Jonathan Teatime enjoyed books very much; the Betterment of One's Mind was emphasized as a very good thing at the Guild, but it did rather take a backseat to becoming jolly good at sneaking around. As a result of this, and his ridiculously fast reading skills, Teatime had gotten through the whole Guild library in a matter of weeks, and since the only books Susan owned were detective stories and the occasional well-hidden romance novel, it had been while since he'd devoured a really good book.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The Patrician's library had been relatively easy to find, although, when he had bumped into an elderly man carrying some sort of clockwork contraption, he did take the opportunity to politely enquire if he was headed in the right direction. He was, and he discovered the room only moments later.

He'd expected it to be a lot larger, if he was honest, but he couldn't deny that it carried as much style as he'd anticipated; dark oak bookcases that lined every wall, stacked full of very Patrician-y type books on politics and history, as well as several very extensive cartographic cases. And then, on shelves that were not necessarily hidden, just carefully placed where the average literary explorer did not tend to look, like on the top shelf, close to the ceiling, right in the corner, the treasure trove lay; several volumes of pure, certifiably insane genius by Leonard of Quirm, research texts on the Roundworld and, the only book in the entire room that looked genuinely used, a little tattered through frequent use, was a copy of History of Uberwald. As boundless as his boyish curiosity was, he knew it was impolite to pry, so he placed the book neatly back on the shelf and carried on browsing.

He wasn't sure how long he was in the room for, as he'd got quite attached to The Art of Disembowelling and other Delightful Party Tricks to Show Your Friends, but what he was sure of was a sudden, stabbing pain in his head. He'd never passed out before, but he instinctively knew that this was imminent. After a few seconds, the darkness cleared from the corners of his vision, and he decided that it was about time he returned to his job (irritating Susan, that was, not assassinating, although he was dying for another contract, no pune intended).

Teatime generally had very good spatial awareness; indeed, he couldn't recall the last time he'd gotten lost. Somehow, however, he managed to take a different route back to the ballroom, probably as a result of his pain-induced wooziness, and found himself in a plain white chamber. The room was empty, with few windows, and the only furniture comprised of a small table with a Thud set and two chairs. In the brief glance that he gave it before leaving, he noted that the Dwarves appeared to be winning and that the two chairs were pushed out roughly, away from the table, not tucked in, much to his Assassin-innate irritation.

The fourth door Teatime tried was, thankfully, the right one, since he had a blinder of a headache coming on, and being in pain put in him in a bad mood, despite his best efforts to always be polite.

-x-x-x-

Moist von Lipwig did not understand why no one else appreciated the gravity of the situation; he'd taken Captain Carrot aside and explained what was going on, told him that the Armageddon had arrived, and the red-haired watchman had agreed with that eejit editor that he was Probably Making A Mountain Out Of A Molehill.

And so Moist went to great lengths to explain the theory of narrative causality, the nature of comic conventions in regard to bars and general drunkenness and the uproarious political scandal generated when one with power steps down amongst the people and makes a fool of oneself, which, no matter how funny, is never a good idea, is it?

This took him roughly ten minutes. When he finally stopped to draw breath, he realised that a small crowd had gathered around him, with De Worde and Captain Carrot at the front, who were still not convinced.

He decided on Plan B.

"Look - my wife, her assistant, Mr De Worde's wife, Duchess Susan and your…Captain Angua, have left, quite possibly, for the Mended Drum. All dressed in ball gowns. Do you really want five relatively unarmed, distinctly inebriated women, dressed for a gala, wandering home on their own - or hanging around with the people in The Drum?"

Despite the fact that Moist knew Captain Angua, if she was still conscious, would be able to maul anything vaguely threatening that came their way, and that was only if his wife hadn't attacked it with her stiletto heels first, this convinced De Worde and Carrot easily.

The crowd dispersed. Moist looked at the time, and his brain flailed, "Alright, let's find Duchess Susan's assassin escort and Miss Smint's fiancé, and quick; they've probably already started on the karaoke or, gods help us, the table danc-"

He was interrupted by a sharp "urk!" that came from De Worde's direction. Moist spun and saw an assassin with asymmetric eyes and blond curls grinning brightly from behind the editor as he held a knife to his throat.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I believe you know the whereabouts of Miss Susan?" he chirped.

Moist glanced at Carrot, who was tensed and ready to haul the young man in black away from De Worde at a moment's notice, but didn't act, knowing that this required more delicacy.

"Put the knife away, Mr…Tee-ah-tim-eh, is it? Then we can see about finding Mr Herrington, and then you can come with us to try and find the ladies."

Teatime obliged, appearing at the Postmaster's side with uncanny swiftness. "You got my name right, Mr Lipwig. I like people who are polite and get my name right. May I possibly request that we leave as quickly as possible? Spending too long without Miss Susan's company makes me feel unwell, and that is not just a fanciful romantic declaration, I assure you."

"Err," said Moist, leaning backwards in an effort regain some semblance of personal space, "Of course. Let's just grab Mr Herrington, then we can see about…leaving…"

Mr Lucas Herrington was, thankfully, rather easy to locate, because he was the only person in the room that had an accent that sounded like he belonged out tackling the difficult cabbages of plains of an obscure town in Uberwald. He was, however, surprisingly eloquent and well-versed in both literature and politics, which had drawn around him a small group of intrigued nobles. He worked as a tailor in a shop near Dolly Sisters, where he met his 'swee'-'eart', Jovial Smint. Spending a lot of time in the company of both of them was…an experience.

"Ah, Mistuh Lip-wig, what cannuh do fer ya?"

Moist smiled broadly back at the man, "Well, Mr Herrington, we were just off to find where exactly our wonderfully…liberal-minded significant others have disappeared to, and we thought-"

"Oh, yeah, Jovie did say that they were headin' out. Biers, she said."

"Biers?" William De Worde hissed, "Why would they go to an Undead Bar?"

Captain Carrot kept an impossibly straight face, and said, "Angua did mention that they served very creative cocktails."

"They could have raided into the palace kitchens if they wanted creative cocktails, they didn't have to go to Biers!"

"Perhaps they like the atmosphere," Moist commented dryly, before turning back to Mr Herrington, "Look, we're going to get them - or, at least, stay a safe distance away and make sure they don't come to any harm. I can keep an eye on Miss Smint, if you want, or-"

"Oh no, Mistuh Lip-wig, I'll come along, don't yer worry."

"Oh…great, good." for a split second, Moist had no idea what to do. Then he regained his senses, "Right, well, uhm, Biers ahoy? Let's go."

The party moved, and was making very successful progress towards the door, until Commander Vimes stepped in their path, frowning.

"Carrot? Where are you lot off to, then?"

Moist beamed. Oh, this was beyond perfect.

"Commander Vimes! Brilliant, just the man I wanted to see." he clapped the watchman on the shoulder brightly, "You couldn't hold down the fort whilst we pop off for a bit, could you? Lady troubles, and all that. Jolly good chap, we'll be back soon!"

And before Vimes could respond, he ushered Carrot, Herrington, De Worde and Teatime through the door and into a cab.

-x-x-x-

Giggling was not a common pastime for Susan Sto-Helit. Then again, she'd never been to Biers with any other women before, and certainly not in a ball gown. Through the haze of three - or probably four - Screaming Orgasms and some Bearhugger's, she realised emphatically that there was nothing better than a girls' night out. And that all men were total bastards, even the nice ones, and especially the damn assassins. And that she could suddenly think in italics.

She announced, loudly, to her new friends, this fantastic ability, and they all agreed that it was a wondrous thing, and all giggled.

All except Sacharissa, who was being a total spoilsport and wouldn't drink anything at all.

"Oh go on, Rissa. Here, you can try some of mine." said Adora, proffering her glass, and who, despite having had the same amount as everyone else, appeared to be the most sober. But then, appearances could be dece- desep- well, appearances could be wrong.

"No thanks, Adora, I really don't want - look, can you keep a secret?"

"You're the bloody journalist." Angua pointed out, raising an unsteady finger in Sacharissa's direction. Jovial giggled loudly.

"I guess I'll take that as a yes…" she looked around uncertainly.

"Spit it out, woman."

"Okay, well-" she cut herself off with a hand over her mouth, then mumbled behind it, "Gods! I think I'm going to be sick!"

As a member of the Watch, Susan knew that Captain Angua was used to leaping into action at a moment's notice, sometimes literally. She wasn't, however, used to leaping into action at a moment's notice off a barstool, wearing heels and a ball gown, after half a dozen drinks. As a result, her agility deserted her and she landed flat on her face.

Amongst the waves of laughter, Adora and Jovial managed to struggle to their feet and, thankfully, escort Sacharissa outside.

"Why," said Susan, after recovering from her hysterics at watching Angua attempt to reclaim her stool, "Why- what I don't understand is, why is Sacharissa being sick, when she hasn't drunk a single thing?"

"Maybe she's ill." Angua suggested, then gave the patch of pink stickiness on the bar that was the remains of her drink a long look, "Susan…am I drunk enough to get away with licking that?"

"No." said Susan firmly, as if to a dog. Angua looked far too disappointed. Then she glanced over her shoulder and beamed brightly as the three other women returned. The smile drooped somewhat as, half way across the room, Sacharissa suddenly turned, hand over mouth, and bolted out again.

"It went everywhere," Adora wrinkled her nose, and nothing more needed to be said.

Jovial studied her new companions with a thoughtful air, picking up her drink and swirling it around in the glass, "You know, someone should definitely be singing."

"Singing?"

"Yes. Loudly, and out of tune. Or maybe dancing on the bar there. I'm good at dancing." her face lit up, "I know! I'll go first!"

So, with a roar of approval from the rest of the bar, the Golem Rights Activists, the Duchess of Sto-Helit and the we- Captain of the Watch took to the stage. Or, at least, what they imagined was a stage.