Albert stared at the timer. It looked ordinary enough at first glance, if on the larger side. It was only on closer inspection that you noticed that the bases were made of very smooth steel, and that the nameplate seemed to be not brass, but gold. At the moment, though, the most obvious feature was the long crack in the top bulb, through which flowed a deceptively thin stream. At that rate, his inner wizard calculated, years had to be vanishing like cookies from a jar guarded by hungry six-year olds.

Poor bugger, his inner human said quietly. Even as he watched he could see the level of sand sinking towards the neck.

"What are you going to do about it, master?"

He looked at it in stupefaction, feeling a chill horror at the thought of someone tampering with his own time. Glass was, after all, fragile. Just a slight push would do it.

LET ME SEE.

Bone fingers* tapped the side of the timer, with a sound like the clinking of wineglasses. The whole thing glowed faintly blue for a second, then abruptly went out. Sand continued to spurt from its side. Death stiffened.

AS I THOUGHT.

Without another word, Death strode out of the Long Room, cradling the timer in a voluminous fold of robe. It was hard to keep up with a seven-foot skeleton with his own frame of relativity at the best of times, but now Albert barely had time to sigh before he saw the door to the study open. "Never a peaceful decade, is there," he muttered and resigned himself for another arthritic trudge.

He got there in time to see Death holding up the timer and, for a skull, doing an amazingly good squint. The sand had stopped falling-at least, out of the timer. Inside, the little grains slid and tumbled their way down, seemingly unaware that they had lost a few million of their comrades.

"How did you fix it?"

SCOTCH TAPE.

And lo, there was a neat strip running over the splintery crack, with another strip perpendicular to it on top. Albert examined it thoughtfully. "A neat job, master."

THANK YOU.

"It'll never hold though."

THIS IS ONLY A TEMPORARY MEASURE.

"Where did you get it?" he asked curiously. Death's desk, he knew, had no working drawers, and even if it had them, he could hardly imagine their contents to be so, well, deskish.

Insomuch as a seven-foot skeleton can look like a perambulating ball of wool, Death was looking sheepish.

ERM.FROM SUSAN.

"What, she gave it to you?"

.NOT EXACTLY. YOU SEE, I VISITED HER CLASSROOM, AND THERE WAS THIS CABINET WHICH EVERYONE SEEMED TO BE VERY FOND OF. SMALL WONDER, TOO.

Albert shook his head. "You nicked it? From Miss Susan? I hope you were sly about it, then."

I WAS ONLY BORROWING, Death protested. Albert could've sworn the capitals felt shorter than usual. Possibly Death was imagining his granddaughter's stare. BESIDES, I NEEDED SOMETHING TO PUT THE PICTURES UP.

"Never mind that, master, who did it? And who did they do it to, if you catch my meaning?"

WHOM, Death said absently, TO WHOM DID THEY DO IT. ALTHOUGH TO WHOM DID HE DO IT WOULD BE MORE ACCURATE.

By virtue of long service, Albert did NOT roll his eyes. Instead, he asked, "Yes, to WHOM did they-he-do it? You mean you know who it was?"

OH YES, said Death. HE LEFT THIS BEHIND.

From his other, the one not holding the timer, he produced a single, golden arrowhead.

* Saying a skeleton's fingers are bony is like saying a boulder is rock- hard. When describing an anthropomorphism it is possible to be more precise.

.............

Strangely enough, as she'd run the sense of urgency had faded. It felt as if some terrible thing had begun to happen, but then just as suddenly had stopped. Like a man who steps over a cliff and hardly has time to consider his error before he finds himself hanging by his trousers from a branch, the danger was still there, but held off. If anything, it made Angua even more nervous.

Her muscles bunched painfully as she made her way to the city, and she knew she'd be feeling drained as a tub when the adrenaline died down. Wolves were build for distance, not speed. You didn't have to outrun something if there were eight of you chasing it.

Home first, the two-legged part of her insisted in the back of her brain. You can't show up at the Watch like this. You need a tongue that talks. And some underwear wouldn't hurt.

The rest of her growled, But He's at the Watch House. *

And so will be whoever else is on duty tonight, said that small bit firmly, We don't want a repeat of that nonsense with the curtains, do we? Go get yourself some clothes.

She snarled silently and leapt in the direction of her room.

Sometimes it paid to throw Civilization a bone.

She wasn't in the mood to make it a big one, though. Tossing a shirt on almost before she had fingers, she grabbed at things in the dark and swore. She'd be damned if she was going to color-coordinate.

In four and a half minutes she nearly at the Watch House. A light was on inside and the building was quiet. If there was trouble, she couldn't tell from the street. His trail was hanging in the air, not fresh, but still there. Was it going in or out?

Her feet slapped up the steps. She threw open the door and asked, "The Captain, where is he?"

At the front desk a tousled head (one of the newer recruits, her memory supplied) jerked up in surprise, blinking sleepy eyes. "Whaa? Whoo?" it blurted and peered back at her. "Con-constable Angua? Is that you?"

"Never mind who I am, where did the Captain go?"

"Captain Carrot? I just sent him home, miss. He said he wasn't feeling well."

Carrot? Sick? Her mind skidded in its tracks and did a hairpin turn.

A flu? A stroke? Cancer? It didn't seem possible. She'd never so much as heard him sneeze before. And surely she wouldn't have felt...whatever it was she'd felt if he'd just caught a cold. Would she?

"How did he look? Was he in pain? Did it seem serious? Did you summon a doctor?"

The rookie's eyes widened in alarm. "Ma'am? Is there something wrong? Is he ok?"

"I don't know, I'm trying to find out," she snapped at him. "Just answer the questions." She took a small, tight breath.

Control, control, remember to live up to your opposable thumbs.

"Lance-Constable..."

"Piper, ma'am."

"Lance-Constable Piper, describe what happened and why the Captain left his post, please."

Piper snapped alert, spine suddenly upright in the manner of one who has just realized that he has been caught sleeping at his post by a superior. His face set in a mask of concentration as he struggled to recall in sufficient detail what was obviously a very important incident to the agitated woman before him.

"Um, well, about..." he flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall, "...two hours ago the Captain said he wasn't feeling really well, and I looked and his face looked awfully pale. Like, really pale. Like someone'd just stepped on his grave." Catching sight of Angua's expression out of the corner of his eye, he hastily added, "But, not so pale that it looked serious. Ma'am."

"Go on," she said evenly.

"Well, I asked him if he was feeling alright, and he said no, not really, but he was sure it'd pass, so I got him a glass of water and asked if he wanted me to go fetch a doctor, and he said no, he'd be fine, and then I asked him if he had any shooting pains in his arms because my uncle went that way, it was awfully quick and everyone thought he was too young, at forty-two."

He gasped a little at the very end of the sentence, then went on, "But about half an hour ago he said he was feeling a little tired and he asked if I'd mind staying a bit beyond my shift, and I said no, of course not since I could see he was still looking a bit pale, so I told him to go home and get some rest. I offered to go with him but he said he'd make it on his own alright and someone had to stay at the House, and ma'am, did something happen to the Captain?"

The last words tripped over each other on their way out. Lance-Constable Piper was really very worried. He was young, and with his round cheeks, slightly snub nose and wide green eyes looked even younger. Right now his anxious stare made Angua think of a puppy watching the whole family drive away. So despite the fact that her stomach felt like it'd fallen through her intestines to her feet, she made an effort to reassure him.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Carrot can take care of himself," she added, mostly to and for herself. "I'll just be going to check up on him."

She went through the streets dazedly, scenarious flipping through her head like a slide show, each more farfetched than the last. She prayed it wasn't a stroke. ** Surely that couldn't be it, she thought, he was young, wasn't he? He ate vegetables and everyone said that rat was really very lean, practically like chicken. But it couldn't be anything slow and wasting or she'd have smelled it on him and he'd seemed fine this morning...

Deep inside her fear cleared its throat and announced, Carrot doesn't leave early for just anything. He must be really, really sick.

She clenched her jaw, told her fear to shove itself someplace impolite and followed Carrot's trail. It led to his room, sure enough. His door was unlocked, as usual. He never mentioned it, but he'd left it that way since the time he'd found her scratching frantically outside. He was in bed, she saw instantly, and she felt slightly relieved. Maybe he'd just been tired, after all. She went to his side and scrutinized him anxiously. He was breathing a little too quietly, a little too slowly.

"Carrot," she whispered. "Carrot, wake up."

HE WILL NOT. NOT YET.

She whirled around so fast that her kidneys clanged. "Who's there?!"

The tall stranger said nothing. Her brain scurried, putting together bits of information like "You didn't smell or hear him coming" and "Gosh, he's awfully thin," and "Is it me or does he have burning blue lights for eyes?"

"YOU!"

ME.

"You can't have him," she snarled. And changed. A growl rumbled out of her chest, a deep growl that said, You might be Death, but take one step near the bed and I'll make you remember what wolves do with bones.

Death held up a hand. As a rule he was a bit dubious about the undead. They tended to create hiccups in the paperwork. But in this case he was relieved to deal with someone whose first reaction to him wasn't a dead-- haha--faint.

I DO NOT COME TO COLLECT HIM.

Good, said Angua's bared fangs.

YET, Death added out of a sense of literal honesty.

Angua tensed to spring.

He added somewhat hastily, DO NOT WORRY. HE IS MERELY UNCONSCIOUS AT THE MOMENT.

She changed. There were too many damn questions and she was willing to bet Death didn't have a sex drive. Grabbing at the remains of the shirt, and then Carrot's blanket when those didn't suffice, she demanded, "Why is he like this? What happened?"

YOU KNOW HOW GREAT SHOCKS CAN TAKE YEARS OFF OF YOUR LIFE?

"Yes..."

TAKING YEARS OFF OF YOUR LIFE CAN REALLY SHOCK YOU, TOO. AND HE'S JUST LOST ABOUT SIXTY FIVE.

"What?? How could that happen? How much has he got left?"

SOMEONE BROKE HIS TIMER. AND ABOUT A WEEK.

Her mouth went dry, but comprehension refused to dawn. "Broke...his timer?"

Death held forth the taped-up timer. She could see the opaque, shattery pattern of the crack underneath the patch.

"Who did it?" Her voice was shaky with fear, rage, and wild uncertainty. "What can I do?"

Don't say nothing, she pleaded internally. Because if he did, she truly didn't know what she would do.

I WILL TELL YOU.

* Carrot was almost always on duty. He'd worked out a way to do day and night shifts by dint of sleeping in those hours that not even hardcore insomniacs and Microsoft programmers knew existed.

** Her grandfather had gone that way. The stroke itself probably wouldn't have killed him (permanently, anyway) except that he'd been chasing a moose at the same time. The moose had been quite angry.

Bloody long chapter, eh? Finally, the plot actually begins to move. I'm still working out future developments in my head, so no updates for a while. Feedback speeds me up though! *wink wink, nudge nudge* Thanks for sticking with me so far, Gaia, Cadi, Lunar, and folks =)