Sorry for the long pause!!! I've only got two more weeks until school starts, which means I had better get as many bloody updates in now as writerly possible. The problem is, I've got another fandom competing for my attention span, which can hardly stand dividing as it is. *hangs head* Precious little overlap between the two, but it seems that Pratchett's narrative sense of humor was visible to one astute reviewer at least...*grin*

And now, back to the story...

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A twang sounded that would've made every cat's gut coil tight with dread, had there been any cats around to hear it.* It was followed by sounds that made the twang positively pleasant by comparison. They were to music what an agonizing scream is to the spoken word.

"Can't ANYone shut that boy up?" Blind Io, leader of the gods, grumbled as he sat on his recliner ** with his fingers in his ears.

"Not unless you want to be mooning around for months on end after some old bat who suddenly takes your fancy," said Imbibicus, the new God of Wine. The old one had been dealt an immortal blow by a short-lived but impressively fanatical temperance movement, and finished off by a particularly good barley harvest.

"Who're you calling an old bat?" snapped a grey-eyed goddess with a tendency to squint.

"No one, O Embodiment of Wisdom," the wine god replied smoothly. "At least, no one here. But I wouldn't put it past the young rogue to run down and cart a mortal back here, just to spin out his games."

"O Embodiment of Common Sense, not Wisdom, you young whippersnapper. Wisdom's my sister, the one who still bothers with the ascetic look. But about that curly-haired nuisance, too right you are," she said grumpily. "It makes a body nervous, him allus waving those bow and arrers around. Didn't anyone ever teach that boy not to run with scissors? It's all fun and games until Storm-boy over yon loses an eye."

"It's certainly not fair, him having that kind of power and being such a poo about it," pouted a regional Goddess of Beauty, adjusting her leopard skins. She was pretty in a healthy, natural, robust sense, rather like a ripe apple. (+)

"No, it isn't, but Mankind has a tendency to put the blame for all sorts of suffering on the heart instead of the hormones. Add to that the lyric obsession with metaphors, and bam! you get a god who goes around giving 'heart-piercing pangs' with a longbow."

Beauty shuddered. "Isn't it awful, though, Bibi? Just think, one shot and he could make me fall in love with...well...that awful alligator man!"

Common Sense raised an eyebrow. "Bibi?"

Imbibicus had the grace to blush. "If it's our colleague Offler you mean, I believe he's actually part crocodile."

The grey-haired, grey-eyed goddess shrugged. "Who cares? I wouldn't want to meet either of them in a swamp. She's right, though, s'not right, him muckin' about with their lives like that. He ain't even playing a game. Asked him why he felt compelled to drive people to despair and he said some nonsense about tragedy being the only way to prove Love was great. I told him that any power that got people through marriage and midnight feedings was pretty great in my opinion."

The God of Wine, Particularly the Expensive Sort, sniffed and sipped from the glass that had suddenly materialized in his fingers. "Hmm...yes, they did alright with the claret in Genua, this time," he muttered before going on. "Personally, I don't mind him having his fun, since it certainly does wonders for my following."

He winced, as a particularly sour note curdled upon the air. The non-music had been getting steadily louder. "All the same, I wish they could've kept their dogma straight. All that nonsense about winged hosts and cherubim and suddenly he's stuck with a harp. You'd think that after all those ballads he'd at least have a sense of pitch."

There was a different kind of a twang, an extremely brisk and business- sounding one, and the wineglass shattered out of existence, splashing claret all over the formerly spotless white shirt front. The Pelopian beauty screamed. Sandaled footsteps approached.

"I may be tone-deaf, but I've got excellent hearing," Cupid said to the God of Wine, who was trying to decide between fuming and being badly shaken. "So sorry about the little accident. But it's not as if you had anything to worry about, you're in the company of such lovely ladies!" He snapped his fingers, and a gold-tipped arrow materialized between them. "Can't leave something like this lying around, now can we?" He smiled, a charming, smile, slung his bow over his shoulder, and left.

"Well..." said Common Sense, a little dazed.

"I thought he seemed rather sweet," said Beauty with a simpering smile. "And he's a very good-looking boy."

"My dear, it's medicine that's bitter," snapped the God of Wine, as he examined his hands for shards. "The deadliest of poisons are generally sweet."

* There weren't unless you counted the head of a goddess from Tsort, because a surprising number of deities wear white.

** It was softer than a throne, and what's the good of being a deity if you can't be comfortable?

+ Tragically, the small region that worshipped her immediately converted when they were overrun by a civilization that had already discovered diet food and mascara.

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Angua looked at the person who had just arrived at the gate. She certainly didn't look like anyone connected with Death. She didn't look like anyone connected with anyone, really.

It was a thin little wisp of a woman, who looked like she had been reincarnated from a mouse and hadn't totally forgotten it. Her hair and clothing were of a dull brown, unflattering and inoffensive, and behind her round spectacles round dark eyes darted nervously. She was, Angua noted, quite young.

"Excuse me...what are you doing inside school grounds?" she quavered.

"We climbed," Pickle said cheerfully, "over the wall. It's quite low on the east side just by the pear trees."

The woman (Was she a teacher? Who else worked at a school? She had never gone to one, as the vogue in Uberwald had been privated tutoring at the time) began to tremble, and took a few small steps back, a prelude to flight. Angua hastily pointed to her badge.

"We're with the Watch, ma'am. Just here on a line of inquiry." There. Hopefully that sounded Official enough to deter any questions and yet firmly on the side of Friendly, Good Copper. Beside her, Pickle nodded.

"Do you know a Ms. Sto Helit? She would be a young woman who teaches here."

The mouse blinked. "Sto...Helit?" she quavered, and then some of the hesitation left her as she began to think. "Oh! You mean Miss Susan," she smiled. When her face wasn't twitching, Angua noted, it wasn't really unattractive.*

"Right, miss. Do you know if she'll be coming in soon? We just wanted to ask her a few questions, then we'll be on our way."

The woman glanced at the clock that hung ostentatiously over the courtyard, to show students exactly how late they were. ** It had bronze hands and Tsortean numerals, and currently read half past six. "Do you know, it's very curious...I've never seen her come in, but class starts at half-past seven and she's always there on the dot."

Pickled yawned massively, then looked abashed. "Sorry...er...it just came on," he mumbled. "Anyhow, Miss...?"

"Oh, I'm just the aide," she said with alarm, "You needn't be so polite."

Pickle did a bit of rapid thinking, and tried again, "Your name, uhh...Not- Miss?"

"Please, just call me Merriam."

Merriam, she thought a little uncharitably, it was a dull brown kind of name. But serviceable, no doubt. "Mis--Merriam, why are you here an hour early?" Pickle asked. Angua rubbed her eyes and contemplated the prospect of waiting another hour. Her muscles were beginning to stiffen in the cool air. Another hour would probably mean the beginning of pain. What it would mean for Carrot, she wasn't sure.

"I'm the aide," she explained, "So I come in early to help set things up. But goodness," her eyes strayed from Angua's disheveled look to Pickle's bleary eyes. "Won't you come in for a cup of tea?"

* After all, mice are rather cute.

** Learning through play or not, punctuality is always acceptable.

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Angua inhaled the fragrance from her cup, her opinion of Merriam rising with the steam. Whatever the woman's taste in fashion, she certainly knew how to make a cup of tea. "I put a bit of ginger in it," the aide explained, "for extra zip."

"We could certainly do with some, couldn't we," she said wryly. "Sorry to intrude on you like this. It's for--"

"An investigation, I know," Merriam cut in, her eyes wide and sparkling. Angua blinked. She hadn't though the aide capable of interruption. Or sparkling, for that matter. Merriam seemed to realize it herself a moment later, clapping a hand over her mouth and blushing. "I'm so sorry, please go on."

"Well, that was about it," she sighed. "I just have to wait until this Sto- Helit shows up, and ask her a few questions, I suppose." She eyed Merriam thoughtfully. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about her, I suppose?"

The aide sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them nervously. "Nobody knows much about Miss Susan, ma'am."

Angua sat up a little straighter. Inside her another body, temporarily banished from the morphic planes, was lifting its ears. "What do you mean?"

"Just that, ma'am. Nobody asks her much, and she's always there on time, and there just doesn't seem to be much chance to..." she trailed off for a moment, "...get, well, personal. Like ask about her family."

She started when Pickle spoke up. For a moment she'd expected it to be Cheery, whom she was usually partnered with. The Commander had said they worked together well. "Well, Mi--Merriam, what does she do here?"

"Oh, she teaches," said the aide with a hint of awe. "The third grade," she continued, lowering her voice, "The class with Jason." And the awe was no longer just a hint. Then she glanced at a clock and her expression flipped into one of terror. "Oh! It's seven, and I haven't filled the letterboxes yet!"

Pickle rose hastily from his chair. "It's ok, M-Merriam, I'll help you." She rushed around the room, papers and folders zooming into her arms frantically.

"No, it's all right, don't bother," she said, making one final swipe and preparing to totter out the door. She looked at the knob. Impressively, her eyes didn't so much as flicker towards the two of them. Instead, she gritted her teeth, hitched the stack closer to her chin, and reached out. "Oh, but please, won't you come with me?" she added as she stepped out. "I'll show you where Miss Susan's classroom is. It is a bit early, but if you're in a hurry to meet her..." The pause swooped up into a question.

"Yes, of course, thanks so much." They trailed behind her, as the soft click-click of her shoes filled the hall. The walls were pinned with pictures, letters, proud examples of the alphabet, and large cheery signs that proclaimed things like, "THE ROAD TO KNOWLEDGE IS PAVED WITH BOOKS!" Whoever worked here, thought Angua, would have to have either a very strong sense of humor, or almost none at all. She wondered which category Susan belonged to.

She was just squinting at a picture of a what, readjusted for things like proportion and perspective and the proper number of limbs, could have been a black man on a white horse, when Merriam stopped. "Here you are, ma'am." They were just outside of a classroom that looked fairly ordinary, at least at first glance. A second glance revealed that one side of the walls was covered with pictures that said, "What I am Not Afraid of" and appeared to consist mostly of monsters being killed in a number of gruesome ways.

The other wall was also covered in pictures. These were labeled, "What I Am Afraid of." She looked closer. One of the pictures was a mash of red and pink and black and appeared to be labeled, "Jinjevitus." Others held things such as clocks and the scrawled inscription, "Being Late," or in one suprisingly neat script, "Other people."

"I'll be leaving you then, if it's alright," the aide said, looking harrassed.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Pickle asked, eyeing the stack of papers which almost obscured her nose.

"Well..." she sounded hesistant.

"I'll just take a few off the top for you, if you don't mind," he said gently and promptly shifted most of the stack into his grip. "Now, which way?" Merriam, blushing painfully at his polite gallantry, hurried down the hall with Pickle in her wake. Angua continued her walk around the classroom, which apart from the pictures, held nothing extraordinary. She sniffed. A faint smell of ammonia was in the air.

"Good morning," someone said. She whirled, hand reaching for a sword that currently wasn't there. Even as a human, there were very few who could sneak up on her. Especially those--she did a double-take--wearing high heels.

The speaker was a slim, severe young woman dressed all in black, with her pale blonde hair drawn back tightly in a bun. The hair was, Angua noted, had two streaks of black. It was an unusual look, and abruptly was even more so. The two black locks had begun to wiggle. "Stop that!" their owner snapped, and they quieted down again.

"Miss Susan?" Angua asked, although it hardly seemed necessary.

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sorry about the awkward stopping point *wince* i have to go make dinner soon, before mum and dad get home. dear gods, six chapters and i've barely gotten into the plot. perhaps i should abandon this before it becomes another sinkhole of my time o_0;; on the happy side, i hear another discworld book is due this year =) happy, happy joy joy!