A/N: Chapter 3... hallelujah! Let it ring throughout the land, Grey's got her butt in gear. And the people rejoice. (There's some swearing in this chapter. Like in Chapter 2. And Chapter 1. Ummm... yes.)
Oh, and I would like to profusely thank Butterfly and The God of Angst for their help; this wouldn't have gotten written if you hadn't stepped in. I might have been able to get to a library, but not for a week at least, and you helped quite a lot.
Chapter 3
Susan Sto-Helit opened her eyes and sat up. Something was gone. Something inside of her, one of the things that made her Susan.
And also her bed.
Susan got to her feet and brushed the decaying leaves off of her nightgown, glaring around at the dripping trees and creepers that made up her surroundings. A small creature of indeterminable species had the misfortune to wander into the clearing but fled a few seconds later, tripping over its own paws.
Susan picked at her hair irritably, trying to fix it. It had never done this before. It had no RIGHT to be tangled. It was supposed... to... fix... itself... She stared at the leaves in her hand.
"Damn," she hissed, crushing them into dust. She scattered them in the breeze. "Of all things." Susan screwed up her face. "Visions through a keyhole," she muttered bitterly, lifting her skirt and stalking deliberately away through the trees.
The Lady appeared, fading into the background like a witch and seriously alarming a very old man, who had some very bad bladder problems. Nuff' said. She stared down at him with her emerald eyes, making him very happy he had already... yes.
She started forward, changing shape as she walked out of the dark alleyway. Her hair came down, darkened, straightened, shortened... And her white, sufficiently Goddess-like tent of a dress morphed into a sensible black school-mistress dress, complete with the small bunch of lace at the throat. She looked, in short, like a painfully conservative teacher who had discovered her gothic side.
The Lady took a deep breath of the air and nearly gagged, grabbing her throat and choking. "Ah, the first whiff of pure, 100% proof Ankh-Morpork air is always a shock for newcomers," came a voice behind her. She turned cautiously, as though afraid of what she would find there. A short, skinny man with a tray grinned up at her.
"What -are- you?" she hissed, blatant disbelief dancing a merry jig on the words.
"C.M.O.T. Dibbler, purveyor of fine goods, souvenirs, and sausages," Dibbler warbled, bowing as low as he could without dumping the contents of his infamous tray. "Be pleased if you'd call me Throat. Could I interest you in some of the finest sunglasses this side of... Quirm?"
The Lady tried to stare intently at the creature through her eyelashes. "Sunglasses," she responded flatly, setting her weight on one hip. "Why would I need... sunglasses?"
"Because... because... you're squinting, m'Lady," said Throat authoritatively, waving about a pair of finest sunglasses like a director's baton. "Perhaps because you're sensitive to the sun! Or," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning forward and hissing out of the corner of his mouth, "you can just wear them so that no one can see where you're looking... seeing as how they hide your eyes."
The Lady moved away from the horrible little man. "Yes," she said uncertainly. "I will buy some. Now will you please go away and leave me alone?"
Dibbler grinned a many-toothed grin. "Five dollars, and that's cutting me own throat," he said.
"Two dollars, or I cut your throat for you," responded the Lady absently, fishing around in her purse. "And the darkest pair you have."
Dibbler paled. "Two dollars for the lovely lady. Fifty pence extra for darkness," he added, remembering the rare Profit Fairy and how it had managed to escape him in the past.
"Thank you," the Lady mumbled reluctantly. "May you live a long life..." ... Far, far away from me, she added in her head.
Sam Vimes' eyes bugged with the effort of not strangling the man then and there. He would, of course, have to move very fast, without the slightest shadow of a noise, and be exceptionally strong, but the insane urge still gripped him like a... a... a really big gripping-thing. His left eye twitched.
Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers. "I realize that it was not your duty, your Grace," he said amiably, the candlelight glinted of his pitch-black hair. Wuffles sneezed under his desk. "However, the keyword in that sentence is 'was,' I believe. Now that it is an issue of some importance, it IS your duty, in fact, to deal with the ensuing confusion."
Vimes thumped the desk with a fist. "Can't we have some Guild help at LEAST?" he hissed angrily, his eyes wild. "Dwarf riots are all fine and good, but Captain Carrot can only be in one place at the same time! They're everywhere! There are Vampires wandering the streets breathing garlic breath on innocent bystanders, people are tripping over Golems and Zombies and Trolls and Gnomes and Gnolls and... and... er..."
Lord Vetinari stared at Vimes' fist on the desk as though it were something out of the Dungeon Dimensions*.
Vimes cleared his throat and removed his hand, taking a moment to rub the spot vigorously with the edge of his cape. "Yes, well... that's our situation," he concluded, squeaking a bit. "We could use some help. Um."
"As has already been called to your attention, many Guilds have been put temporarily out of commission, for reasons undisclosed," Lord Vetinari continued calmly, completely unaware that he had been THIS CLOSE to being ripped to pieces by a Basement Dimension creature. (Um. Perhaps it's time for the Trousers of Time theory...)
"What, you mean their important members have crumbled up into foul-smelling piles of dust?" Vimes answered darkly, something that he did very well.
Vetinari looked at him for a moment. "Aha. Yes. That may very well be the case, although I'm sure that the honourable Mr. Slant would object to the... reference... to his current condition."
"Oh yes?" Vimes muttered, glancing out the window. "And what colour is he now? Eau-de-nil? A lovely shade, I'm sure." He snapped back to the world of the living, or, aha, the un-living. "And Constable Downspout is also, as it were, 'out of commission,' sir."
"Oh?"
"Oh, yes," Vimes growled bitterly. "Do you know what he was doing the last time he was seen?"
Vetinari arched an unsympathetic eyebrow. "Sitting there like a life-less gargoyle?"
"No! Yes! I mean... yes, that's what he was doing." Vimes really, really, really wanted to throttle the man.
Vetinari flashed him a brief, bright smile. "Don't let me keep you," he said dully, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his desk. "I'm sure you have quite a lot of... recruiting to do. Yes?"
*Well, probably not the Dungeon Dimensions. Maybe the Basement Dimensions or something. Lord Vetinari had not yet lost important parts of his anatomy yet, thus leading us to the conclusion that... yes. Never mind. I'm done now.
Oh, and I would like to profusely thank Butterfly and The God of Angst for their help; this wouldn't have gotten written if you hadn't stepped in. I might have been able to get to a library, but not for a week at least, and you helped quite a lot.
Chapter 3
Susan Sto-Helit opened her eyes and sat up. Something was gone. Something inside of her, one of the things that made her Susan.
And also her bed.
Susan got to her feet and brushed the decaying leaves off of her nightgown, glaring around at the dripping trees and creepers that made up her surroundings. A small creature of indeterminable species had the misfortune to wander into the clearing but fled a few seconds later, tripping over its own paws.
Susan picked at her hair irritably, trying to fix it. It had never done this before. It had no RIGHT to be tangled. It was supposed... to... fix... itself... She stared at the leaves in her hand.
"Damn," she hissed, crushing them into dust. She scattered them in the breeze. "Of all things." Susan screwed up her face. "Visions through a keyhole," she muttered bitterly, lifting her skirt and stalking deliberately away through the trees.
The Lady appeared, fading into the background like a witch and seriously alarming a very old man, who had some very bad bladder problems. Nuff' said. She stared down at him with her emerald eyes, making him very happy he had already... yes.
She started forward, changing shape as she walked out of the dark alleyway. Her hair came down, darkened, straightened, shortened... And her white, sufficiently Goddess-like tent of a dress morphed into a sensible black school-mistress dress, complete with the small bunch of lace at the throat. She looked, in short, like a painfully conservative teacher who had discovered her gothic side.
The Lady took a deep breath of the air and nearly gagged, grabbing her throat and choking. "Ah, the first whiff of pure, 100% proof Ankh-Morpork air is always a shock for newcomers," came a voice behind her. She turned cautiously, as though afraid of what she would find there. A short, skinny man with a tray grinned up at her.
"What -are- you?" she hissed, blatant disbelief dancing a merry jig on the words.
"C.M.O.T. Dibbler, purveyor of fine goods, souvenirs, and sausages," Dibbler warbled, bowing as low as he could without dumping the contents of his infamous tray. "Be pleased if you'd call me Throat. Could I interest you in some of the finest sunglasses this side of... Quirm?"
The Lady tried to stare intently at the creature through her eyelashes. "Sunglasses," she responded flatly, setting her weight on one hip. "Why would I need... sunglasses?"
"Because... because... you're squinting, m'Lady," said Throat authoritatively, waving about a pair of finest sunglasses like a director's baton. "Perhaps because you're sensitive to the sun! Or," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning forward and hissing out of the corner of his mouth, "you can just wear them so that no one can see where you're looking... seeing as how they hide your eyes."
The Lady moved away from the horrible little man. "Yes," she said uncertainly. "I will buy some. Now will you please go away and leave me alone?"
Dibbler grinned a many-toothed grin. "Five dollars, and that's cutting me own throat," he said.
"Two dollars, or I cut your throat for you," responded the Lady absently, fishing around in her purse. "And the darkest pair you have."
Dibbler paled. "Two dollars for the lovely lady. Fifty pence extra for darkness," he added, remembering the rare Profit Fairy and how it had managed to escape him in the past.
"Thank you," the Lady mumbled reluctantly. "May you live a long life..." ... Far, far away from me, she added in her head.
Sam Vimes' eyes bugged with the effort of not strangling the man then and there. He would, of course, have to move very fast, without the slightest shadow of a noise, and be exceptionally strong, but the insane urge still gripped him like a... a... a really big gripping-thing. His left eye twitched.
Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers. "I realize that it was not your duty, your Grace," he said amiably, the candlelight glinted of his pitch-black hair. Wuffles sneezed under his desk. "However, the keyword in that sentence is 'was,' I believe. Now that it is an issue of some importance, it IS your duty, in fact, to deal with the ensuing confusion."
Vimes thumped the desk with a fist. "Can't we have some Guild help at LEAST?" he hissed angrily, his eyes wild. "Dwarf riots are all fine and good, but Captain Carrot can only be in one place at the same time! They're everywhere! There are Vampires wandering the streets breathing garlic breath on innocent bystanders, people are tripping over Golems and Zombies and Trolls and Gnomes and Gnolls and... and... er..."
Lord Vetinari stared at Vimes' fist on the desk as though it were something out of the Dungeon Dimensions*.
Vimes cleared his throat and removed his hand, taking a moment to rub the spot vigorously with the edge of his cape. "Yes, well... that's our situation," he concluded, squeaking a bit. "We could use some help. Um."
"As has already been called to your attention, many Guilds have been put temporarily out of commission, for reasons undisclosed," Lord Vetinari continued calmly, completely unaware that he had been THIS CLOSE to being ripped to pieces by a Basement Dimension creature. (Um. Perhaps it's time for the Trousers of Time theory...)
"What, you mean their important members have crumbled up into foul-smelling piles of dust?" Vimes answered darkly, something that he did very well.
Vetinari looked at him for a moment. "Aha. Yes. That may very well be the case, although I'm sure that the honourable Mr. Slant would object to the... reference... to his current condition."
"Oh yes?" Vimes muttered, glancing out the window. "And what colour is he now? Eau-de-nil? A lovely shade, I'm sure." He snapped back to the world of the living, or, aha, the un-living. "And Constable Downspout is also, as it were, 'out of commission,' sir."
"Oh?"
"Oh, yes," Vimes growled bitterly. "Do you know what he was doing the last time he was seen?"
Vetinari arched an unsympathetic eyebrow. "Sitting there like a life-less gargoyle?"
"No! Yes! I mean... yes, that's what he was doing." Vimes really, really, really wanted to throttle the man.
Vetinari flashed him a brief, bright smile. "Don't let me keep you," he said dully, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his desk. "I'm sure you have quite a lot of... recruiting to do. Yes?"
*Well, probably not the Dungeon Dimensions. Maybe the Basement Dimensions or something. Lord Vetinari had not yet lost important parts of his anatomy yet, thus leading us to the conclusion that... yes. Never mind. I'm done now.