And here we go, on with this tale which is surely spinning itself--for I know I'm not behind it.

I apologize for the crappy draft quality. I'm not bothering to edit this at all, and rushing through it (as is evinced by the lousy prose at the end of chapter 4 *sheepish*) to boot. So thanks for your patience and tolerance, and let me know if you're still interested.

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Angua had known fear. Werewolves, though immortal in a limited sense, were not insensible to pain and could be killed by the cold burn of silver, or the hot burn of fire. Even her few years in the Watch had put her in situations which had inspired dread. She still woke gasping, some nights, from dreams of walking nose-first into Foul Ole Ron.

And of course, since meeting Carrot, she'd learned a new type of fear altogether.

But this wasn't fear. Fear was a cold trickle down your spine, a lump in your gut. Fear was when you wanted to back away and hope something wouldn't happen. This wasn't like that at all. This was more like an ocean that surged in and closed over your head. This was something that sapped the will and turned the heart to so much dust. This was the kind of feeling that made you want to bury yourself not under the headcovers, but under six good feet of dirt. Eight, if the ground were soft enough.

This was worse.

This was despair.

And finally, adrenaline began to unwind itself from her bones. She could feel the past ten hours waiting overhead like an avenging meteor, waiting to crash down and smash her into insensibility. She wanted to make one last struggle to shuffle it into some kind of sense. Since she'd felt the first prickle of apprehension on the plains of Sto-Lat, she'd been straining to see which way the fingers of Fate were pointing. But before she could do more than conjure up Carrot's face, she'd fallen asleep.

Beside her, Lance-Constable Piper drew his cloak gently over her. It was still damp from the fog of the streets.

He'd slept at least a few hours more than she had and, while considerably upset by the recent turn of events, was not quite so personally affected. Carrot, to him, was a figure of glory, a superior in the true sense of the word. It was watching Carrot walking his beat, smiling and nodding to everyone in his path, that had inspired him to join the Watch.

It wasn't just that he smiled and nodded. This was not totally unique; there were several amiable loonies who walked the streets doing pretty much the same thing*--Daft Billy, the fishmonger's son, for example. It was that everyone smiled and nodded back, or at least grunted, which for them was as good as a song and dance.

And the way he saved little old ladies from runaway carts! It was enough to make any decent upstanding young lad, of Suitable Age and looking for a little Excitement, want to bang on the Watch House door.

There was no question, Captain Carrot was the kind of man you looked up to. You called him a Hero, but only behind his back, because if you said it to his face it broke out into a wide, bemused smile and said What, me? Just a copper, like the rest of the boys, in a voice that indicated total faith in every word.

Still, as special as Captain Carrot was to him, he was obviously a lot more special to Constable Angua. Piper blushed as he thought of what he'd been told about the two of them. Not that he'd been told much; rumors (especially that kind) seemed to die away before the Captain's seeming ignorance. He had a way of making you feel like both a dirty rat for saying things behind his back and a dead one because he'd surely heard you.

When he thought about it, it was amazing how much respect the Captain generated, considering how universally he was held as a Nice Guy. It must be the uniform, Piper thought. It was the sort of thing he hoped to pick up himself over time, although so far the only thing he'd managed to pick up from the Watch was a middling-bad case of head lice.

You couldn't deny that he'd already had some Excitement, though. Granted, the most Exciting part--Practically Staring Death in the Face, the Constable had said--seemed to have happened when he was still back at the Watch House, groggy and bemused. But afterwards, since Constable Angua (please, just call me Angua, she'd said) had dashed back in (wearing a different set of clothes, and a shirt that looked rather too big for her, he'd noticed) it had been quite the night. They'd even found a Clue.

Or rather, she'd said, Someone** had given it to her.

He'd been terribly excited about his first Clue, even if it wasn't quite what he'd imagined. He'd always thought of Clues as, you know, like bloody daggers and footprints and what not.

He'd certainly never thought of them as Scotch tape.

But his disappointment was quick to give way to the zeal of professionalism. He'd seized it and sprinkled it liberally with fingerprint powder, but to his surprise and dismay, had found no prints besides his own. He blushed, recalling the scene, which had gone something like this:

"I'm not surprised," she'd said. Then she'd snatched it back from him and said, "Look, use your brains, Piker--"

"--Piper, ma'am"

"--whatever! Or use your eyes, if you haven't any brains! There's a stamp on the side."

There was. It said, "Grade 3, Frout Academy."

He felt embarassed. Just the other day the Commander himself had been walking and talking with him, and had brought up his eyesight. He held the Commander in considerable awe as well, thought not so much as the Captain. You knew the Commander was a Duke, but he didn't look or act like one, whereas the Captain was just a commoner but looked like a king. Still, he knew the Commander was highly ranked and a friend of the Patrician himself, and he'd been puzzled and concerned when the man had said, "You want to be fixing those eyes, lad. They've got too much gleam in 'em."

And now here was Con--Angua telling him to look more carefully. His ears reddened. "There's no need to be like that about it, ma'am," he mumbled, then wished he hadn't.

"Like that?" she growled. "Like what?" Her voice climbed rapidly into the pitch reserved especially for Hysterial Females(+), then sat there. "This has not been a good night, ok? One minute I'm out on a run, the next I find out that someone's just gone and ripped off a whole lifetime from my fiance, only he doesn't know he's my fiance because I was going to turn him down on account of being a werewolf! Death himself says he's coming to take him away and all I have to guide me is this stupid roll of tape and you sit there telling me not to be like that?? What should I be like, then??"

His eyes, already round, became roughly the size and shape of golfballs. His vision may have been defective, but there was nothing wrong with his ears.

Angua stopped shouting and looked at him. Then she replayed the last few lines in her head. "Oh, shit," she said with some feeling, and then buried her face in her hands. She wanted to howl with frustration, and was terribly afraid that she would. Not that it would make much difference, now.

After a pause just sufficiently long enough to be awkward, he said, "Don't worry, ma'am. I won't tell anyone."

She looked up, not certain whether to thank him or stare at him in disbelief.

"On one condition," he added.

The howl nearly came out then. She had to bite her tongue to catch it.

He looked her straight in the eyes, and said, "Take me with you."

She lowered her eyes, as if considering the idea, then raised them, slowly, in a way which reminded Piper of every werewolf story he'd ever heard. Particularly the ones involving gruesome deaths. "And what makes you think I won't just kill you and hide the body so no one will ever know?" she asked, in a voice that was altogether too calm.

Parts of him wanted to run away very fast (preferable into a suitably large jewelry store) after hearing that , but he forced himself to respond. To his pride and considerable surprise, his voice was almost steady. "Because you're an officer of the Watch. Ma'am."

A heartbeat passed, or would've, if his heart had been beating. Then she blinked, and almost smiled. He began to breathe again.

"Do people ever tell you you're cleverer than you look?" she asked.

"Oh yes, ma'am. All the time."

* Only smelling worse. ** Somehow she managed to convey the capital S. + It works sort of like a dog whistle, only on men.

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That had been almost six hours ago. They'd spent the time in between finding where Frout Academy was located. It was hard going, since there were few people around at this time of night. Those who were up mostly hadn't even been to the third grade, let alone knew remember where it was located. Finally, they turned up an owner of a small take-out place ("Real Agatean Cuisine!! Open 24-7!! Free eggroll with two order of fried rice!") who said his daughter was a student of the Academy.

Piper looked around the shop. It was so small that it could have been sub- let as a telephone booth. Two dingy chairs, covered in a fabric that could only be described as "stained," faced the menu. The "Specials of the Day" (and by the look of them, it had been a very long day) were tacked to the wall in straggling letters. A bunch of characters that made his eyes ache were scribbled beside them, and somehow made the letters beside them look positively scrawny in comparison. The place smelled of old grease, and was lit by the kind of candles that flicker even in the absence of wind. The owner reminded Piper of a walnut--small, brown and wrinkled.

"Your daughter goes to the Academy?" he asked. In his experience, anything that called itself an Academy wasn't generally cheap. Academies believed in quality, not quantity--except when it came to tuition.

"Yes, that why I work 24-7. You want to know where school is?" He peered at them through round, smudged eyeglasses.

"That would be helpful of you," Angua said.

"No problem. You want fried rice with that?"

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The school turned out to be in the northern part of town in a fairly well- to-do district, which was normal for an academy. It also tried hard to look friendly, which was not.

Instead of the normal, exclusive wrought-iron gates which were virtually the earmark of every institution for talented* youngsters in Ankh-Morpork, it had a white-washed wooden gate and--Piper stared--what appeared to be a yellow brick road leading to the front door of the main office. The walls were of brick, but far from being crumbling, they were a defiantly cheerful red. There was no ivy, but plenty of marigolds.

On a sign above the door, it said "LEARNING THROUGH PLAY--SUCCESS THE FROUT WAY"

"Gosh," said Piper. "I bet they don't whack you with a ruler for getting your sums wrong here."

Angua ignored him, and marched up to the knocker. No one replied, even after a second try.

"Ma'am?" Piper ventured. "I don't think anyone's in yet. It's only just past six."

She stared at the door a little longer, as if by the sheer force of her gaze she could summon a reply. Finally, she turned away with a sigh. "I suppose you're right. We'll just have to wait for a while."

He sat down on a low wall encircling a proud oak tree. It was hard to get trees taller than a foot in the city. Trees needed water, and the kind of liquid that passed for water in Ankh-Morpork was generally not conducive to keeping trees green, although it was certainly capable of turning other things green. ** Piper was impressed. Clearly this was a school with funds, or else a very talented staff, which usually took funds.

They had at least an hour before anyone would be along. Even little kids, who weren't old enough to know that mornings were completely unnatural and to be avoided at all costs, wouldn't be bouncing out of bed until after dawn. The fog was lifting, but the air was still chill. He pulled his knees up and looked at Angua, who was pacing.

Suddenly, she stopped directly in front of him, carefully avoiding his gaze. "Well, Lance-Constable, now you know something about me."

"Yes ma'am."

"And you understand why I'd prefer for that knowledge not to be spread around."

"Oh yes, ma'am." He'd always been raised as an open-minded lad, and the Watch in general could not afford to be particularly choosy in its tastes. But thinking about the kinds of things he'd heard on the force, the rumors and speculations and generalizations made with only a token stab at the truth, he did understand.

"Well," she said, still not looking at him. "Suppose you tell me something about yourself then, to balance it out."

"Ma'am?" He was slightly unsure. "Um, if you're asking..."

"No, I know you're not a werewolf," she said, with a half-smile. "I just meant, well, things. Like where you're from. How many brothers and sisters you have. That sort of thing."

"Oh. Let's see. Um, I guess I could start with my name. If you don't mind, ma'am, maybe you could just call me that instead? Lance-Constable being kind of a mouthful and all."

"Why not," she sighed. "But I can't in front of other people, or Carr--the Captain would say I wasn't following the rules."

"Big on the rules, is he?"

"Very, but only the right ones, so it's ok."

He thought on that for a moment, then stuck out his hand. "Pickle, ma'am, and pleased to meet you."

Surprised, she took it. "Pickle? Like the relish?"

"Well, yes, it's a sort of nickname. Short for Piccolo." (Aki: Please, if you are envisioning anyone from Dragonball Z right now, DON'T.)

"Piccolo," she repeated.

"My family makes wind instruments, has for generations. It's in our name, see, Piper."

Piper Woodwinds. She thought she could remember the shop, a clean little corner near the Street of Cunning Artificers. Carrot had commented on it once. A fine example of old-fashioned craftsmanship, he'd said. So that's where Piper--Pickle--was from. She'd never known, although Carrot surely did. She felt her heart clench and turned her attention back to Pickle's cheerful chatter.

"My dad named us all after the craft: My oldest brother's Oboe, and my sisters Clarinet (we call her Clare) and Flute, and then the youngest, me."

"Get along well with your siblings?" she said, for the sake of saying something.

"Well, we fight some, but I reckon everyone does. We stick together when it counts, though."

She thought about her own family, which probably wouldn't have stuck together if she'd thrown them into a vat of glue.

"What about yours, miss?"

In a way it was a relief to actually be able to talk to someone about where she'd come from without having to be vague. He listened more thoughtfully and said less stupid things than she'd expected. In fact, it was almost as good as talking to Carrot. Because in Pickle's case you knew that every bit of naivete was completely real, in some senses it was almost better.

Almost.

Overall, the time passed less slowly than she'd feared. Before she knew it Pickle was standing up and gesturing excitedly.

"Look ma'am, someone's coming!"

* A code word, in many cases, for "rich." ** Especially right before they vomited.

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Dammit!! Dammit!!! Move, plot, MOVE!!! But, not too fast, since I still don't quite know where you're moving to. Just don't bowl me over in the process, mmkay?

And woohoo!! New review!! Thanks, LunaNel ^_~