*Waves* Hi there, everyone, and thanks to all the people who've left such nice comments! Apologies for taking so long with this chapter, I guess the holidays have gone to my head... Anyway, here's some more adventures, as Carrot and Angua stumble across a mystery, Del scrubs some disgusting cells, Gerhardtina gets new clothes, and the occult force abroad in Ankh- Morpork becomes more, well, occult...

Chapter Three

Corporal Cheri Littlebottom let her shoulders slump, and pulled the sheet back over the dead girl's head. The circle of worried faces bent over the table turned towards her, a study in shades of pity, horror and exhaustion.

"So tell me again how this happened?"

Carrot was the first to speak, looking down at the helmet he'd removed as a sign of respect, and now turned over and over in his hands. "Well, Captain Angua was patrolling in... er, her other form, and she smelled - er - that is to say, something -"

"Someone. Someone dead, Carrot."

"Yes, quite. Someone, er, deceased, near the south end of Street of Cunning Artificers. The girl was in a rented room at Mrs. Rackthorne's, and she was pronounced deceased by Sergeant Detritus and I when we arrived on the scene at about 2100 hours."

"And you can't give me any more information than that?"

Carrot frowned. "Other than that Angua said, and we both agreed, that the girl looked as though she'd been... well, as though someone had been starving her."

Detritus shuffled awkwardly. "I carry her back to Watch House with one hand. Her too light for human that size, don't feel right."

Cheri frowned, and walked over to the specially-built sink to remove her surgical gloves. "Exactly. It's weird. She probably had some kind of a heart attack; severe malnutrition over a long period'll weaken the cardiac muscles. But otherwise, she's physically fine. No sign of being locked up, or even restrained. I don't understand how this could happen."

Angua let out a low growl. "This is crazy! It hasn't been that hard of a winter. The Thieves' Guild haven't even put their prices up, and you know what they're like when it comes to maintaining wage parity, 'an honest day's pay for a dishonest day's work' and all that. There's no reason for anyone to starve to death in Ankh-Morpork. I mean, if it was food poisoning, we'd only have to go and haul in Dibbler. But this..."

"It's just... I mean, you can't exactly call it murder, can you?". The four filed out of the autopsy room. Detritus and Cheri headed down the corridor towards the coffee room, in pursuit of a well-deserved cup of powdered shale and freshly-squeezed rat juice respectively. Carrot and Angua turned back towards the front gate of the Yard, strapping their helmets back in place. Awkwardly, he extended a hand to pat her on the shoulder.

"You're all right, Angua." It was a statement, rather than a question. If the years had taught Carrot nothing else, it was that Angua was always, and ultimately, able to take care of herself.

"It's just... oh, it shakes me up every time. When we bring in one that looks about Del's age. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this is no city to bring a child into." Turning away from his honest, puzzled gaze, Angua pretended to be very busy re-tying one of her boot-laces.

Carrot smiled reassuringly. "But she's fine. Safe and well and downstairs in the cellar as we speak. Probably not all that happy at the moment, but she'll get the hang of being a Watchman sooner or later."

* * *

"YOU HURRY IT UP, YOU HOPELESS RECRUIT!"

"But I'm *going* as fast as I - "

"YOU KEEP GOING AT THIS RATE, YOU NEVER GET THE HANG OF BEING WATCHWOMAN!"

Del sighed, and reapplied her scrubbing brush to the toilet. To say that she hadn't quite imagined life in the Watch like this would be an understatement. For a start, her childhood daydreams hadn't included nearly so much really disgusting biological material, nor being manically berated by a commanding officer who didn't have a heart of gold so much as fists of solid obsidian. Neither had she pictured her career in the Watch involving quite such an unpleasant amount of a liquid labelled Lemmon Scentede Summre Fresh Bleache (Doe Notte Use In Enclowsed Spaces).

Next to Del, Corporal Dwarrows was applying a small, frazzled toothbrush and a jar of Mrs. McGillycuddy's Scoure-Alle to the bars of the cell, levering off small bits of dried crusty unspeakableness left behind by Grabber Hoskins, its previous occupant. On the other side of the bars, Sargeant Anthracite was 'supervising'; a role which mainly seemed to involve shouting very loudly whenever she spotted anyone without bleeding hands or an expression of exhausted revulsion upon their faces.

"She's not so bad, really, once you get to know her" Dwarrows had said that morning, when the two of them had been filling the bleach bucket at the pump in the Yard. "Just a bit old-school, learned all that shouting-and- kicking-rock stuff from old Detritus back in the early days. An' of course, she's not too impressed with us at the moment, me 'cause I got us both in trouble with Old Stoneface, and you 'cause, well, I think she just likes shouting at you, to tell the truth."

Del had nodded weakly. The prospect of being screamed at by Anthracite for the next three weeks solid was still less frightening than the prospect of having Uncle Samuel be Disappointed at her again. Now she winced as the Bleache (Now Witthe New Super-Cleening Hijene Action!) slowly soaked through the top layer of skin on her big square hands and began to gently nibble its way through layers two to six.

In a nearby cell, Jeremy Plowtrucker (formerly of the Thieves' Guild) was having a tremendously entertaining morning. Life had been somewhat dull of late, ever since Sargeant Colon had locked him up for his own protection following his daring heist on the Guild of Musicians the week after his Thieving Licence had expired. Jeremy was quite enjoying his time in the Watch House cells; indeed the novelty of a roof overhead and four walls, let alone walls cleaned by fine strapping young lasses in copper helmets, had yet to pall for him. However, he did miss the danger, excitement and shouting of the life of an unlicenced thief. Nobody had even tried to kill him for two days now! Bored, he cast once more around the cell for something to do, and dug around in his pocket. He pulled out a small harmonica that'd miraculously* survived his ingoing search, and began to play a melancholy prison-row tune.

"PRISONER! YOU SHUT UP THAT NOISE THIS MINUTE, OR WE TURN YOU OVER TO THIEVES' GUILD!"

Jeremy smiled. This was more like it...

* assuming the adoption of a rather, ahem, 'elastic' definition of the word 'miraculous'

* * *

Gerhardtina Sock swirled lightheadedly before the mirror, dark red satin and long black hair floating and billowing around her. The fit was perfect, even to the tumbling tatters of the assymetical hem that just brushed the floorboards. This was lucky; as the dress had been given to her for free by a friend of a friend of her mothers', and alterations would not have been a possibility.

It was the jewels that were the problem, that's what Emmelina, Mrs. Sock's dressmaker's niece, had said. She'd stood outside the screen while Gerhardtina tried the dress on, a small, worried-looking young woman with severely scraped-back colourless hair and a pincushion permanently affixed to the front her dress. The jewels were in the food, Emmelina said, and that was what made you fat. They could even kill you, apparently. Little gems, in all food and drink, so small you couldn't even see them.

"What, like, ground up really fine?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Sounds strange."

"Well, that's what happens, anyway, take my word for it. And that dress, well, it's special. It deserves to be worn by someone thin and beautiful. Someone like you, that's why I'm letting you have it. Not some rich fat old cow who stuffs herself with pork scracklings and chocolates all day long. Meaning no offence to your lady mother, I'm sure, Mistress Sock."

At that moment, Gerhardtina had stepped out from behind the screen, the dress sweeping behind her. Emmelina had let out a gasp, and looked on the verge of tears. Gerhardtina had studied her with her hands on her hips, a puzzled expression creasing her elegant high-boned face.

"Jewels in food? That make you fat? I've never heard of anything like that before."

Emelina squared her small, round shoulders, looked away from Gerhardtina then looked back with an expression that had its metaphorical mouth full of pins.

"Do you want to wear the dress or not?"

"Killer jewels. Right. Got it."

* * *

At Blannick's Ladees and Gentilmenne's Bootery and Leather Outfitters, Coralie Nailsande was having an extremely busy morning. She'd sold sixteen pairs of Manny's new-design sandals, ten keyrings (which were essentially just the 'Blannick's' crest emblazoned on a small piece of leather), eight pairs of boots, twenty-five pairs of Blannick's Shoe Laces and one of the pokers out of the fireplace. She'd never seen anything like it, as people had begun crowding into the shop, thrusting handfuls of money at her. It was as though they were suddenly, mysteriously, prepared to pay large amounts of money for anything that had the word "Blannick's" stamped across it.

In the back room, Manny, Tommy and Ben were cutting, stitching and occasionally yelling "Aargh! Bugger! Fetch me a sticking plaster!" as quickly as possible.

* * *

At Unseen University, the table was in the final stages of being set for lunch. Mustrum Ridcully, the University's longest-serving Arch-Chancellor, sank into his seat after a hard morning's sock-hunting**. He found himself looking up into two sheets of glossy paper that appeared to have been stitched together to form a kind of booklet. One of them showed a cheap, high-coloured iconograph of a woman wearing expensive clothes and several lines of print that promised, among other things, "BETTER WOSSNAMES NOW" and "LOSE FIFTEEN POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS". The other page was devoted to a large picture of what looked like a very fancy, exquisitely-crafted bottle of cat's urine.

"I say, what've you got there, old fellow?" Ridcully asked, in a tone somewhere between forced joviality and stern interrogation. The sheets of paper moved downwards, to reveal the beaming face of the Dean. "Oh, this is the latest edition of 'Ankh-Morpork Vague', old chap."

"What?"

"'Ankh-Morpork Vague'. It's only the most fashionable fashion magazine in the city. Do try to keep up. I've just confiscated it from one of the maids for trying to read it and serve soup at the same time."

Ridcully held out his hands expectantly, and the Dean passed the magazine over. The uncertainly hopeful expression that clung to his face flickered and died as the Arch-Chancellor flicked through the pages, stopping to sniff the free Fold Out Perfume Sample of L'Eau de Chat.

"Hogwash."

"I beg your pardon, Arch-Chancellor?"

"This is a waste of paper, Dean. Lot o'rubbish about clothes and shoes and silly little bits of jewellery, not a proper magic ring among 'em. And I hope you're not plannin' on trying any of those Sixteen Ways To Wear This Season's Swimsuit, or I shall be very upset. Back to the kitchen it goes."

The Dean scowled at Ridcully's retreating back as the Arch-Chancellor strode off towards the kitchen door, and went back to trying to calculate the number of killer jewels in his soup.

** Having finally given up on the wildlife around Unseen University, Ridcully had instead focussed his urge for bloodsports on the disturbing large number of missing socks that now freely roamed the corridors of the University following an unfortunate experiment with space-time and wormholes by Ponder Stibbons of the Faculty of High Energy Magic.

* * *

"Mmn, that's good rat juice! How's the powdered shale?"

"Good. Hey, Littlebottom?"

"Mmn?"

"This yours?"

Cheri reached out as Detritus handed her the sheaf of paper that someone had left lying on the table in the tearoom.

"Hmmn. 'ANKH-MORPORK VAGUE'. Looks like a magazine of some kind. 'NEW SPRING LOOKS FOR EVERY SPECIES'. 'BUY NEW CLOTHES NOW'. 'LOSE FIFTEEN POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS'. How'm I supposed to do that, take off my chain mail?"

"Don't know. Doesn't sound like much fun to me."

"Mmn.". The glass of rat juice stood, half-empty on the table as Cheri continued to flick through the magazine...

* * *

"ALRIGHT, SQUAD! IT QUITTING TIME! I BETTER SEE YOU BRIGHT AND EARLY TOMORROW MORNING READY TO SCRUB SOME DIRT! NOW BEAT IT!".

Del carted the bucket of bleach to the drain, slumping wearily. She really needed to get an early night tonight; last night had been exhausting and puzzling enough without being followed by this horrible lemon-scented day. A few feet away from the drain she tripped, splashing the revolting fluid all over the Yard and across her boots, where the leather began to gently smoke and curl up at the edges. Eventually the bleach found its way to the tiled hole in the yeard, and Del watched it swirl over the dirty grey stone and away into the blackness of some unknown underground part of the city.

After Gerhardtina had turned up in at her bedroom window the night before, Del had followed her along Shuttering Street and across several alleys' worth of shortcuts until they'd ended up in a road she didn't know at all, hadn't seen before even on all those long walks around the city with Dad. The warm air and the stars had been invigorating, true, but after all that night-time walking, Del had been expecting something good. A surprise party maybe, or a circus just arrived from the Sto Plains, maybe even a dance at the Young Men's Reformed Cultist's Hall. Instead, Gerhardtina had led her by the hand, giggling and skipping with excitement, to something Del never would have expected in a million years...

A shop window, dark and empty save for a single gleaming, highly-polished mirror.