As a rule, Angua really didn't like dresses. They were faff and hassle and impracticality, all of which were areas that she didn't like to deal in. Plus, it was difficult to find anything that she actually liked - she just wasn't a dressy sort of girl.
That was why, when Carrot had mentioned the ball to her (she'd never asked why he'd been invited to a gala meant for the nobles of the Disc; perhaps Mr Lipwig felt sorry for the Commander, or, more likely, he was just good at putting two and two together but telling everyone the answer was three), she'd asked Sally for help. Unfortunately, asking Sally meant that she would very definitely be going along on the shopping trip herself, because she didn't really want to wear something that a vampire thought was sexy. Lines had to be drawn.
Miraculously, she'd found the Perfect Dress in relatively short time, without the comic conventions of female shopping that involved trying every single dress in every single shop on and the enthusiastic companion suggesting the least appropriate outfits for the reluctant protagonist.
It was a dusty kind of green with a darker sash around the waist and tasteful thin gold trim, a little too tight and a little too low-cut for her liking but, she had to admit, the ridiculous heels and barely being able to breathe in the stupid corset-type thing Sally had forced her into were all worth it for the look on Carrot's face.
Oh, she'd caught him gawping at her before. He'd told her that she was beautiful before. But nothing compared to the way she'd felt when, after running out of the room, corset half-laced under her dress and make-up half done, snarling in fury at Sally who'd made just one too many snarky remarks on a day that was just one day too close to that time of the month, he'd caught her gently by the arms, kissed her on the forehead and told her she was stunning. Not looked stunning, not would look stunning when she was done. She was stunning.
She felt a little silly for being so affected by it. She was a grown woman, for goodness sake. She was the toughest member of the City Watch, after Commander Vimes and possibly A. E. Pessimal. She was cynical and often wished she was less worldly-wise, if it afforded the kind of optimism Carrot enjoyed.
But it did feel nice to know that she was loved.
"It's your shy and retiring inner-romantic coming out," said Adora over the top of her drink with a smirk.
"Oh, stop it, Adora," Sacharissa beamed at her, "You're perfectly entitled to it. And its very sweet."
"I don't want to be sweet. I'm not a sweet person."
Their newest recruit, just-Susan ("If you even think about calling me Duchess or my Lady, I will hurt you!") laughed, then smiled, a little sadly, and took another sip of her drink. A big sip.
"Calm down, Susan, we're not in the Mended Drum." Angua grinned at her, then sighed, "Although, I wish we were."
"Seconded. Although, I prefer Biers." She scowled, "At least, if I were in Beirs, it would be socially acceptable to kick out my resident psychopath."
The four women all turned and looked at the blond assassin in question, who, ever since Adora had approached Susan, had been hovering awkwardly in the background, looking thoroughly miserable.
"You were the one that said I couldn't inhume people." He grumbled. One did not take poker threats from Susan Sto-Helit lightly. Especially when it was impossible to avoid her for the rest of eternity.
"Can't you go and, you know, talk to people? There must be someone here that you know."
Teatime stuck out his bottom lip. "But that's so boring, Susan. This gala is boring."
Susan ground her teeth and squeezed her glass dangerously tight, "You were the one that offered to come!"
"I didn't realise that you wouldn't let me inhume anyone. You're not playing fair, Susan!"
"Letting you kill people is not the same as being my escort to a gala!"
"What if it was someone that you hate - what if it was one of those nasty ladies with the ratty hus-"
"Teatime."
Adora's clipped, precise pronunciation of his name caught his attention. "You got it right."
"I hate my name. I'm not a hypocrite. Do you like books?"
"Very much, madam."
"I believe his Lordship has a very extensive library on the second floor. I'm sure he would not mind if you entertained yourself with it."
The young man considered for a moment, then looked around at them, suspiciously. "If you're sure Lord Vetinari would not mind..." He glanced at Susan. She rolled her eyes.
"Teatime, I've been trying to get rid of you ever since you turned up. You don't need my permission to go!"
The assassin nodded to each of them, "Good evening, ladies." and left.
Angua watched him until she was certain that he was out of earshot, "I'm guessing you would like to leave now, my Lady?" she asked teasingly.
"You read my mind, Captain."
-x-x-x-
"And what is your age, sir, if you don't mind me asking?"
"37."
William De Worde eyed the almost-certainly-more-than-37-year-old suspiciously, before scribbling it on the back of his hand. Notebooks-closed or not, Mr Smartass Lipwig, he was still going to get his gala report and interviews.
"Thank you very much, sir." He smiled briefly at the man, before turning away and scanning the crowds. Where was Sacharissa? He couldn't see her anywhere…
Ten minutes later, when he'd circled the ballroom twice, he was considerably more concerned. Yes, she was a grown woman and could probably look after herself, but it wasn't like her to wander off without at least politely letting him know.
Then again, he thought moodily, she'd spent most of the evening with Mrs Lipwig, Captain Angua and, by the looks of things, Duchess Susan. He had nothing wrong with powerful women, and everyone was allowed to have their own opinions, but he didn't really appreciate them telling his wife that it was her Feminine Right to disappear unannounced without a trace, and telling him first would mean that he had her under his control. Or something. It was impolite, above anything else.
Although, he pondered, most of the important male members of Ankh-Morpork had a significant other that came under the category of Powerful Women; Moist von Lipwig with his delightful wife, Commander Vimes with Lady Sybil. Even Vetinari had a Powerful Woman - Lady Margolotta, one of his first patrons, by the looks of it. He'd heard rumours that they'd had a liaison about thirty years ago (or, when cited from The Man In The Pub, "I 'eard 'e buggered her for a few months 'til 'e 'ad to go 'ome again"), but the only evidence he'd seen before now was their regular over-the-Clacks games of Thud.
This evening though…he was torn between his own personal safety and the irresistibility of the story; he'd bumped into his Lordship and the Lady as they were heading towards a discreet door that undoubtedly led to the more homely rooms of the Palace.
"Oh - Lady Margolotta!" he'd held out his hand and smiled, "William De Worde."
"Ah, of course! Mr De Vorde. How vunderful to finally meet you."
"My Lord. I send the week's editions of the Times over to Lady Margolotta every Octeday." he added, by way of explanation. But of course, you already knew that, didn't you? Then he saw an opportunity too good to miss, "Could you possibly tell me your thoughts on the gala tonight, your Lordship, milady?"
"I thought Mr Lipwig specifically stipulated that it was a notebooks-closed event, Mr De Worde?" said Vetinari, who was, apparently, amused.
Damn. "My Lady?" he asked hopefully.
"It is a wonderful chance for the political figures of the Disc to get to know each uzzer a little better."
"Vunderful," William corrected, absently, under his breath, because he was an editor. Then he realised who he was speaking to, and grimaced, "I'm sorry, Lady Margolotta, I didn't mean to-"
"Of course." said Margolotta, giving him a kind of strained smile, with no teeth, "Havelock prefers me to speak without the accent, and sometimes I get a little mixed up. Old habits die hard, I believe is the phrase."
He'd excused himself quickly, but not before he'd noticed with a reporter's skill for gossip that the Patrician and his companion had disappeared through the door together.
LORD VETINARI'S SECRET UBERWALDIAN VAMPIRE LOVER? Oh, he could see the headline already, with Otto's picture of them outside the palace neatly on the right…of course, his life wouldn't be worth living afterwards, and there wasn't nearly enough evidence for it, but what a story! He would have to speak to Sacharissa about-
-Sacharissa, who he couldn't find. Right. Who were the ladies she normally associated with…? He marched over to Lady Sybil and tentatively tapped her on the shoulder. "Lady Sybil?" She turned and gave him a smile.
"Yes, Mr De Worde?"
"I'm sorry to interrupt but - I was wondering if you know where my wife might be?"
She paused, then shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't, I haven't seen her for at least an hour. She's probably with Mrs Lipwig, or Captain Angua."
"Thank you."
Well, he couldn't see Lipwig's wife…but he could see Mr Lipwig himself; he was hard to miss, as, in his incredibly black suit, he looked like a hole in a piece of multi-coloured canvas. He hurried over.
"Mr Lipwig."
The man glanced at him and offered him his trademark smiles - this one was Polite But Apologetic, "Sorry, Mr De Worde, can you give me a second?" he turned back to a man that William assumed was his butler, "Yes, Wooster?"
"Mrs Lipwig asked me to inform you that she and her companions, Miss Cripslock, Captain Angua, Miss Smint and the Duchess of Sto-Helit, have retired from the gala."
"Retired from the gala?" William repeated, incredulous.
"Gods." said Lipwig, looking pale, "I - uh - don't suppose she told you where?"
"She did not, sir. But she did ask that I wait forty-five minutes before delivering the message, sir, as she did not want you to come after her."
"Oh gods, this is bad!"
"Why? They've probably just-"
Lipwig interrupted him, "You don't get it, do you? They didn't want us to come straight after them. That means that they've gone to a bar! A bar! Two Golem Rights activists, a reporter, a we- a Captain of the Watch and a Duchess! It sounds like some sort of awful joke! Its just a recipe for disaster - and they've already been there for over half an hour!"
"I think you're blowing this out of proportion." said William, swallowing nervously despite himself, because he got the feeling Mr Lipwig knew a lot more about they way women thought than he did.
"Come on, De Worde," Lipwig rubbed his hands together grimly, "Help me find Captain Carrot and that funny-looking assassin that escorted Duchess Susan. And then, heaven help us, we're going to go and rescue the city from our women."
"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" William asked dryly.
"Not in this situation."