parrying Angua's complaints and trepidations, Sally was mostly trying to imagine Carrot's face when he saw Angua.

----------

Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were surveying the buffet with eyes of true connoisseurs.

"Cor, Sarge, look at the sausage rolls," Nobby said, eyeing the plates hungrily.

Colon picked up one of the burnt offers and put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, a look of extreme concentration (or possibly constiterracen) on his face.

"That, Nobby, is approximately one half burnt to a crisp."

"They must have got a gore-met chef in, Sarge."

People had begun to relax, although the atmosphere was still one of forced happiness. The army officers had, after attempting to talk to some of the Watchmen, largely retreated back into their own group, who had been caught in conversation with Captain Carrot.

All except two; Marten was talking to Vimes, and another man was walking towards Colon and Nobby.

"'scuse me," he said in an accent that wouldn't have been out of place in a Broken Drum brawl, "you're ex-milit'ry, right?" He spoke to Colon and Nobby.

Colon nodded, saluting and coming as close to attention as his body allowed.

"That's right sir," he said, "Duke of Quirm's Middleweight Infantry and then the Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry, eight years under the flag."

The man nodded.

"I thought so. There's somethin' in the stance after a couple of cold nights on sentry duty you can't get rid of. I'm Frank Paine." He extended a hand to Colon, who shook it, then, with only a hint of hesitation, to Nobby.

"Duke of Quirm's Middleweights, eh..." he said thoughtfully. "Me first drill sergeant when I joined up was from them. Had a voice like a bull with its arse on fire, ol' Sarge Wishbone did."

Colon did what for him was a double take.

"Not old 'Two-To-One-Against' Wishbone?"

"You knew him?"

"I'd say I did!" Colon retorted, "He used to run the regimental book… the bastard still owes me ten dollars on the worm races!"

"You'll have a hard time getting it off him then," Paine replied. "He's been pushing up the daisies in Klatch since the whole Leshp incident."

Colon nodded sadly, chewing on a sausage roll. He suddenly seemed to brighten up.

"I don't suppose…"

"Sorry, Sergeant," Paine replied, "I can't carry another man's debts… although…" he reached into the lining of his bicorn, which he had steadfastly refused to put on, and pulled out a pack of cards, "I'll give you a run on Cripple Mister Onion if you like."

Nobby reached into his breastplate for the Watch's petty cash, as Colon replied,

"Aces high?"

----------

Vimes had found plenty to dislike in Marten. He was upper class, intelligent, allegedly brave and had made a profession of fighting and killing. And, worst of all, worse than any of the above, he was likeable. That really grated; in Vimes' book, an aristocrat was meant to be like Lord Rust; arrogant, overbearing and obnoxious. Marten was none of that; he seemed charming and genuinely likeable. Because of that, it was hard for Vimes to make idle small talk.

"Of course, the entire Disc knows about the Klatch resolution… arresting two high commands! Not something you see everyday…" Marten was saying. Vimes grunted.

"It made as much sense as anything. And what did the armies do while they waited? Football! Still, it showed more sense than Rust had."

"I remember that. Lieutenant Colonel Paine scored two hacked shins. Upheld the pride of the Regiment and all that."

Vimes was about to reply, when he saw Marten's eyes widen. He followed the soldier's gaze, and almost dropped his cigar.

Two women had just entered the room. One was Constable Sally, although she looked more like Salacia von Humpeding at the moment; there was a certain vampire image that had become a cliché, and Sally was proving that this stereotype at least was there for a reason. The other woman… looked a lot like Angua, except for the fact that Angua didn't wear ball gowns and high heels…

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Sally and Angua advanced slowly towards Vimes, as he was the host, and Sally had been adamant that they were meant to greet him first, and she doubtless knew a lot more about Ballroom etiquette than Angua. Sally advanced slowly in a stately way, while Angua had the feeling that anyone watching would see quite clearly, despite the ankle length dress, that she was advancing slowly to avoid losing her balance on the heels… and she had a (considerably more accurate) feeling that everyone was watching them.

Oh Gods, she suddenly realised, Sally expects me to curtsey to them… she'll do it flawlessly and then I'll try and fail and probably twist an ankle in these shoes…

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"Who're they?" Paine asked in a slightly awed voice. Colon, who had dropped his cards, replied slowly;

"That's Constable Sally… and… and I think that's Sergeant Angua…"

Paine whistled quietly.

"That's what you're Sergeants look like? I should resign my commission and become a copper."

Lance Constable Hasenfield, who had consented to be dealer, pursed his lips, but Nobby quickly put a hand over the man's mouth. While the man started to cough, Nobby said,

"You really, really don't want to wolf whistle at Sergeant Angua. Really."

"Why?" Paine asked, while his eyes, like almost all eyes in the room, didn't leave the pair.

"Well… let's just say the last man who did ended up being pinned to a wall by a pair of stilettos."

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Sally and Angua had reached Vimes. Vimes himself was lost for words, but Colonel Marten put his hand out, palm up, and while Sally put her own hand in it she performed a (flawless) curtsey, and Marten bowed over the hand again. Angua tried to curtsey, a manoeuvre she hadn't attempted for some time. Amazingly, she managed to keep her footing, and didn't make a complete fool of herself.

"Commander," Sally said primly, "Colonel."

"Salacia," Marten said, "you look even more divine than when we last met," he turned to Angua. "Sergeant, can I offer you a drink yet?" Angua took a breath.

"Ah... no, thank you, Colonel... I'm sure Miss von Humpeding would accept though."

Marten smiled, nodded slightly, and he and Sally walked away. No doubt Sally would put it down to her 'people skills'.

Angua finally caught Vimes' eye. Suddenly she felt herself start blushing.

"Sally... uh... persuaded me... to... where's Carrot?"

Vimes, wordlessly, pointed across to where Carrot and the army officers were standing. Angua nodded to Vimes, and walked as quickly as her shoes allowed her to across to them. Carrot's expression, which Sally had tried to envisage, was... indescribable, really. There was astonishment in there, some shock, and a lot of other emotions that really came to more than the sum of their parts.

"Hi..." Angua began, "Um... Sally, she talked me into..."

"You look... amazing," Carrot said. Oh boy, Angua thought, this blush must be burning in...

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NOTE: Sorry again. There'll be more action in the next chapter, really.