Discworld 18 - Maskerade

by Pratchett, Terry

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      Maskerade by Terry Pratchett DEDICATION My thanks to the people who showed me that opera was stranger than I could imagine. I can best repay their kindness by not mentioning their names here. The wind howled. The storm crackled on the mountains. Lightning prodded the crags like an old man trying to get an elusive blackberry pip out of his false teeth. Among the hissing furze bushes a fire blazed, the flames driven this way and that by the gusts. An eldritch voice shrieked: 'When shall we. . . two. . . meet again?' Thunder rolled. A rather more ordinary voice said: 'What'd you go and shout that for? You made me drop my toast in the fire.' Nanny Ogg sat down again. 'Sorry, Esme. I was just doing it for. . . you know. . . old time's sake. . . Doesn't roll off the tongue, though.' 'I'd just got it nice and brown, too.' 'Sorry.' 'Anyway, you didn't have to shout.' 'Sorry.' 'I mean, I ain't deaf. You could've just asked me in a normal voice. And I'd have said, “Next Wednesday.” ' 'Sorry, Esme.' 'Just you cut me another slice.' Nanny Ogg nodded, and turned her head. 'Magrat, cut Granny ano. . . oh. Mind wandering there for a minute. I'll do it myself, shall I?? 'Hah!' said Granny Weatherwax, staring into the fire. There was no sound for a while but the roar of the wind and the sound of Nanny Ogg cutting bread, which she did with about as much efficiency as a man trying to chainsaw a mattress. 'I thought it'd cheer you up, coming up here,' she said after a while. 'Really.' It wasn't a question. 'Take you out of yourself, sort of thing. . .' Nanny went on, watching her friend carefully. 'Mm?' said Granny, still staring moodily at the fire. Oh dear, thought Nanny. I shouldn't've said that. The point was. . . well, the point was that Nanny Ogg was worried. Very worried. She wasn't at all sure that her friend wasn't. . . well. . . going. . . well, sort of. . . in a manner of speaking. . . well. . . black. . . She knew it happened, with the really powerful ones. And Granny Weatherwax was pretty damn' powerful. She was probably an even more accomplished witch now than the infamous Black Aliss, and everyone knew what had happened to her at the finish. Pushed into her own stove by a

      couple of kids, and everyone said it was a damn' good thing, even if it took a whole week to clean the oven. But Aliss, up until that terrible day, had terrorized the Ramtops. She'd become so good at magic that there wasn't room in her head for anything else. They said weapons couldn't pierce her. Swords bounced off her skin. They said you could hear her mad laughter a mile off, and of course, while mad laughter was always part of a witch's stock-in-trade in necessary circumstances, this was insane mad laughter, the worst kind. And she turned people into gingerbread and had a house made of frogs. It had been very nasty, towards the end. It always was, when a witch went bad. Sometimes, of course, they didn't go bad. They just went. . . somewhere. Granny's intellect needed something to do. She did not take kindly to boredom. She'd take to her bed instead and send her mind out Borrowing, inside the head of some forest creature, listening with its ears, seeing with its eyes. That was all very well for general purposes, but she was too good at it. She could stay away longer than anyone Nanny Ogg had ever heard of. One day, almost certainly, she wouldn't bother to come back. . . and this was the worst time of the year, with the geese honking and rushing across the sky every night, and the autumn air crisp and inviting. There was something terribly tempting about that. Nanny Ogg reckoned she knew what the cause of the problem was. She coughed. 'Saw Magrat the other day,' she ventured, looking sidelong at Granny. There was no reaction. 'She's looking well. Queening suits her.' 'Hmm?' Nanny groaned inwardly. If Granny couldn't even be bothered to make a nasty remark, then she was really missing Magrat. Nanny Ogg had never believed it at the start, but Magrat Garlick, wet as a sponge though she was half the time, had been dead right about one thing. Three was a natural number for witches. And they'd lost one. Well, not lost, exactly. Magrat was queen now, and queens were hard to mislay. But. . . that meant that there were only two of them instead of three. When you had three, you had one to run around getting people to make up when there'd been a row. Magrat had been good for that. Without Magrat, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax got on one another's nerves. With her, all three had been able to get on the nerves of absolutely everyone else in the whole world, which had been a lot more fun. And there was no having Magrat back. . . at least, to be precise about it, there was no having Magrat back yet. Because, while three was a good number for witches. . . it had to be the right sort of three. The right sort of. . . types. Nanny Ogg found herself embarrassed even to think about this, and this was unusual because embarrassment normally came as naturally to Nanny as altruism comes to a cat. As a witch, she naturally didn't believe in any occult nonsense of any sort. But there were one or two truths down below the bedrock of the soul which had to be faced, and right in among them was this business of, well, of the maiden, the mother and the. . . other one. There. She'd put words around it. Of course, it was nothing but an old superstition and belonged to the unenlightened days when 'maiden' or 'mother' or. . . the other one. . . encompassed every woman over the age of twelve or so, except maybe for nine months of her life. These days, any girl bright enough to count and

      sensible enough to take Nanny's advice could put off being at least one of them for quite some time. Even so. . . it was an old superstition-older than books, older than writing-and beliefs like that were heavy weights on the rubber sheet of human experience, tending to pull people into their orbit. And Magrat had been married for three months. That ought to mean she was out of the first category. At least- Nanny twitched her train of thought on to a branch line-she probably was. Oh, surely. Young Verence had sent off for a helpful manual. It had pictures in it, and numbered parts. Nanny knew this because she had sneaked into the royal bedroom while visiting one day, and had spent an instructive ten minutes drawing moustaches and spectacles on some of the figures. Surely even Magrat and Verence could hardly fail to. . . No, they must have worked it out, even though Nanny had heard that Verence had been seen enquiring of people where he might buy a couple of false moustaches. It'd not be long before Magrat was eligible for the second category, even if they were both slow readers. Of course, Granny Weatherwax made a great play of her independence and self-reliance. But the point about that kind of stuff was that you needed someone around to be proudly independent and self-reliant at. People who didn't need people needed people around to know that they were the kind of people who didn't need people. It was like hermits- There was no point freezing your nadgers off on top of some mountain while communing with the Infinite unless you could rely on a lot of impressionable young women to come along occasionally and say 'Gosh' . . . .They needed to be three again. Things got exciting, when there were three of you. There were rows, and adventures, and things for Granny to get angry about, and she was only happy when she was angry. In fact, it seemed to Nanny, she was only Granny Weatherwax when she was angry. Yes. They needed to be three. Or else. . . it was going to be grey wings in the night, or the clang of the oven door. . . The manuscript fell apart as soon as Mr Goatberger picked it up. It wasn't even on proper paper. It had been written on old sugar bags, and the backs of envelopes, and bits of out-of-date calendar. He grunted, and grabbed a handful of the musty pages to throw them on the fire. A word caught his eye. He read it, and his eye was dragged to the end of the sentence. Then he read to the end of the page, doubling back a few times because he hadn't quite believed what he'd just read. He turned the page. And then he turned back. And then he read on. At one point he took a ruler out of his drawer and looked at it thoughtfully. He opened his drinks cabinet. The bottle tinkled cheerfully on the edge of the glass as he tried to pour himself a drink. Then he stared out of the window at the Opera House on the other side of the road. A small figure was brushing the steps. And then he said, 'Oh, my.' Finally he went to the door and said, 'Could you come in here, Mr Cropper?' His chief printer entered, clutching a sheaf of proofs. 'We're going to have to get Mr Cripslock to engrave page 11 again,' he said mournfully. 'He's spelled “famine” with seven letters-' 'Read this,' said Goatberger. 'I was just off to lunch-' 'Read this.'

      'Guild agreement says-' 'Read this and see if you still have an appetite.' Mr Cropper sat down with bad grace and glanced at the first page. Then he turned to the second page. After a while he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a ruler, which he looked at thoughtfully. 'You've just read about Banana Soup Surprise?' said Goatberger. 'Yes!' 'You wait till you get to Spotted Dick.' 'Well, my old granny used to make Spotted Dick-' 'Not to this recipe,' said Goatberger, with absolute certainty. Cropper fumbled through the pages. 'Blimey! Do you think any of this stuff works?' 'Who cares? Go down to the Guild. right now and hire all the engravers that're free. Preferably elderly ones.' 'But I've still got the Grune, June, August and Spune predictions for next year's Almanack to-' 'Forget them. Use some old ones.' 'People'll notice.' 'They've never noticed before,' said Mr Goatberger. 'You know the drill. Astounding Rains of Curry in Klatch, Amazing Death of the Seriph of Ee, Plague of Wasps in Howondaland. This is a lot more important.' He stared unseeing out of the window again. 'Considerably more important.' And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two people just to hold your trousers up. The huge, be-columned, gargoyle-haunted face of Ankh-Morpork's Opera House was there, in front of Agnes Nitt. She stopped. At least, most of Agnes stopped. There was a lot of Agnes. It took some time for outlying regions to come to rest. Well, this was it. At last. She could go in, or she could go away. It was what they called a life choice. She'd never had one of those before. Finally, after standing still for long enough for a pigeon to consider the perching possibilities of her huge and rather sad black floppy hat, she climbed the steps. A man was theoretically sweeping them. What he was in fact doing was moving the dirt around with a broom, to give it a change of scenery and a chance to make new friends. He was dressed in a long coat that was slightly too small for him, and had a black beret perched incongruously on spiky black hair. 'Excuse me,' said Agnes. The effect was electric. He turned around, tangled one foot with the other, and collapsed on to his broom. Agnes's hand flew to her mouth, and then she reached down. 'Oh, I'm so sorry!' The hand had that clammy feel that makes a holder think longingly of soap. He pulled it away quickly, pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes and gave her a terrified smile; he had what Nanny Ogg called an underdone face, its features rubbery and pale. 'No trouble miss!' 'Are you all right?' He scrambled up, got the broom somehow tangled between his knees, and sat down again sharply. 'Er. . . shall I hold the broom?' said Agnes helpfully. She pulled it out of the tangle. He got up again, after a couple of false starts.

      'Do you work for the Opera House?' said Agnes. 'Yes miss!' 'Er, can you tell me where I have to go for the auditions?' He looked around wildly. 'Stage-door!' he said. 'I'll show you!' The words came out in a rush, as if he had to line them up and fire them all in one go before they had time to wander off. He snatched the broom out of her hands and set off down the steps and towards the corner of the building. He had a unique stride: it looked as though his body were being dragged forward and his legs had to flail around underneath it, landing wherever they could find room. It wasn't so much a walk as a collapse, indefinitely postponed. His erratic footsteps led towards a door in the side wall. Agnes followed them in. just inside was a sort of shed, with one open wall and a counter positioned so that someone standing there could watch the door. The person behind it must have been a human being because walruses don't wear coats. The strange man had disappeared somewhere in the gloom beyond. Agnes looked around desperately. 'Yes, miss?' said the walrus man. It really was an impressive moustache, which had sapped all the growth from the rest of its owner. 'Er. . . I'm here for the. . . the auditions,' said Agnes. 'I saw a notice that said you were auditioning-' She gave a helpless little smile. The doorkeeper's face proclaimed that it had seen and been unimpressed by more desperate smiles than even Agnes could have eaten hot dinners. He produced a clipboard and a stub of pencil. 'You got to sign here,' he said. 'Who was that. . .person who came in with me?' The moustache moved, suggesting a smile was buried somewhere below. 'Everyone knows our Walter Plinge.' This seemed to be all the information that was likely to be imparted. Agnes gripped the pencil. The most important question was: what should she call herself? Her name had many sterling qualities, no doubt, but it didn't exactly roll off the tongue. It snapped off the palate and clicked between the teeth, but it didn't roll off the tongue. The trouble was, she couldn't think of one with great rotational capabilities. Catherine, possibly. Or. . . Perdita. She could go back to trying Perdita. She'd been embarrassed out of using that name in Lancre. It was a mysterious name, hinting of darkness and intrigue and, incidentally, of someone who was quite thin. She'd even given herself a middle initial-X-which stood for 'someone who has a cool and exciting middle initial'. It hadn't worked. Lancre people were depressingly resistant to cool. She had just been known as 'that Agnes who calls herself Perditax'. She'd never dared tell anyone that she'd like her full name to be Perdita X Dream. They just wouldn't understand. They'd say things like: if you think that's the right name for you, why have you still got two shelves full of soft toys? Well, here she could start afresh. She was good. She knew she was good. Probably no hope for the Dream, though. She was probably stuck with the Nitt. Nanny Ogg usually went to bed early. After all, she was an old lady. Sometimes she went to bed as early as 6 a. m. Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and

      clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petalnipping, fruit- withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a mother. . . A third witch. Three witches could sort of. . . spread the load. Maiden, mother and. . . crone. There. The trouble was that Granny Weatherwax combined all three in one. She was a maiden, as far as Nanny knew, and she was at least in the right age- bracket for a crone; and, as for the third, well. . . cross Granny Weatherwax on a bad day and you'd be like a blossom in the frost. There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age. Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Nanny wandered the summer hayfields regularly, and had a sharp if compassionate eye and damn' good over-the-horizon hearing. Violet Frottidge was walking out with young Deviousness Carter, or at least doing something within ninety degrees of walking out. Bonnie Quarney had been gathering nuts in May with William Simple, and it was only because she'd thought ahead and taken a little advice from Nanny that she wouldn't be bearing fruit in February. And pretty soon now young Mildred Tinker's mother would have a quiet word with Mildred Tinker's father, and he'd have a word with his friend Thatcher and he'd have a word with his son Hob, and then there'd be a wedding, all done in a properly civilized way except for maybe a black eye or two.[1] No doubt about it, thought Nanny with a misty-eyed smile: innocence, in a hot Lancre summer, was that state in which innocence is lost. And then a name rose out of the throng. Oh, yes. Her. Why hadn't she thought of her? But you didn't, of course. Whenever you thought about the young girls of Lancre, you didn't remember her. And then you said, 'Oh, yes, her too, of course. O' course, she's got a wonderful personality. And good hair, of course.' She was bright, and talented. In many ways. Her voice, for one thing. That was her power, finding its way out. And of course she also had a wonderful personality, so there'd be not much chance of her being. . . disqualified. . . Well, that was settled, then. Another witch to bully and impress would set Granny up a treat, and Agnes would be bound to thank her eventually. Nanny Ogg was relieved. You needed at least three witches for a coven. Two witches was just an argument. She opened the door of her cottage and climbed the stairs to bed. Her cat, the tom Greebo, was spread out on the eiderdown like a puddle of grey fur. He didn't even awake as Nanny lifted him up bodily so that, nightdress-clad, she could slide between the sheets. Just to keep bad dreams at bay, she took a swig out of a bottle that smelled of apples and happy braindeath. Then she pummelled her pillow, thought 'Her. . . yes,' and drifted off to sleep. Presently Greebo awoke, stretched, yawned and hopped silently to the floor. Then the most vicious and cunning a pile of fur that ever had the intelligence to sit on a bird table with its mouth open and a piece of toast balanced on its nose vanished through the open window. A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his head to greet the bright new day and died instantly mid-'doodle-doo'. * * * There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time, she was half-blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow

      glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal. From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, 'When you're ready, miss.' It wasn't a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go. 'I've, er, got this song, it's a-' 'You've given your music to Miss Proudlet?' 'Er, there isn't an accompaniment actually, it-' 'Oh, it's a folk song, is it?' There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly. 'Off you go then. . . Perdita, right?' Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill. She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink. She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn't have to feel good about it. The voice spoke up. 'You haven't had much training, have you, dear?' 'No.' Which was true. Lancre's only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it. Whisper, whisper. 'Sing us a few scales, dear.' The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling acres. . . 'Scales?' Whisper. Muffled laugh. 'Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?' 'Oh. Yes.' As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it. She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from sea- level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof. There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass. 'Is. . . is that your full range, lass?' People were clustering in the wings and staring at her. 'No.' 'No.' 'If I go any higher people faint,' said Agnes. 'And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable.' Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper, whisper. 'And, er, any other-?' 'I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.' 'Sorry?' 'Up here?

      'Like. . . Do-Mi. At the same time.' Whisper, whisper. 'Show us, lass.' 'Laaaaaa' The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly. Whisper, whisper. The voice from the darkness said: 'Now, your voice projection-' 'Oh, I can do that,' snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. 'Where would you like it projected?' 'I'm sorry? We're talking about-' Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she'd show them. . . 'To here?' 'Or there?' 'Or here?' It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience. Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered. 'What's your name again, dear?' The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound. 'Ag- Per. . . Perdita,' said Agnes. 'Perdita Nitt. Perdita X. . . Nitt.' 'We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.' Granny Weatherwax's door opened by itself. Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him this sort of thing happened. He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you. He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks. The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door. Jarge hesitated. 'Come on in, Jarge Weaver,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'and let me give you something for that back of yours.' The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white- hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt. Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. 'Can you sit down?' she said. 'No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.' Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge's eyes widened. 'You got that all ready for me?' he said. 'Yes,' said Granny truthfully. She'd long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-coloured and sticky. It wasn't the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon. 'This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,' she said. 'Including suckrose and akwa.' 'My word,' said Jarge, impressed. 'Take a swig now.' He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice. 'You got to take another swig last thing at night,' Granny went on. 'An' then walk three times round a chestnut tree.' '. . .three times round a chestnut tree. . .'

      'An'. . .an' put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty-year-old tree, mind.' '. . .twenty-year-old tree. . .' said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. 'So's the knots in me back end up in the pine?' he hazarded. Granny was impressed. It was an outrageously ingenious bit of folk hokum worth remembering for another occasion. 'You got it exactly right,' she said. 'And that's it?' 'You wanted more?' 'I. . . thought there were dancin' and chantin' and stuff.' 'Did that before you got here,' said Granny. 'My word. Yes. Er. . . about payin'. . .' 'Oh, I don't want payin',' said Granny. ' 'S bad luck, taking money.' 'Oh. Right.' Jarge brightened up. 'But maybe. . . if your wife's got any old clothes, p'raps, I'm a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p'raps you'll be killing a hog about now, best back's my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles. . . anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn't go around puttin' anyone under obligation, just 'cos I'm a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?' She watched this sink in. 'And now let me help you out of the door,' she added. Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to trip over one of his sticks as she went through the door, and fell backward, holding his shoulders, and somehow her knee came up and hit a spot on his backbone as she twisted sideways, and there was a click- 'Aargh!' 'Sorry!' 'Me back! Me back!' Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and she'd always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn' fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home. Granny watched him go, shaking her head. People were so blind, she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty. Of course, it was just as well this was so. She'd much rather they went 'oo' when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door-latch and the trick with the length of black thread. . .[2] But what had she done? She'd just tricked a rather dim old man. She'd faced wizards, monsters and elves. . . and now she was feeling pleased with herself because she'd fooled Jarge Weaver, a man who'd twice failed to become Village Idiot through being overqualified. It was the slippery slope. Next thing it'd be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasn't as if she even liked children. For years Granny Weatherwax had been contented enough with the challenge that village witchcraft could offer. And then she'd been forced to go travelling, and she'd seen a bit of the world, and it had made her itchy- especially at this time of the year, when the geese were flying overhead and the first frost had mugged innocent leaves in the deeper valleys.

      She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing-up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn't bring herself to do any of it. There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing. They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about. It was tempting. The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera House's new owner. He'd been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master. 'And so,' said Mr Bucket, 'we come to. . . let's see. . . yes, Christine. . . Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too.' He winked at Dr Undershaft. 'Yes. Very pretty,' said Dr Undershaft flatly. 'Can't sing, though.' 'What you artistic types don't realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Bucket. 'Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.' 'So you say. But. . .' 'The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like.' Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner. . . 'Unfortunately,' said Salzella sourly, 'the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a. . . sparkle. But she can't sing.' 'You can train her, can't you?' said Bucket. 'A few years in the chorus. . .' 'Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,' said Undershaft. 'Er, gentlemen,' said Mr Bucket. 'Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? I'm a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade-' 'Do give us your forthright views,' said Salzella. Definitely that kind of owner, he thought. Self-made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn't mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man's character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes. 'I've been through the mill, I have,' Bucket began, 'and I made myself what I am today-' Self-raising flour? thought Salzella. '-but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: “Don't make me have to break your legs.” I don't expect you artistes to understand. It's a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that's my motto.' Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly. 'I see,' said Undershaft. 'Well, it's not the first time it's happened. Normally it's a ballerina, of course.' 'Oh, it's nothing like that,' said Bucket hurriedly. 'It's just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good.' 'Oh, very well,' said Salzella. 'It's your Opera House, I'm sure. And now. . . Perdita. . .?' They smiled at one another.

      'Perdita!' said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again. 'Perdita X,' Salzella corrected him. 'What will these girls think of next?' 'I think she will prove an asset,' said Undershaft. 'Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants.' 'But the range. . . what a range she's got. . .' 'Quite. I saw you staring.' 'I meant her voice, Salzella. She will add body to the chorus.' 'She is a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?' 'Good grief, no. We'd be a laughing-stock.' 'Quite so. She seems quite. . . amenable, though.' 'Wonderful personality, I thought. And good hair, of course.' She'd never expected it to be this easy. . . Agnes listened in a kind of trance while people talked at her about wages (very little), the need for training (a lot), and accommodation (members of the chorus lived in the Opera House itself, up near the roof). And then, more or less, she was forgotten about. She stood and watched at the side of the stage while a group of ballet hopefuls were put through their delicate paces. 'You do have an amazing voice,' said someone behind her. She turned. As Nanny Ogg had once remarked, it was an education seeing Agnes turn around. She was light enough on her feet but the inertia of outlying parts meant that bits of Agnes were still trying to work out which way to face for some time afterwards. The girl who had spoken to her was slightly built, even by ordinary standards, and had gone to some pains to make herself look even thinner. She had long blond hair and the happy smile of someone who is aware that she is thin and has long blond hair. 'My name's Christine!' she said. 'Isn't this exciting?!' And she had the type of voice that can exclaim a question. It seemed to have an excited little squeak permanently screwed to it. 'Er, yes,' said Agnes. 'I've been waiting for this day for years!' Agnes had been waiting for it for about twenty-four hours, ever since she'd seen the notice outside the Opera House. But she'd be danged if she'd say that. 'Where did you train?!' said Christine. 'I spent three years with Mme Venturi at the Quirm Conservatory!' 'Um. I was. . .' Agnes hesitated, trying out the upcoming sentence in her head. '. . . I trained with. . . Dame Ogg. But she hasn't got a conservatory, because it's hard to get the glass up the mountain.' Christine didn't appear to want to question this. Anything she found too difficult to understand, she ignored. 'The money in the chorus isn't very good, is it?!' she said. 'No.' It was less than you'd get for scrubbing floors. The reason was that, when you advertised a dirty floor, hundreds of hopefuls didn't turn up. 'But it's what I've always wanted to do! Besides, there's the status!' 'Yes, I expect there is.' 'I've been to look at the rooms we get! They're very poky! What room have you been given?!' Agnes looked down blankly at the key she had been handed, along with many sharp instructions about no men and an unpleasant not-that-you-need- telling expression on the chorus mistress's face. 'Oh . . . 17.'

      Christine clapped her hands. 'Oh, goody!!' 'Pardon?' 'I'm so glad!! You're next to me!!' Agnes was taken aback. She'd always been resigned to being the last to be picked in the great team game of Life. 'Well. . . yes, I suppose so. . .' she said. 'You're so lucky!! You've got such a majestic figure for opera!! And such marvellous hair, the way you pile it up like that!! Black suits you, by the way!!' Majestic, thought Agnes. It was a word that would never, ever have occurred to her. And she'd always steered away from white because in white she looked like a washing-line on a windy day. She followed Christine. It occurred to Agnes, as she trudged after the girl en route to her new lodgings, that if you spent much time in the same room as Christine you'd need to open a window to stop from drowning in punctuation. From somewhere at the back of the stage, quite unheeded, someone watched them go. People were generally glad to see Nanny Ogg. She was good at making them feel at home in their own home. But she was a witch, and therefore also expert at arriving just after cakes were baked or sausages were made. Nanny Ogg generally travelled with a string bag stuffed up one knee-length knicker leg-in case, as she put it, someone wants to give me something. 'So, Mrs Nitt,' she observed, around about the third cake and fourth cup of tea, 'how's that daughter of yours? Agnes it is to whom I refer.' 'Oh, didn't you hear, Mrs Ogg? She's gone off to Ankh-Morpork to be a singer.' Nanny Ogg's heart sank. 'That's nice,' she said. 'She has a good singing voice, I remember. Of course, I gave her a few tips. I used to hear her singing in the woods.' 'It's the air here,' said Mrs Nitt. 'She's always had such a good chest.' 'Yes, indeed. Noted for it. So. . . er. . . she's not here, then?' 'You know our Agnes. She never says much. I think she thought it was a bit dull.' 'Dull? Lancre?' said Nanny Ogg. 'That's what I said,' said Mrs Nitt. 'I said we get some lovely sunsets up here. And there's the fair every Soul Cake Tuesday, regular.' Nanny Ogg thought about Agnes. You needed quite large thoughts to fit all of Agnes in. Lancre had always bred strong, capable women. A Lancre farmer needed a wife who'd think nothing of beating a wolf to death with her apron when she went out to get some firewood. And, while kissing initially seemed to have more charms than cookery, a stolid Lancre lad looking for a bride would bear in mind his father's advice that kisses eventually lost their fire but cookery tended to get even better over the years, and direct his courting to those families that clearly showed a tradition of enjoying their food. Agnes was, Nanny considered, quite good-looking in an expansive kind of way; she was a fine figure of typical young Lancre womanhood. This meant she was approximately two womanhoods from anywhere else. Nanny also recalled her as being rather thoughtful and shy, as if trying to reduce the amount of world she took up. But she had shown signs of craft ability. That was only to be expected. There was nothing like that not fitting in feeling to stimulate the old magical nerves; that was why Esme was so good at it. In Agnes's case this had manifested itself in a tendency to wear soppy black lace gloves and

      pale makeup and call herself Perdita plus an initial from the arse of the alphabet, but Nanny had assumed that would soon burn off when she got some serious witchcraft under her rather strained belt. She should have paid more attention to the thing about music. Power found its way out by all sorts of routes. . . Music and magic had a lot in common. They were only two letters apart, for one thing. And you couldn't do both. Damn. Nanny had rather been counting on the girl. 'She used to send off to Ankh-Morpork for music,' said Mrs Nitt. 'See?' She handed Nanny several piles of papers. Nanny leafed through them. Song-sheets were common enough in the Ramtops, and a singsong in the parlour was considered the third best thing to do on long dark evenings. But Nanny could see this wasn't ordinary music. It was far too crowded for that. 'Cosi fan Hita,' she read. 'Die Meistersinger von Scrote.' 'That's foreign,' said Mrs Nitt proudly. 'It certainly is,' said Nanny. Mrs Nitt was looking expectantly at her. 'What?' said Nanny, and then, 'Oh.' Mrs Nitt's eyes flickered to her emptied teacup and back again. Nanny Ogg sighed and laid the music aside. Occasionally she saw Granny Weatherwax's point. Sometimes people expected too little of witches. 'Yes, indeedy,' she said, trying to smile. 'Let us see what destiny in the form of these dried-up bits of leaf has in store for us, eh?' She set her features in a suitable occult expression and looked down into the cup. Which, a second later, smashed into fragments when it hit the floor. It was a small room. In fact it was half a small room, since a thin wall had been built across it. Junior members of the chorus ranked rather lower than apprentice scene-shifters in the opera. There was room for a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing-table and, quite out of place, a huge mirror, as big as the door. 'Impressive, isn't it?!' said Christine. 'They tried to take it out but it's built into the wall, apparently!! I'm sure it will be very useful!!' Agnes said nothing. Her own half-room, the other half of this one, didn't have a mirror. She was glad of that. She did not regard mirrors as naturally friendly. It wasn't just the images they showed her. There was something. . . worrying. . . about mirrors. She'd always felt that. They seemed to be looking at her. Agnes hated being looked at. Christine stepped into the small space in the middle of the floor and twirled. There was something very enjoyable about watching her. It was the sparkle, Agnes thought. Something about Christine suggested sequins. 'Isn't this nice?!' she said. Not liking Christine would be like not liking small fluffy animals. And Christine was just like a small fluffy animal. A rabbit, perhaps. It was certainly impossible for her to get a whole idea into her head in one go. She had to nibble it into manageable bits. Agnes glanced at the mirror again. Her reflection stared at her. She could have done with some time to herself right now. Everything had happened so quickly. And this place made her uneasy. Everything would feel a lot better if she could just have some time to herself. Christine stopped twirling. 'Are you all right?!' Agnes nodded. 'Do tell me about yourself?!' 'Er. . . well. . .' Agnes was gratified, despite herself. 'I'm from somewhere up in the mountains you've probably never heard of. . .'

      She stopped. A light had gone off in Christine's head, and Agnes realized that the question had been asked not because Christine in any way wanted to know the answer but for something to say. She went on: '. . .and my father is the Emperor of Klatch and my mother is a small tray of raspberry puddings.' 'That's interesting!' said Christine, who was looking at the mirror. 'Do you think my hair looks right?!' * * * What Agnes would have said, if Christine had been capable of listening to anything for more than a couple of seconds, was: She'd woken up one morning with the horrible realization that she'd been saddled with a lovely personality. It was as simple as that. Oh, and very good hair. It wasn't so much the personality, it was the 'but' that people always added when they talked about it. But she's got a lovely personality, they said. It was the lack of choice that rankled. No one had asked her, before she was born, whether she wanted a lovely personality or whether she'd prefer, say, a miserable personality but a body that could take size 9 in dresses. Instead, people would take pains to tell her that beauty was only skin-deep, as if a man ever fell for an attractive pair of kidneys. She could feel a future trying to land on her. She'd caught herself saying 'poot!' and 'dang!' when she wanted to swear, and using pink writing paper. She'd got a reputation for being calm and capable in a crisis. Next thing she knew she'd be making shortbread and apple pies as good as her mother's, and then there'd be no hope for her. So she'd introduced Perdita. She'd heard somewhere that inside every fat woman was a thin woman trying to get out[3] so she'd named her Perdita. She was a good repository for all those thoughts that Agnes couldn't think on account of her wonderful personality. Perdita would use black writing paper if she could get away with it, and would be beautifully pale instead of embarrassingly flushed. Perdita wanted to be an interestingly lost soul in plumcoloured lipstick. Just occasionally, though, Agnes thought Perdita was as dumb as she was. Was the only alternative the witches? She'd felt their interest in her, in a way she couldn't exactly identify. It was of a piece with knowing when someone was watching you, although she had, in fact, occasionally seen Nanny Ogg watching her in a critical kind of fashion, like someone inspecting a second-hand horse. She knew she did have some talent. Sometimes she knew things that were going to happen, although always in a sufficiently confused way that the knowledge was totally useless until afterwards. And there was her voice. She was aware it wasn't quite natural. She'd always enjoyed singing and, somehow, her voice had just done everything she'd wanted it to do. But she'd seen the ways the witches lived. Oh, Nanny Ogg was all right- quite a nice old baggage really. But the others were weird, lying crosswise on the world instead of nicely parallel to it like everyone else. . . old Mother Dismass who could see into the past and the future but was totally blind in the present, and Millie Hopwood over in Slice, who stuttered and had runny ears, and as for Granny Weatherwax. . . Oh, yes. Finest job in the world? Being a sour old woman with no friends? They were always looking for weird people like themselves. Well, they could look in vain for Agnes Nitt. Fed up with living in Lancre, and fed up with the witches, and above all fed up with being Agnes Nitt, she'd. . . escaped.

      Nanny Ogg didn't look built for running, but she covered the ground deceptively fast, her great heavy boots kicking up shoals of leaves. There was a trumpeting overhead. Another skein of geese passed across the sky, so fast in pursuit of the summer that their wings were hardly moving in the ballistic rush. Granny Weatherwax's cottage looked deserted. It had, Nanny felt, a particularly empty feel. She scurried around to the back door and burst through, pounded up the stairs, saw the gaunt figure on the bed, reached an instant conclusion, grabbed the pitcher of water from its place on the marble washstand, ran forward. . . A hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. 'I was having a nap,' said Granny, opening her eyes. 'Gytha, I swear I could feel you comin' half a mile away-' 'We got to make a cup of tea quick!' gasped Nanny, almost sagging with relief. Granny Weatherwax was more than bright enough not to ask questions. But you couldn't hurry a good cup of tea. Nanny Ogg jiggled from one foot to the other while the fire was pumped up, the small frogs fished out of the water bucket, the water boiled, the dried leaves allowed to seep. 'I ain't saying nothing,' said Nanny, sitting down at last. Just pour a cup, that's all.' On the whole, witches despised fortune-telling from tealeaves. Tea-leaves are not uniquely fortunate in knowing what the future holds. They are really just something for the eyes to rest on while the mind does the work. Practically anything would do. The scum on a puddle, the skin on a custard. . . anything. Nanny Ogg could see the future in the froth on a beer mug. It invariably showed that she was going to enjoy a refreshing drink which she almost certainly was not going to pay for. 'You recall young Agnes Nitt?' said Nanny as Granny Weatherwax tried to find the milk. Granny hesitated. 'Agnes who calls herself Perditax?' 'Perdita X,' said Nanny. She at least respected anyone's right to recreate themselves. Granny shrugged. 'Fat girl. Big hair. Walks with her feet turned out. Sings to herself in the woods. Good voice. Reads books. Says “poot!” instead of swearing. Blushes when anyone looks at her. Wears black lace gloves with the fingers cut out.' 'You remember we once talked about maybe how possibly she might be. . . suitable.' 'Oh, there's a twist in the soul there, you're right,' said Granny. 'But. . . it's an unfortunate name.' 'Her father's name was Terminal,' said Nanny Ogg reflectively. 'There were three sons: Primal, Medial and Terminal. I'm afraid the family's always had a problem with education.' 'I meant Agnes,' said Granny. 'Always puts me in mind of carpet fluff, that name.' 'Prob'ly that's why she called herself Perdita,' said Nanny. 'Worse.' 'Got her fixed in your mind?' said Nanny. 'Yes, I suppose so.' 'Good. Now look at them tea-leaves.' Granny looked down. There was no particular drama, perhaps because of the way Nanny had built up expectations. But Granny did hiss between her teeth. 'Well, now. There's a thing,' she said.

      'See it? See it?' 'Yep., 'Like. . .a skull?' 'Yep.' 'And them eyes? I nearly pi- I was pretty damn' surprised by them eyes, I can tell you.' Granny carefully replaced the cup. 'Her main showed me her letters home,' said Nanny. 'I brung 'em with me. It's worrying, Esme. She could be facing something bad. She's a Lancre girl. One of ours. Nothing's too much trouble when it's one of your own, I always say.' 'Tea-leaves can't tell the future,' said Granny quietly. 'Everyone knows that.' 'Tea-leaves don't know.' 'Well, who'd be so daft as to tell anything to a bunch of dried leaves?' Nanny Ogg looked down at Agnes's letters home. They were written in the careful rounded script of someone who'd been taught to write as a child by copying letters on a slate, and had never written enough as an adult to change their style. The person writing them had also very conscientiously drawn faint pencil lines on the paper before writing. Dear Mam, I hope this finds you as it leaves me. Here I am in Ankh- Morpork and everything is all right, I have not been ravished yet!! I am staying at 4 Treacle Mine Road, it is alright and. . . Granny tried another. Dear Mum, I hope you are well. Everything is fine but, the money runs away like water here. I am doing some singing in taverns but I am not making much so I went to see the Guild of Seamstresses about getting a sewing job and I took along some stitching to show them and you'd be AMAZED, that's all I can say. . . And another. . . Dear Mother, Some good news at last. Next week they're holding auditions at the Opera House. . . 'What's opera?' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It's like theatre, with singing,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Hah! Theatre,' said Granny darkly. 'Our Nev told me about it. It's all singing in foreign languages, he said. He couldn't understand any of it.' Granny put down the letters. 'Yes, but your Nev can't understand a lot of things. What was he doing at this opera theatre, anyway?' 'Nicking the lead off the roof.' Nanny said this quite happily. It wasn't theft if an Ogg was doing it. 'Can't tell much from the letters, except that's she's picking up an education,' said Granny. 'But it's a long way to-' There was a hesitant knock on the door. It was Shawn Ogg, Nanny's youngest son and Lancre's entire civil and public service. Currently he had his postman's badge on; the Lancre postal service consisted of taking the mailbag off the nail where the coach left it and delivering it to the outlying homesteads when he had a moment, although many citizens were in the habit of going down to the sack and rummaging until they found some mail they liked. He touched his helmet respectfully at Granny Weatherwax.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      'Got a lot of letters, mum,' he said to Nanny Ogg. 'Er. They're all addressed to, er, well. . . er. . . you'd better have a look, mum.' Nanny Ogg took the proffered bundle. ' “The Lancre Witch”,' she said aloud. 'That'd be me, then,' said Granny Weatherwax firmly, and took the letters. 'Ah. Well, I'd better be going. . .' said Nanny, backing towards the door. 'Can't imagine why peopled be writing to me,' said Granny, slitting an envelope. 'Still, I suppose news gets around.' She focused on the words. ' “Dear Witch,” ' she read, ' “I would just like to say how much I appreciated the Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie recipe. My husband-” ' Nanny Ogg made it halfway down the path before her boots became, suddenly, too heavy to lift. 'Gytha Ogg, you come back here right now!' Agnes tried again. She didn't really know anyone in Ankh-Morpork and she did need someone to talk to, even if they didn't listen. 'I suppose mainly I came because of the witches,' she said. Christine turned, her eyes wide with fascination. So was her mouth. It was like looking at a rather pretty bowling ball. 'Witches?!' she breathed. 'Oh, yes,' said Agnes wearily. Yes. People were always fascinated by the idea of witches. They should try living around them, she thought. 'Do they do spells and ride around on broomsticks?!' 'Oh, yes.' 'No wonder you ran away!' 'What? Oh. . . no. . . it's not like that. I mean, they're not bad. It's much. . . worse than that.' 'Worse than bad?!' 'They think they know what's best for everybody.' Christine's forehead wrinkled, as it tended to when she was contemplating a problem more complex than 'What is your name?' 'That doesn't sound very ba-' 'They. . . mess people around. They think that just because they're right that's the same as good! It's not even as though they do any real magic. It's all fooling people and being clever! They think they can do what they like!' The force of the words knocked even Christine back. 'Oh, dear!! Did they want you to do something?!' 'They want me to be something. But I'm not going to!' Christine stared at her. And then, automatically, forgot everything she'd just heard. 'Come on,' she said, 'let's have a look around!!' Nanny Ogg balanced on a chair and took down an oblong wrapped in paper. Granny watched sternly with her arms folded. 'Thing is,' Nanny babbled, under the laser glare, 'my late husband, I remember him once sayin' to me, after dinner, he said, “You know, mother, it'd be a real shame if all the stuff you know just passed away when you did. Why don't you write some of it down?” So I scribbled the odd one, when I had a moment, and then I thought it'd be nice to have it all properly done so I sent it off to the Almanack people in Ankh-Morpork and they hardly charged me anything and a little while ago they sent me this, I think it's a very good job, it's amazing how they get all the letters so neat-' 'You done a book,' said Granny.

      'Only cookery,' said Nanny Ogg meekly, as one might plead a first offence. 'What do you know about it? You hardly ever do any cooking,' said Granny. 'I do specialities,' said Nanny. Granny looked at the offending volume. ' “The Joye of Snacks,” ' she read out loud. ' “Bye A Lancre Witch.” Hah! Why dint you put your own name on it, eh? Books've got to have a name on 'em so's everyone knows who's guilty.' 'It's my gnome de plum,' said Nanny. 'Mr Goatberger the Almanack man said it'd make it sound more mysterious.' Granny cast her gimlet gaze to the bottom of the crowded cover, where it said, in very small lettering, 'CXX viith Printyng. More Than Twenty Thoufand Solde! One half dollar.' 'You sent them some money to get it all printed?' she said. 'Only a couple of dollars,' said Nanny. 'Damn' good job they made of it, too. And then they sent the money back afterwards, only they got it wrong and sent three dollars extra.' Granny Weatherwax was grudgingly literate but keenly numerate. She assumed that anything written down was probably a lie, and that applied to numbers too. Numbers were used only by people who wanted to put one over on you. Her lips moved silently as she thought about numbers. 'Oh,' she said, quietly. 'And that was it, was it? You never wrote to him again?' 'Not on your life. Three dollars, mind. I dint want him saying he wanted 'em back.' 'I can see that,' said Granny, still dwelling in the world of numbers. She wondered how much it cost to do a book. It couldn't be a lot: they had sort of printing mills to do the actual work. 'After all, there's a lot you can do with three dollars,' said Nanny. 'Right enough,' said Granny. 'You ain't got a pencil about you, have you? You being a literary type and all?' 'I got a slate,' said Nanny. 'Pass it over, then.' 'I bin keeping it by me in case I wake up in the night and I get an idea for a recipe, see,' said Nanny. 'Good,' said Granny vaguely. The slate pencil squeaked across the grey tablet. The paper must cost something. And you'd probably have to tip someone a couple of pennies to sell it. . .Angular figures danced from column to column. 'I'll make another cup of tea, shall I?' said Nanny, relieved that the conversation appeared to be coming to a peaceful end. 'Hmm?' said Granny. She stared at the result and drew two lines under it. 'But you enjoyed it, did you?' she called out. 'The writin'?' Nanny Ogg poked her head around the scullery door. 'Oh, yes. The money dint matter,' she said. 'You've never been very good at numbers, have you?' said Granny. Now she drew a circle around the final figure. 'Oh, you know me, Esme,' said Nanny cheerfully. 'I couldn't subtract a fart from a plate of beans.' 'That's good, 'cos I reckon this Master Goatberger owes you a bit more than you got, if there's any justice in the world,' said Granny. 'Money ain't everything, Esme. What I say is, if you've got your health-' 'I reckon, if there's any justice, it's about four or five thousand dollars,' said Granny quietly. There was a crash from the scullery. 'So it's a good job the money don't matter,' Granny Weatherwax went on. 'It'd be a terrible thing otherwise. All that money, matterin'.'

      Nanny Ogg's white face appeared around the edge of the door. 'He never!' 'Could be a bit more,' said Granny. 14.0pt;mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>'It never!9 'You just adds up and divides and that.' Nanny Ogg stared in horrified fascination at her own fingers. 'But that's a-' She stopped. The only word she could think of was 'fortune' and that wasn't adequate. Witches didn't operate in a cash economy. The whole of the Ramtops, by and large, got by without the complications of capital. Fifty dollars was a fortune. A hundred dollars was a, was a, was. . . well, it was two fortunes, that was what it was. 'It's a lot of money,' she said weakly. 'What couldn't I do with money like that?' 'Dunno,' said Granny Weatherwax. ' What did you do with the three dollars?' 'Got it in a tin up the chimney,' said Nanny Ogg. Granny nodded approvingly. This was the kind of good fiscal practice she liked to see. 'Beats me why peopled fall over themselves to read a cookery book, though,' she added. 'I mean, it's not the sort of thing that-' The room fell silent. Nanny Ogg shuffled her boots. Granny said, in a voice laden with a suspicion that was all the worse because it wasn't yet quite sure what it was suspicious of 'It is a cookery book, isn't it?' 'Oh, yes,' said Nanny hurriedly, avoiding Granny's gaze. 'Yes. Recipes and that. Yes.' Granny glared at her. 'Just recipes?' 'Yes. Oh, yes. Yes. And some. . . cookery anecdotes, yes.' Granny went on glaring. Nanny gave in. 'Er. . . look under Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie,' she said. 'Page 25.' Granny turned the pages. Her lips moved silently. Then: 'I see. Anything else?' 'Er. . . Cinnamon and Marshmallow Fingers. . .page 17. . .' Granny looked it up. 'And?' 'Er. . .Celery Astonishment. . . page 10.' Granny looked that up, too. 'Can't say it astonished me,' she said. 'And. . . ?' 'Er. . . well, more or less all of Humorous Puddings and Cake Decoration. That's all of Chapter Six. I done illustrations for that.' Granny turned to Chapter Six. She had to turn the book around a couple of times. 'What one you looking at?' said Nanny Ogg, because an author is always keen to get feedback. 'Strawberry Wobbler,' said Granny. 'Ah. That one always gets a laugh.' It did not appear to be obtaining one from Granny. She carefully closed the book. 'Gytha,' she said, 'this is me askin' you this. Is there any page in this book, is there any single recipe, which does not in some way relate to. . . goingson?' Nanny Ogg, her face red as her apples, seemed to give this some lengthy consideration. 'Porridge,' she said, eventually. 'Really?' 'Yes. Er. No, I tell a lie, it's got my special honey mixture in it.' Granny turned a page. 'What about this one? Maids of Honour?'

      'Weeelll, they starts out as Maids of Honour,' said Nanny, fidgeting with her feet, 'but they ends up Tarts.' Granny looked at the front cover again. The Joye of Snacks. 'An' you actually set out to-' 'It just sort of turned out that way, really.' Granny Weatherwax was not a jouster in the lists of love but, as an intelligent onlooker, she knew how the game was played. No wonder the book had sold like hot cakes. Half the recipes told you how to make them. It was surprising the pages hadn't singed. And it was by 'A Lancre Witch'. The world was, Granny Weatherwax modestly admitted, well aware of who the witch of Lancre was; viz, it was her. 'Gytha Ogg,' she said. 'Yes, Esme?' 'Gytha Ogg, you look me in the eye.' 'Sorry, Esme.' ' “A Lancre Witch”, it says here.' 'I never thought, Esme.' 'So you'll go and see Mr Goatberger and have this stopped, right? I don't want people lookin' at me and thinkin' about the Banana Soup Surprise. I don't even believe the Banana Soup Surprise. And I ain't relishin' going down the street and hearin' people makin' cracks about bananas.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'And I'll come with you to make sure you do.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'And we'll talk to the man about your money.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'And we might just drop in on young Agnes to make sure she's all right.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'But we'll do it diplomatic like. We don't want people thinkin' we're pokin' our noses in.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'No one could say I interfere where I'm not wanted. You won't find anyone callin' me a busybody.' 'Yes, Esme.' 'That was, “Yes, Esme, you won't find anyone callin' you a busybody”, was it?' 'Oh, yes, Esme.' 'You sure about that?' 'Yes, Esme.' 'Good.' Granny looked out at the dull grey sky and the dying leaves and felt, amazingly enough, her sap rising. A day ago the future had looked aching and desolate, and now it looked full of surprises and terror and bad things happening to people. . . If she had anything to do with it, anyway. In the scullery, Nanny Ogg grinned to herself. Agnes had known a little bit about the theatre. A travelling company came to Lancre sometimes. Their stage was about twice the size of a door, and 'backstage' consisted of a bit of sacking behind which was usually a man trying to change trousers and wigs at the same time and another man, dressed as a king, having a surreptitious smoke. The Opera House was almost as big as the Patrician's palace, and far more palatial. It covered three acres. There was stabling for twenty horses and two elephants in the cellar; Agnes spent some time there, because the elephants were reassuringly larger than her. There were rooms behind the stage so big that entire sets were stored there. There was a whole ballet school somewhere in the building. Some of

      the girls were on stage now, ugly in woolly jumpers, going through a routine. The inside of the Opera House-at least, the backstage inside-put Agnes strongly in mind of the clock her brother had taken apart to find the tick. It was hardly a building. It was more like a machine. Sets and curtains and ropes hung in the darkness like dreadful things in a forgotten cellar. The stage was only a small part of the place, a little rectangle of light in a huge, complicated darkness full of significant machinery. . . A piece of dust floated down from the blackness high above. She brushed it off. 'I thought I heard someone up there,' she said. 'It's probably the Ghost!!' said Christine. 'We've got one, you know! Oh, I said we!! Isn't this exciting?!' 'A man with his face covered by a white mask,' said Agnes. 'Oh?! You've heard about him, then?!' 'What? Who?' 'The Ghost!!' Blast, thought Agnes. It was always ready to catch her out. Just when she thought she'd put all that behind her. She'd know things without quite knowing why. It upset people. It certainly upset her. 'Oh, I. . . suppose someone must have told me. . .'she mumbled. 'He moves around the Opera House invisibly, they say!! One moment he'll be in the Gods, next moment he'll be backstage somewhere!! No one knows how he does it!!' 'Really?' 'They say he watches every performance!! That's why they never sell tickets for Box Eight, didn't you know?!' 'Box Eight?' said Agnes. 'What's a Box?' 'Boxes! You know? That's where you get the best people?! Look, I shall show you!' Christine marched to the front of the stage and waved a hand grandly at the empty auditorium. 'The Boxes!' she said. 'Over there! And right up there, the Gods!' Her voice bounced back from the distant wall. 'Aren't the best people in the Gods? It sounds-' 'Oh, no! The best people will be in Boxes! Or possibly in the Stalls!' Agnes pointed. 'Who's down there? They must get a good view-' 'Don't be silly!! That's the Pit!! That's for the musicians!!' 'Well, that makes sense, anyway. Er. Which one's Box Eight?' 'I don't know! But they say if ever they sell seats in Box Eight there'll be a dreadful tragedy!! Isn't that romantic?!' For some reason Agnes's practical eye was drawn to the huge chandelier that hung over the auditorium like a fantastic sea monster. Its thick rope disappeared into the darkness near the ceiling. The glass chimes tinkled. Another flare of that certain power which Agnes did her best to suppress at every turn flashed a treacherous image across her mind. 'That looks like an accident waiting to happen if ever I saw one,' she mumbled. 'I'm sure it's perfectly safe!!' trilled Christine. 'I'm sure they wouldn't allow-' A chord rolled out, shaking the stage. The chandelier tinkled, and more dust came down. 'What was that?' said Agnes. 'It was the organ!! It's so big it's behind the stage!! Come on, let's go and see!!'

      Other members of the staff were hurrying towards the organ. There was an overturned bucket nearby, and a spreading pool of green paint. A carpenter reached past Agnes and picked up an envelope that was lying on the organ seat. 'It's for the boss,' he said. 'When it's my mail, the postman usually just knocks,' said a ballerina, and giggled. Agnes looked up. Ropes swung lazily in the musty darkness. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of white, and then it was gone. There was a shape, just visible, tangled in the ropes. Something wet and sticky dripped down and splashed on the keyboard. People were already screaming when Agnes reached past, dipped her finger in the growing puddle, and sniffed. 'It's blood!' said the carpenter. 'It's blood, isn't it?' said a musician. 'Blood!!' screamed Christine. 'Blood!!' It was Agnes's terrible fate to keep her head in a crisis. She sniffed her finger again. 'It's turpentine,' said Agnes. 'Er. Sorry. Is that wrong? Up in the tangle of ropes, the figure moaned. 'Shouldn't we get him down? she added. Cando Cutoff was a humble woodcutter. He wasn't humble because he was a woodcutter. He would still have been quite humble if he'd owned five logging mills. He was just naturally humble. And he was unpretentiously stacking some logs at the point .where the Lancre road met the main mountain road when he saw a farm cart rumble to a halt and unload two elderly ladies in black. Both carried a broomstick in one hand and a sack in the other. They were arguing. It was not a raised-voice argument, but a chronic wrangle that had clearly been going on for some time and was set in for the rest of the decade. 'It's all very well for you, but it's my three dollars so I don't see why I can't say how we go.' 'I likes flying.' 'And I'm telling you it's too draughty on broomsticks this time of year, Esme. The breeze gets into places I wouldn't dream of talking about.' 'Really? Can't imagine where those'd be, then.' 'Oh, Esme!' 'Don't “Oh, Esme” me. It weren't me that come up with the Amusing Wedding Trifle with the Special Sponge Fingers.' 'Anyway, Greebo don't like it on the broomstick. He's got a delicate stomach.' Cutoff noticed that one of the sacks was moving in a lazy way. 'Gytha, I've seen him eat half a skunk, so don't tell me about his delicate stomach,' said Granny, who disliked cats on principle. 'Anyway. . . he's been doing It again.' Nanny Ogg waved her hands airily. 'Oh, he only does It sometimes, when he's really in a corner,' she said. 'He did It in ole Mrs Grope's henhouse last week. She went into see what all the ruckus was, and he did It right in front of her. She had to have a lie down.' 'He was probably more frightened than she was,' said Nanny defensively. 'That's what comes of getting strange ideas in foreign parts,' said Granny. 'Now you've got a cat who- Yes, what is it?' Cutoff had meekly approached them and was hovering in the kind of half- crouch of someone trying to be noticed while also not wanting to intrude. 'Are you ladies waiting for the stagecoach?'

      'Yes,' said the taller of the ladies. 'Um, I'm afraid the next coach doesn't stop here. It doesn't stop until Creel Springs.' They gave him a couple of polite stares. 'Thank you,' said the tall one. She turned to her companion. 'It gave her a nasty shock, anyway. I dread to think what he'll learn this time.' 'He pines when I'm gone. He won't take food from anyone else.' 'Only 'cos they try to poison him, and no wonder.' Cutoff shook his head sadly and wandered back to his log pile. The coach turned up five minutes later, coming around the corner at speed. It drew level with the women- -and stopped. That is, the horses tried to stand still and the wheels locked. It wasn't so much a skid as a spin, and the whole thing gradually came to rest about fifty yards down the road, with the driver in a tree. The women strolled towards it, still arguing. One of them poked the driver with her broomstick. 'Two tickets to Ankh- Morpork, please.' He landed in the road. 'What do you mean, two tickets to Ankh-Morpork? The coach doesn't stop here!' 'Looks stopped to me.' 'Did you do something?' 'What, us?' 'Listen, lady, even if I was stopping here the tickets are forty damn' dollars each!' 'Oh.' 'Why've you got broomsticks?' shouted the driver. 'Are you witches?' 'Yes. Have you got any special low terms for witches?' 'Yeah, how about “meddling, interfering old baggages”?' Cutoff felt that he must have missed part of the conversation, because the next exchange went like this: 'What was that again, young man?' 'Two complimentary tickets to Ankh-Morpork, ma'am. No problem.' 'Inside seats, mind. No travelling on the top.' 'Certainly, ma'am. Excuse me while I just kneel in the dirt so's you can step up, ma'am.' Cutoff nodded happily to himself as the coach pulled away again. It was nice to see that good manners and courtesy were still alive. With great difficulty and much shouting and untangling of ropes far above, the figure was lowered to the stage. He was soaked in paint and turpentine. The swelling audience of off duty staff and rehearsal truants crowded in around him. Agnes knelt down, loosened his collar and tried to unwind the rope that had caught around arm and neck. 'Does anyone know him?' she said. 'It's Tommy Cripps,' said a musician. 'He paints scenery.' Tommy moaned, and opened his eyes. 'I saw him!' he muttered. 'It was horrible!' 'Saw what?' said Agnes. And then she had a sudden feeling that she'd intruded on some private conversation. Around her there was a babble of voices. 'Giselle said she saw him last week!' 'He's here!' 'It's happening again!' 'Are we all doomed?!' squeaked Christine.

      Tommy Cripps gripped Agnes's arm. 'He's got a face like death!' 'Who?' 'The Ghost!' 'What gho-?' 'It's white bone! He has no nose!' A couple of ballet dancers fainted, but carefully, so as not to get their clothes dirty. 'Then how does hue' Agnes began. 'I saw him too!' On cue, the company turned. An elderly man advanced across the stage. He wore an ancient opera hat and carried a sack over one shoulder, while his spare hand made the needlessly expansive gestures of someone who has got hold of some direful information and can't wait to freeze all nearby spines. The sack must have contained something alive, because it was bouncing around. 'I saw him! Ooooooh yes! Wi' his great black cloak and his white face with no eyes but only two holes where eyes should be! Ooohhhh! And-' 'He had a mask on?' said Agnes. The old man paused and shot her the dark look reserved for all those who insist on injecting a note of sanity when things are getting interestingly ghastly. 'And he had no nose!' he went on, ignoring her. 'I just said that,' muttered Tommy Cripps, in a rather annoyed voice. 'I told them that. They already know that.' 'If he had no nose, how did he sme-' Agnes began, but no one was listening to her. 'Did you mention about the eyes?' said the old man. 'I was just getting round to the eyes,' snapped Tommy. 'Yes, he had eyes like-' 'Are we talking about some kind of mask here?' said Agnes. Now everyone was giving her that kind of look UFOlogists get when they suddenly say, 'Hey, if you shade your eyes you can see it is just a flock of geese after all.' The man with the sack coughed and regrouped. 'Like great holes, they were-' he began, but it was clear that it had all been spoiled for him. 'Great holes,' he said sourly. 'That's what I saw. And no nose, I might add, thank you so very much.' 'It's the Ghost again!' said a scene-shifter. 'He jumped out from behind the organ,' said Tommy Cripps. 'Next thing I knew, there was a rope around my neck and I was upside-down!' The company looked at the man with the sack, in case he could trump this. 'Great big black holes,' he managed, sticking to what he knew. 'All right, everyone, what's going on here?' An imposing figure strode out of the wings. He had flowing black hair, carefully brushed to give it a carefree alfresco look, but the face underneath was the face of an organizer. He nodded at the old man with the sack. 'What are you staring at, Mr Pounder?' he said. The old man looked down. 'I knows what I saw, Mr Salzella,' he said. 'I see lots o' things, I do.' 'As much as is visible through the bottom of a bottle, I have no doubt, you old reprobate. What happened to Tommy?' 'It was the Ghost!' said Tommy, delighted to have centrestage again. 'He swooped out at me, Mr Salzella! I think my leg is broken,' he added quickly, in the voice of one who is suddenly aware of the time-off opportunities of the situation.

      Agnes expected the newcomer to say something like 'Ghosts? There's no such thing.' He had the kind of face that said that. Instead, he said, 'Back again, is he? Where did he go?' 'Didn't see, Mr Salzella. He just swooped off again!' 'Some of you help Tommy down to the canteen,' said Salzella. 'And someone else fetch a doctor-' 'His leg isn't broken,' said Agnes. 'But that's a nasty rope burn on his neck and he's filled his own ear with paint.' 'What do you know about it, miss?' said Tommy. A paintfilled ear didn't sound as though it had the possibilities of a broken leg. 'I've . . . er . . . had some training,' said Agnes, and then added quickly, 'It's a nasty burn, though, and of course there may be some delayed shock.' 'Brandy is very good for that, isn't it?' said Tommy. 'Perhaps you could try forcing some between my lips?' 'Thank you, Perdita. The rest of you, go back to what you were doing,' said Salzella. 'Big dark holes,' said Mr Pounder. 'Big ones.' 'Yes, thank you, Mr Pounder. Help Ron with Mr Cripps, will you? Perdita, you come here. And you, Christine.' The two girls stood before the director of music. 'Did you see anything?' said Salzella. 'I saw a great creature with great flapping wings and great big holes where his eyes should be!!' said Christine. 'I'm afraid I just saw something white up in the ceiling,' said Agnes. 'Sorry.' She blushed, aware of how useless that sounded. Perdita would have seen a mysterious cloaked figure or something. . . something interesting. . . Salzella smiled at her. 'You mean you just see things that are really there?' he said. 'I can see you haven't been with the opera for long, dear. But I may say I'm pleased to have a level-headed person around here for once-' 'Oh, no!' screamed someone. 'It's the Ghost!!' shrieked Christine, automatically. 'Er. It's the young man behind the organ,' said Agnes. 'Sorry.' 'Observant as well as level-headed,' said Salzella. 'Whereas I can see that you, Christine, will fit right in here. What's the matter, André?' A fair-haired young man peered around the organ pipes. 'Someone's been smashing things, Mr Salzella,' he said mournfully. 'The pallet springs and the backfalls and everything. Completely ruined. I'm sure I won't be able to get a tune out of it. And it's priceless.' Salzella sighed. 'All right. I'll tell Mister Bucket,' he said. 'Thank you, everyone.' He gave Agnes a gloomy nod, and strode off: 'You shouldn't ort to do that to people,' said Nanny Ogg in a vague sort of way, as the coach began to get up speed. She looked around with a wide, friendly grin at the now rather dishevelled occupants of the coach. 'Morning,' she said, delving into the sack. 'I'm Gytha Ogg, I've got fifteen children, this is my friend Esme Weatherwax, we're going to Ankh- Morpork, would anyone like an egg sandwich? I've brung plenty. The cat's been sleepin' on them but they're fine, look, they bend back all right. No? Please yourself, I'm sure. Let's see what else we've got. . . ah, has anybody got an opener for a bottle of beer?' A man in the corner indicated that he might have such a thing. 'Fine,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Anyone got something to drink a bottle of beer out of?'

      Another man nodded hopefully. 'Good,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Now, has anybody got a bottle of beer?' Granny, for once not the centre of attention as all horrified eyes were on Nanny and her sack, surveyed the other occupants of the coach. The express stage went right over the Ramtops and all the way through the patchwork of little countries beyond. If it cost forty dollars just from Lancre, then it must have cost these people a lot more. What sort of folk spent the best part of two months' wages just to travel fast and uncomfortably? The thin man who sat clutching his bag was probably a spy, she decided. The fat man who'd volunteered the glass looked as if he sold things; he had the unpleasant complexion of someone who'd hit too many bottles but missed too many meals. They were huddled together on their seat because the rest of it was occupied by a man of almost wizardly proportions. He didn't appear to have woken up when the coach stopped. There was a handkerchief over his face. He was snoring with the regularity of a geyser, and looked as though the only worries he might have in the world were a tendency for small objects to gravitate towards him and the occasional tide. Nanny Ogg continued to rummage around in her bag and, as was the case when she was preoccupied, her mouth had wired itself to her eyeballs without her brain intervening. She was used to travelling by broomstick. Long distance ground travel was a novelty to her, so she'd prepared with some care. '. . .lessee now. . . book of puzzles for long journeys . . . cushion . . . foot powder . . . mosquito trap. . . phrase book. . . bag to be sick into. . . oh dear. . .' The audience, which against all probability had managed to squeeze itself further away from Nanny during the litany, waited with horrified interest. 'What?' said Granny. 'How often d'you reckon this coach stops?' 'What's the matter?' 'I should've gone before we left. Sorry. It's the jolting. Anyone know if there's a privy on this thing?' she added brightly. 'Er,' said the probable spy, 'we generally wait until the next stop, or-' He stopped. He had been about to add 'there's always the window', which was a manly option on the bumpier rural stretches, but he stopped himself in the horrible apprehension that this ghastly old woman might seriously consider the possibility. 'There's Ohulan just a bit further on the road,' said Granny, who was trying to doze. 'You just wait.' 'This coach doesn't stop at Ohulan,' said the spy helpfully. Granny Weatherwax raised her head. 'Up until now, that is,' said the spy. Mr Bucket was sitting in his office trying to make sense of the Opera House's books. They didn't make any kind of sense. He reckoned he was as good as the next man at reading a balance-sheet, but these were to book-keeping what grit was to clockwork. Seldom Bucket had always enjoyed opera. He didn't understand it and never had, but he didn't understand the ocean either and he enjoyed that, too. He'd looked upon the purchase as, well, something to do, a sort of working retirement. The offer had been too good to pass up. Things had been getting pretty tough in the wholesale cheese-and-milk-derivatives business, and he'd been looking forward to the quieter climes of the world of art.

      The previous owners had put on some good operas. It was only a shame that their genius hadn't run to bookkeeping as well. Money seemed to have been taken out of the accounts when anyone needed it. The financial-record system largely consisted of notes on torn bits of paper saying: 'I've taken $30 to pay Q. See you Monday. R.' Who was R? Who was Q? What was the money for? You wouldn't get away with this sort of thing in the world of cheese. He looked up as the door opened. 'Ah, Salzella,' he said. 'Thank you for coming. You don't know who Q is, by any chance?' 'No, Mr Bucket.' 'Or R?' 'I'm afraid not.' Salzella pulled up a chair. 'It's taken me all morning, but I've worked out we pay more than fifteen hundred dollars a year for ballet shoes,' said Bucket, waving a piece of paper in the air. Salzella nodded. 'Yes, they do rather go through them at the toes.' 'I mean, it's ridiculous! I've still got a pair of boots belonging to my father!' 'But ballet shoes, sir, are rather more like foot gloves,' Salzella explained. 'You're telling me! They cost seven dollars a pair and they last hardly any time at all! A few performances! There must be some way we can make a saving. . . ?' 14.0pt;mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Salzella gave his new employer a long, cool stare. 'Possibly we could ask the girls to spend more time in the air?' he said. 'A few extra grands jetes?' Bucket looked puzzled. 'Would that work?' he said suspiciously. 'Well, their feet wouldn't be on the ground for so long, would they?' said Salzella, in the tones of one who knows for a fact that he's much more intelligent than anyone else in the room. 'Good point. Good point. Have a word with the ballet mistress, will you?' 'Of course. I am sure she will welcome the suggestion. You may well have halved costs at a stroke.' Bucket beamed. 'Which is perhaps just as well,' said Salzella. 'There is, in fact, another matter that I've come to see you about. . .' 'Yes?' 'It is to do with the organ we had.' 'Had? What do you mean, had?' said Bucket, adding, 'You're going to tell me something expensive, are you? What have we got now?' 'A lot of pipes and some keyboards,' said Salzella. 'Everything else has been smashed.' 'Smashed? Who by?' Salzella leaned back. He was not a man to whom amusement came easily, but he realized that he was rather enjoying this. 'Tell me,' he said, 'when Mr Pnigeus and Mr Cavaille sold you this Opera House, did they mention anything. . . supernatural?' Bucket scratched his head. 'Well. . . yes. After I'd signed and paid. It was a bit of a joke. They said: “Oh, and by the way, people say there's some man in evening dress who haunts the place, haha, ridiculous, isn't it, these theatrical people, like children really, haha, but you may find it keeps them happy if you always keep Box Eight free on first nights, haha.” I remember that quite well. Handing over thirty thousand dollars concentrates the memory a bit. And then they rode off: Quite a fast carriage, now I come to think about it.' 'Ah,' said Salzella, and he almost smiled. 'Well, now that the ink is dry, I wonder if I might fill you in on the fine detail. . .'

      'You make yourself useful, Esme Weatherwax,' said the voice from the bushes, 'by obligin' me and findin' any dock or burdock plants that might happen to be around out there, thank you very much.' 'Herbs? What're you plannin' with them?' 'I'm plannin' to say, “Thank goodness, big leaves, just what I need.” ' Birds sang. The wind rattled the dried seed-heads of moor land flowers. Granny Weatherwax poked in the ditches to see if there were any interesting herbs hereabouts. High over the hills, a buzzard screamed and wheeled. The coach stood by the side of the road, despite the fact that it should have been speeding along at least twenty miles away. At last Granny grew bored, and sidled towards a clump of gorse bushes. 'How're you doing, Gytha?' 'Fine, fine,' said a muffled voice. 'Only I reckon the coach driver is getting a bit impatient.' 'You can't hurry Nature,' said Nanny Ogg. 'Well, don't blame me. You was the one who said it was too draughty on the broomsticks.' Some distance from the bushes where Nanny Ogg was communing with Nature there was, placid under the autumn sky, a lake. In the reeds, a swan was dying. Or was due to die. There was, however, an unforeseen snag. Death sat down on the bank. NOW LOOK, he said, I KNOW HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO GO. SWANS SING JUST ONCE, BEAUTIFULLY, BEFORE THEY DIE. THAT'S WHERE THE WORD 'SWANSONG' ORIGINATES. IT IS VERY MOVING. NOW, LET US TRY THIS AGAIN. . . He produced a tuning fork from the shadowy recesses of his robe and twanged it on the side of his scythe. THERE'S YOUR NOTE. . . 'Uh-uh,' said the swan, shaking its head. WHY MAKE IT DIFFICULT? 'I like it here,' said the swan. THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. 'Did you know I can break a man's arm with a blow of my wing?' HOW ABOUT IF I GET YOU STARTED? DO YOU KNOW 'MOONLIGHT BAY'? 'That's no more than a barbershop ditty! I happen to be a swan!' 'LITTLE BROWN JUG'? Death cleared his throat. HA HA HA, HEE HEE HEE, LITTLE- 'That's a song?' The swan hissed angrily and swayed from one crabbed foot to the other. 'I don't know who you are, sirrah, but where I come from we've got better taste in music.' REALLY? WOULD YOU CARE TO SHOW ME AN EXAMPLE? 'Uh-uh!' DAMN. 'Thought you'd got me there, didn't you,' said the swan. 'Thought you'd tricked me, eh? Thought I might unthinkingly give you a couple of bars of the Pedlar's Song from Lohenshaak, eh?' I DON'T KNOW THAT ONE. The swan took a deep, laboured breath. 'That's the one that goes “Schneide meinen eigenen Hals-”' THANK YOU, said Death. The scythe moved. 'Bugger!' A moment later the swan stepped out of its body and ruffled fresh but slightly transparent wings. 'Now what?' it said. THAT'S UP TO YOU. IT'S ALWAYS UP TO YOU.

      Mr Bucket leaned back in his creaky leather chair with his eyes shut until his director of music had finished. 'So,' Bucket said. 'Let me see if I've got this right. There's this Ghost. Every time anyone loses a hammer in this place, it's been stolen by the Ghost. Every time someone cracks a note, it's because of the Ghost. But also, every time someone finds a lost object, it's because of the Ghost. Every time someone has a very good scene, it must be because of the Ghost. He sort of comes with the building, like the rats. Every so often someone sees him, but not for long because he comes and goes like a. . . well, a Ghost. Apparently we let him use Box Eight for free on every first-night performance. And you say people like him?' ' “Like” isn't quite the right word,' said Salzella. 'It would be more correct to say that. . . well, it's pure superstition, of course, but they think he's lucky. Thought he was, anyway.' And you wouldn't understand a thing about that, would you, you coarse little cheesemonger, he added to himself. Cheese is cheese. Milk goes rotten naturally. You don't have to make it happen by having several hundred people wound up until their nerves go twang. . . 'Lucky,' said Bucket flatly. 'Luck is very important,' said Salzella, in a voice in which pained patience floated like ice cubes. 'I imagine that temperament is not an important factor in the cheese business?' 'We rely on rennet,' said Bucket. , Salzella sighed. 'Anyway, the company feel that the Ghost is. . . lucky. He used to send people little notes of encouragement. After a really good performance, sopranos would find a box of chocolates in their dressing- room, that sort of thing. And dead flowers, for some reason.' 'Dead flowers?' 'Well, not flowers at all, as such. Just a bouquet of dead rose-stems with no roses on them. It's something of a trademark of his. It's considered lucky.' 'Dead flowers are lucky?' 'Possibly. Live flowers, certainly, are terribly bad luck on stage. Some singers won't even have them in their dressing-room. So. . . dead flowers are safe, you might say. Odd, but safe. And it didn't worry people because everyone thought the Ghost was on their side. At least, they did. Until about six months ago.' Mr Bucket shut his eyes again. 'Tell me,' he said. 'There have been. . . accidents.' 'What kind of accidents?' 'The kind of accidents that you prefer to call. . . accidents.' Mr Bucket's eyes stayed closed. 'Like. . . the time when Reg Plenty and Fred Chiswell were working late one night up on the curdling vats and it turned out Reg had been seeing Fred's wife and somehow-' Bucket swallowed -'somehow he must have tripped, Fred said, and fallen-' 'I am not familiar with the gentlemen concerned but. . . that kind of accident. Yes.' Bucket sighed. 'That was some of the finest Farmhouse Nutty we ever made.' 'Do you want me to tell you about our accidents?' 'I'm sure you're going to.' 'A seamstress stitched herself to the wall. A deputy stage manager was found stabbed with a prop sword. Oh, and you wouldn't like me to tell you what happened to the man who worked the trapdoor. And all the lead mysteriously disappeared from the roof, although personally I don't think that was the work of the Ghost.' 'And everyone. . . calls these. . . accidents?'

      'Well, you wanted to sell your cheese, didn't you? I can't imagine anything that would depress the house like news that dead bodies are dropping like flies out of the flies.' He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. 'The Ghost likes to leave little messages,' he said. 'There was one by the organ. A scenery painter spotted him and . . . .nearly had an accident.' Bucket sniffed the envelope. It reeked of turpentine. The letter inside was on a sheet of the Opera House's own notepaper. In neat, copperplate writing, it said: Ahahahahaha! Ahahahaha! Aahahaha! BEWARE!!!!! Yrs Sincerely, The Opera Ghost 'What sort of person,' said Salzella patiently, 'sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man. Look, at least let's search the building. The cellars go on for ever. I'll need a boat-' 'A boat? In the cellar?' 'Oh. Didn't they tell you about the sub-basement?' Bucket smiled the bright, crazed smile of a man who was nearing double exclamation marks himself. 'No,' he said. 'They didn't tell me about the subbasement. They were too busy not telling me that someone goes around killing the company. I don't recall anyone saying “Oh, by the way, people are dying a lot, and incidentally there's a touch of rising damp-” ' 'They're flooded.' 'Oh, good!' said Bucket. 'What with? Buckets of blood?' 'Didn't you have a look?' 'They said the cellars were fine!' 'And you believed them?' 'Well, there was rather a lot of champagne. . .' Salzella sighed. Bucket took offence at the sigh. 'I happen to pride myself that I am a good judge of character,' he said. 'Look a man deeply in the eye and give him a firm handshake and you know everything about him.' 'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella. 'Oh, blast. . . Senor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?' 'Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps.' 'What? You think so?' 'How should I know?' 'What do you want me to do? Close the place? As far as I can see it doesn't make any money as it is! Why hasn't anyone told the Watch?' 'That would be worse,' said Salzella. 'Big trolls in rusty chain mail tramping everywhere, getting in everyone's way and asking stupid questions. They'd close us down.' Bucket swallowed. 'Oh, we can't have that,' he said. 'Can't have them. . . putting everyone on edge.' Salzella sat back. He seemed to relax a little. 'On edge? Mr Bucket,' he said, 'this is opera. Everyone is always on edge. Have you ever heard of a catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket?' Seldom Bucket did his best. 'Well, I know there's a dreadful bend in the road up by-'

      'A catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn't cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr Bucket, you shouldn't have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry.' Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse. 'Certainly an interestin' way to travel,' she said. 'You do get to see places.' 'Yes,' said Granny. 'Every five miles, it seems to me.' 'Can't think what's got into me.' 'I shouldn't think the horses have managed to get faster'n a walk all morning.' They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travellers on top. The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat's unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he'd leapt heavily into their laps and given them the 'young masser back on de ole plantation' treatment. And he'd treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he'd started to smell. No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes' doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets. He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn't working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill. The snores reverberated around the coach. 'Wouldn't like to come between him and his pudding,' said Nanny Ogg. Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity. 'Gytha?' 'Yes, Esme?' 'Mind if I ask you a question?' 'You don't normally ask if I mind,' said Nanny. 'Doesn't it ever get you down, the way people don't think properly?' Oh-oh, thought Nanny. I reckon I got her out just in time. Thank goodness for literature. 'How d'you mean?' she said. 'I means the way they distracts themselves.' 'Can't say I ever really thought about it, Esme.' 'Like. . .s'pose I was to say to you, Gytha Ogg, your house is on fire, what's the first thing you'd try to take out?' Nanny bit her lip. 'This is one of them personality questions, ain't it?' she said. 'That's right.' 'Like, you try to guess what I'm like by what I say. . .' 'Gytha Ogg, I've known you all my life, I knows what you're like. I don't need to guess. But answer me, all the same.' 'I reckon I'd take Greebo.' Granny nodded. ' 'Cos that shows I've got a warm and considerate nature,' Nanny went on. 'No, it shows you're the kind of person who tries to work out what the right answer's supposed to be,' said Granny. 'Untrustworthy. That was a witch's answer if ever I heard one. Devious.'

      Nanny looked proud. The snores changed to a blurt-blurt noise and the handkerchief quivered. '. . .treacle pudding, with lots of custard. . .' 'Hey, he just said something,' said Nanny. 'He talks in his sleep,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'He's been doing it on and off.' 'I never heard him!' 'You were out of the coach.' 'Oh.' 'At the last stop he was going on about pancakes with lemon,' said Granny. 'And mashed potatoes with butter.' 'Makes me feel hungry just listening to that,' said Nanny. 'I've got a pork pie in the bag somewhere-' The snoring stopped abruptly. A hand came up and moved the handkerchief aside. The face beyond was friendly, bearded and small. It gave the witches a shy smile which turned inexorably towards the pork pie. 'Want a slice, mister?' said Nanny. 'I've got some mustard here, too.' 'Oo, would you, dear lady?' said the man, in a squeaky voice. 'Don't know when I last had a pork pie-oh, dear. . .' He grimaced as if he'd just said something wrong, and then relaxed. 'Got a bottle of beer if you want a drop, too,' said Nanny. She was one of those women who enjoy seeing people eat almost as much as eating itself. 'Beer?' said the man. 'Beer? You know, they don't let me drink beer. Hah, it's supposed to be the wrong ambience. I'd give anything for a pint of beer-' 'Just a “thank you” would do,' said Nanny, passing it over. 'Who's this “they” to whom you refers?' said Granny. ' 'S my fault really,' said the man, through a faint spray of pork crumbs. 'Got caught up, I suppose. . .' There was a change in the sounds from outside. The lights of a town were going past and the coach was slowing down. The man forced the last of the pie into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of the beer. 'Oo, lovely,' he said. Then he leaned back and put the handkerchief over his face. He raised a corner. 'Don't tell anyone I spoke to you,' he said, 'but you've made a friend of Henry Slugg.' 'And what do you do, Henry Slugg?' said Granny, carefully. 'I'm. . . I'm on the stage.' 'Yes. We can see,' said Nanny Ogg. 'No, I meant-' The coach stopped. Gravel crunched as people climbed down. The door was pulled open. Granny saw a crowd of people peering excitedly through the doorway, and reached up automatically to straighten her hat. But several hands reached out for Henry Slugg, who sat up, smiled nervously, and let himself be helped out. Several people also shouted out a name, but it wasn't the name of Henry Slugg. 'Who's Enrico Basilica?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Don't know,' said Granny. 'Maybe he's the person Mr Slugg's afraid of.' The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies travelling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadn't. Mr Bucket looked pained. 'I may just be a big man in cheese to you,' he said, 'you may think I'm just some hard-headed businessman who wouldn't know culture if he found

      it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of the opera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole of-' 'I am sure you've seen a lot of opera,' said Salzella. 'But. . . how much do you know about production?' 'I've been behind the scenes in lots of theatres-' 'Oh, theatre,' said Salzella. 'Theatre doesn't even approach it. Opera isn't theatre with singing and dancing. Opera's opera. You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but it's a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won't talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and that's only the start of it, because what is really-' There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard. 'Come in, Walter,' said Salzella. Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. 'Come to fill your coalscuttle Mr Bucket!' Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. 'You were saying?' Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time. 'Salzella?' 'What? Oh. I'm sorry. . . what was I saying?' 'Something about it being only the start?' 'What? Oh. Yes. Yes. . . you see, it's fine for actors. There's plenty of parts for old men. Acting's something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing. . . Time creeps up behind you, all the. . .' He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for 'Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you'll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone's on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That's why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so's green. And real jewellery worn on stage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling on stage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting on stage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don't ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that's worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.' Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully. 'Good grief,' said Bucket; at last. 'I thought it was tough in cheese.' He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. 'I paid thirty thousand for this place,' he said. 'It's in the centre of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!' 'They'd have probably accepted twenty-five.' 'And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?' 'The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes.' 'How does he get in?' 'No one knows. We've searched and searched for secret entrances. . .' 'He really doesn't pay?' No. 'It's worth fifty dollars a night!' 'There will be trouble if you sell it,' said Salzella.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      'Good grief, Salzella, you're an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?' 'I told you: the show must go on.' 'Why? We never said “the cheese must go on”! What's so special about the show going on?' Salzella smiled. 'As far as I understand it,' he said, 'the. . . power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that's gone into it, call it what you will. . . it leaks out and spills everywhere. That's why they burble about “the show must go on”. It must go on. But most of the company wouldn't even understand why anyone should ask the question.' Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House's financial records. 'They certainly don't understand book-keeping! Who does the accounts?' 'All of us, really,' said Salzella. 'All of you?' 'Money gets put in, money gets taken out. . .' said Salzella vaguely. 'Is it important?' Bucket's jaw dropped. 'Is it important?' 'Because,' Salzella went on, smoothly, 'opera doesn't make money. Opera never makes money.' 'Good grief, man! Important? What'd I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I'd like to know, if I'd said that money wasn't important?' Salzella smiled humourlessly. 'There are people out on the stage right now, sir,' he said, 'who'd say that you would probably have made better cheeses.' He sighed, and leaned over the desk. 'You see,' he said, 'cheese does make money. And opera doesn't. Opera's what you spend money on.' 'But. . . what do you get out of it?' 'You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,' said Salzella wearily. 'There's no profit?' 'Profit. . . profit,' murmured the director of music, Scratching his forehead. 'No, I don't believe I've come across the word.' 'Then how do we manage?' 'We seem to rub along.' Bucket put his head in his hands. 'I mean,' he muttered, half to himself, 'I knew the place wasn't making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I'm told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don't even make any money!' Salzella beamed. 'Ah, opera,' he said. Greebo stalked over the inn's rooftops. Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal's mind off where the walls actually are. But Greebo travelled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirt box. He dropped heavily on to an outhouse roof and padded towards a small open window. Greebo also had a cat's approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people. From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped on to the pantry shelf.

      Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got discovered. . . There was cream. He settled down. He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened. Greebo's ears flattened. His one good eye sought desperately for an escape route. The window was too high, the person opening the door was wearing a long dress that militated against the old 'through the legs' routine and. . . and. . . and. . . there was no escape. . . His claws scrabbled on the floor. . . Oh no. . . here it came. . . Something flipped in his body's morphogenic field. Here was a problem a cat shape couldn't deal with. Oh, well, we know another one. . . Crockery crashed around him. Shelves erupted as his head rose. A bag of flour exploded outwards to make room for his broadening shoulders. The cook stared up at him. Then she looked down. And then up. And then, her gaze dragged as though it were on a winch, down again. She screamed. Greebo screamed. He grabbed desperately at a bowl to cover that part which, as a cat, he never had to worry about exposing. He screamed again, this time because he'd just poured lukewarm pork dripping all over himself. His groping fingers found a large copper jelly mould. Clasping it to his groinal areas, he barrelled forward and fled out of the pantry and out of the kitchen and out of the dining-room and out of the inn and into the night. The spy, who was dining with the travelling salesman, put down his knife. 'That's something you don't often see,' he said. 'What?' said the salesman, who'd had his back to the excitement. 'One of those old copper jelly-moulds. They're worth quite a lot now. My aunt had a very good one.' The hysterical cook was given a big drink and several members of staff went out into the darkness to investigate. All they found was a jelly-mould, lying forlornly in the yard. At home Granny Weatherwax slept with open windows and an unlocked door, secure in the knowledge that the Ramtops' various creatures of the night would rather eat their own ears than break in. In dangerously civilized lands, however, she took a different view. 'I really don't think we need to shove the bed in front of the door, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg, heaving on her end. 'You can't be too careful,' said Granny. 'Supposing some man started rattlin' the knob in the middle of the night?' 'Not at our time of life,' said Nanny sadly. 'Gytha Ogg, you are the most-' Granny was interrupted by a watery sound. It came from behind the wall and went on for some time. It stopped, and then started again-a steady splashing that gradually became a trickle. Nanny started to grin. 'Someone fillin' a bath?' said Granny. '. . .or I suppose it could be someone fillin' a bath,' Nanny conceded. There was the sound of a third jug being emptied. Footsteps left the room. A few seconds later a door opened and there was a rather heavier tread, followed after a brief interval by a few splashes and a grunt. 'Yes, a man gettin' into a bath,' said Granny. 'What're you doin', Gytha?' 'Seem' if there's a knothole in this wood somewhere,' said Nanny. 'Ah, here's one-'

      'Come back here!' 'Sorry, Esme.' And then the singing started. It was a very pleasant tenor voice, given added timbre by the bath itself. 'Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed-' 'Someone's enjoyin' themselves, anyway,' said Nanny. '-wherever I may roam-' There was a knock at the distant bathroom door, upon which the singer slipped smoothly into another language: '- per via di terra, mare o schiuma-' The witches looked at one another. A muffled voice said, 'I've brought you your hot water bottle, sir.' 'Thank you verr' mucha,' said the bather, his voice dripping with accent. Footsteps went away in the distance. '-Indicame la strada. . . to go home.' Splash, Splash. 'Good eeeeevening, frieeeends. . .' 'Well, well, well,' said Granny, more or less to herself. 'It seems once again that our Mr Slugg is a secret polyglot.' 'Fancy! And you haven't even looked through the knothole,' said Nanny. 'Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can't make sound grubby?' 'Not found it yet, Esme,' said Nanny brightly. 'I meant that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign.' 'That's probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,' Nanny said. 'Oh, I reckon Mr Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,' said Granny. 'In fact, I reckon that they're one and-' There was a gentle knock at the door. 'Who's there?' Granny demanded. 'It's me, ma'am. Mr Slot. This is my tavern.' The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction. 'Yes?' she said suspiciously. 'Er. . . the coachman said you were. . . witches?' 'Yes?' 'Maybe you could. . . help us?' 'What's wrong?' 'It's my boy. . .' Granny opened the door further and saw the woman standing behind Mr Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms. Granny stepped back. 'Bring him in and let me have a look at him.' She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room's one chair, and pulled back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder. 'Hmm,' said Granny, after awhile. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. 'There's a curse on this house, that's what it is,' said Slot. 'My best cow's been taken mortally sick, too.' 'Oh? You have a cowshed?' said Granny. 'Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It's the warmth. You better show me where it is.' 'You want to take the boy down there?' 'Right now.' The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. 'Well, I'm sure you know your business best,' he said. 'It's this way.' He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the foetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as-they entered, and tried to moo. Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment.

      Then she said, 'This will do.' 'What do you need?' said Slot. 'Just peace and quiet.' The man scratched his head. 'I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,' he said. 'Sometimes.' 'I mean, I know where there's a toad. . .' 'All I shall require is a candle,' said Granny. 'A new one, for preference.' 'That's all?' 'Yes.' Mr Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn't want a toad. 'And some matches,' said Granny, noting this. 'A pack of cards might be useful, too.' 'And I'll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,' said Nanny Ogg. The man nodded. This didn't sound too toad-like, but it was better than nothing. 'What'd you ask for that for?' hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. 'Can't imagine what good those'd do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner.' 'Well, I'm always prepared to go that extra meal. You won't want me around and I'll get bored,' said Nanny. 'Did I say I didn't want you around?' 'Well. . . even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I'm any judge. That's bad, too. So I reckon you're planning some. . . direct action.' Granny shrugged. 'Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,' said Nanny. 'But you just mind what you're doing, Esme Weatherwax.' The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray. 'Mrs Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,' said Granny haughtily. 'You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what.' The mother gave a worried curtsey. 'But I thought I might look in about midn-' 'No one. Now, off you go.' When they'd been gently but firmly ushered out, Nanny Ogg stuck her head around the door. 'What exactly are you planning, Esme?' 'You've sat up with the dyin' often enough, Gytha.' 'Oh, yes, it's. . .' Nanny's face fell. 'Oh, Esme. . . you're not going to. . .' 'Enjoy your supper, Gytha.' Granny closed the door. She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check. In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper's keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs. She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow.

      On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she'd never been able to master. The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame. After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn't been concentrating on it for some while. She took a deep breath and- 'Good morning,' said Granny Weatherwax. GOOD MORNING, said a voice by her ear. Nanny Ogg had long ago polished off the chops and the beer, but she hadn't got into bed. She lay on it, fully clothed, with her arms behind her head, staring at the dark ceiling. After a while there was a scratching on the shutters. She got up and opened them. A huge figure leapt into the room. For a moment the moonlight lit a glistening torso and a mane of black hair. Then the creature dived under the bed. 'Oh, deary deary me,' said Nanny. She waited for a while, and then fished a chop bone off her tray. There was still a bit of meat on it. She lowered it towards the floor. A hand shot out and grabbed it. Nanny sat back. 'Poor little man,' she said. It was only on the subject of Greebo that Nanny's otherwise keen sense of reality found itself all twisted. To Nanny Ogg he was merely a larger version of the little fluffy kitten he had once been. To everyone else he was a scarred ball of inventive malignancy. But now he had to deal with a problem seldom encountered by cats. The witches had, a year ago, turned him into a human, for reasons that had seemed quite necessary at the time. It had taken a lot of effort, and his morphogenic field had reasserted itself after a few hours, much to everyone's relief. But magic is never as simple as people think. It has to obey certain universal laws. And one is that, no matter how hard a thing is to do, once it has been done it'll become a whole lot easier and will therefore be done a lot. A huge mountain might be scaled by strong men only after many centuries of failed attempts, but a few decades later grandmothers will be strolling up it for tea 'and then wandering back afterwards to see where they left their glasses. In accordance with this law, Greebo's soul had noted that there was one extra option for use in a tight corner (in addition to the usual cat assortment of run, fight, crap or all three together) and that was: Become Human. It tended to wear off after a short time, most of which he spent searching desperately for a pair of pants. There were snores from under the bed. Gradually, to Nanny's relief, they turned into a purr. Then she sat bolt upright. She was some way from the cowshed but. . . 'He's here,' she said. Granny breathed out, slowly. 'Come and sit where I can see you. That's good manners. And let me tell you right now that I ain't at all afraid of you.' The tall, black-robed figure walked across the floor and sat down on a handy barrel, leaning its scythe against the wall. Then it pushed back

      its hood. Granny folded her arms and stared calmly at the visitor, meeting his gaze eye-to-socket. I AM IMPRESSED. 'I have faith.' REALLY? IN WHAT PARTICULAR DEITY? 'Oh, none of them.' THEN FAITH IN WHAT? 'Just faith, you know. In general.' Death leaned forward. The candlelight raised new shadows on his skull. COURAGE IS EASY BY CANDLELIGHT. YOUR FAITH, I SUSPECT, IS IN THE FLAME. Death grinned. Granny leaned forward, and blew out the candle. Then she folded her arms again and stared fiercely ahead of her. After some length of time a voice said, ALL RIGHT, YOU'VE MADE YOUR POINT. Granny lit a match. Its flare illuminated the skull opposite, which hadn't moved. 'Fair enough,' she said, as she relit the candle. 'We don't want to be sitting here all night, do we? How many have you come for?' ONE. 'The cow?' Death shook his head. 'It could be the cow.' NO. THAT WOULD BE CHANGING HISTORY. 'History is about things changing.' NO. Granny sat back. 'Then I challenge you to a game. That's traditional. That's allowed.' Death was silent for a moment. THIS IS TRUE. 'Good.' CHALLENGING ME BY MEANS OF A GAME IS ALLOWABLE. 'Yes.' HOWEVER. . . YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO WIN ALL YOU MUST GAMBLE ALL? 'Double or quits? Yes, I know.' BUT NOT CHESS. 'Can't abide chess.' OR CRIPPLE MR ONION. I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE RULES. 'Very well. How about one hand of poker? Five cards each, no draws? Sudden death, as they say.' Death thought about this, too. YOU KNOW THIS FAMILY? No. THEN WHY? 'Are we talking or are we playing?' OH, VERY WELL. Granny picked up the pack of cards and shuffled it, not looking at her hands, and smiling at Death all the time. She dealt five cards each, and reached down. . . A bony hand grasped hers. BUT FIRST MISTRESS WEATHERWAX - WE WILL EXCHANGE CARDS. He picked up the two piles and transposed them, and then nodded at Granny. MADAM? 14.0pt;mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Granny looked at her cards, and threw them down. FOUR QUEENS. HMM. THAT IS VERY HIGH.

      Death looked down at his cards, and then up into Granny's steady, blue- eyed gaze. Neither moved for some time. Then Death laid the hand on the table. I LOSE, he said. ALL I HAVE IS FOUR ONES. He looked back into Granny's eyes for a moment. There was a blue glow in the depth of his eye sockets. Maybe, for the merest fraction of a second, barely noticeable even to the closest observation, one winked off. Granny nodded, and extended a hand. She prided herself on the ability to judge people by their gaze and their handshake, which in this case was a rather chilly one. 'Take the cow,' she said. IT IS A VALUABLE CREATURE. 'Who knows what the child will become?' Death stood up, and reached for his scythe. He said, OW. 'Ah, yes. I couldn't help noticing,' said Granny Weatherwax, as the tension drained out of the atmosphere, 'that you seem to be sparing that arm.' OH, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. REPETITIVE ACTIONS AND SO ON. . . 'It could get serious if you left it.' HOW SERIOUS? 'Want me to have a look?' WOULD YOU MIND? IT CERTAINLY ACHES ON COLD NIGHTS. Granny stood up and reached out, but her hands went straight through. 'Look, you're going to have to make yourself a bit more solid if I'm to do anything-' POSSIBLY A BOTTLE OF SUCKROSE AND AKWA? 'Sugar and water? I expect you know that's only for the hard of thinking. Come on, roll up that sleeve. Don't be a big baby. What's the worst I can do to you? Granny's hands touched smooth bone. She'd felt worse. At least these had never had flesh on them. She felt, thought, gripped, twisted. . . There was a click. OW. 'Now try it above the shoulder.' ER. HMM. YES. IT DOES SEEM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE. YES, INDEED. MY WORD, YES. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. 'If it gives you trouble again, you know where I live.' THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. 'You know where everyone lives. Tuesday mornings is a good time. I'm generally in.' I SHALL REMEMBER. THANK YOU. 'By appointment, in your case. No offence meant. .' THANK YOU. Death walked away. A moment later there was a faint gasp from the cow. That and a slight sagging of the skin were all that apparently marked the transition from living animal to cooling meat. Granny picked up the baby and laid a hand on its forehead. 'Fever's gone,' she said. MISTRESS WEATHERWAX? said Death from the doorway. 'Yes, Sir?' I HAVE TO KNOW. WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD NOT. . . LOST? 'At the cards, you mean?' YES. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE? Granny laid the baby down carefully on the straw, and smiled. 'Well,' she said, 'for a start. . . I'd have broken your bloody arm.'

      Agnes stayed up late, simply because of the novelty. Most people in Lancre, as the saying goes, went to bed with the chickens and got up with the cows.[4] But she watched the evening's performance, and watched the set being struck afterwards, and watched the actors leave or, in the case of younger chorus members, head off for their lodgings in odd corners of the building. And then there was no one else, except Walter Plinge and his mother sweeping up. She headed for the staircase. There didn't seem to be a candle anywhere back here, but the few left burning in the auditorium were just enough to give the darkness a few shades. The stairs went up the wall at the rear of the stage, with nothing but a rickety handrail between them and the drop. Besides leading to the attics and storeroom on the upper floors, they were also one route to the fly loft and the other secret platforms where men in flat hats and grey overalls worked the magic of the theatre, usually by means of pulleys- There was a figure on one of the gantries over the stage. Agnes saw it only because it moved slightly. It was kneeling down, looking at something. In the darkness. She stepped back. The stair creaked. The figure jerked around. A square of yellow light opened in the darkness, its beam pinning her against the brickwork. 'Who's there?' she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes. 'Who's that?' said a voice. And then, after a moment, 'Oh. It's. . . Perdita, isn't it?' The square of light swung towards her as the figure made its way over the stage. 'André?' she said. She felt inclined to back away, if only the brickwork would let her. And suddenly he was on the stairs, quite an ordinary person, no shadow at all, holding a very large lantern. 'What are you doing here?' said the organist. 'I. . . was just going to bed.' 'Oh, Yes.' He relaxed a little. 'Some of you girls have got rooms here. The management thought it was safer than having you going home alone late at night.' 'What are you doing up here?' said Agnes, suddenly aware that there was just the two of them. 'I was. . . looking at the place where the Ghost tried to strangle Mr Cripps,' said André. ,Why?. 'I wanted to make certain everything was safe now, of course.' 'Didn't the stage-hands do that?' 'Oh, you know them. I just thought I'd better make certain.' Agnes looked down at the lantern. 'I've never seen one like that before. How did you make it light up so quickly?' 'Er. It's a dark lantern. There's this flap, you see,' he demonstrated, 'so you can shut it right down and open it up again. . .' 'That must be very useful when you're looking for the black notes.' 'Don't be sarcastic. I just don't want there to be any more trouble. You'll find that you start looking around when-' 'Goodnight, André.' 'Goodnight, then.' She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her.

      When she'd calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head. She stared at the dark ceiling. 'That's stupid,' she thought, eventually. 'He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast. . .' She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door. 'Perdita!?' Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper. Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half-fell into the room. 'What's the matter?' 'I'm frightened!!' 'What of?' 'The mirror!! It's talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!' Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it. 'The mirror's talking?' 'Yes!!' 'Are you sure?' Christine dived into Agnes's bed and pulled the covers over her. 'Yes!!' she said, indistinctly. Agnes stood alone in the darkness. People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, 'Nonsense, mirrors don't talk', would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes. She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness. There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox. A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow. She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her. Oh well. . . one bed was as good as another. . . She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:. . . ting. It was a tuning fork. And a voice said: 'Christine. . . please attend.' She sat upright, staring at the darkness. And then realization dawned. No men, they'd said. They'd been very strict about that, as if opera were some kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes's case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine. . . They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities. Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that? Agnes's life unrolled in front of her. It didn't look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange. She felt the same feeling she'd felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do. It doesn't matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go.

      She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords. 'Yes?! Who's there?!' 'A friend.' Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. 'In the middle of the night?!' 'Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.' It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. 'Help me to do what?!' 'Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?' 'Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!' There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: 'But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.' Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam. 'Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly. . .' Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well-dressed, thin little man. 'Well, here we are again, then,' said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously. 'That was some good singing last night,' Nanny went on. Henry's face set in a good-natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag. 'I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn't speak Morporkian, ma'am,' said the thin man. 'But I will translate for you, if you like.' 'What?' said Nanny. 'Then how come- Ow!' 'Sorry,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'My elbow must have slipped.' Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. 'I was saying,' she said, 'that he was- Ow!' 'Dear me, I seem to have done it again,' said Granny. 'This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn't speak our language, Gytha.' 'Eh? But-What? Oh. But- Ah. Really? Oh. All right,' said Nanny. 'Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when- Ow!' 'Excuse my friend, it's her time of life. She gets confused,' said Granny. 'We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.' 'You were very fortunate,' said the thin man primly. 'Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica-' '-probably waiting for him to finish his dinner-' a voice muttered. '-in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.' '-hah, I can do that, I don't see there's anything special about that-' Granny's eyes hadn't left Henry 'Senor Basilica' Slugg's face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn't last very long. 'Senor Basilica's fame has spread far and wide,' said the manager primly. '-just like Senior Basilica,' muttered Nanny. 'On other people's pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he's the only man you could find on an atlas-Ow!' 'Well, well,' said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. 'It's nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?' 'I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma'am.' 'Yes, indeed.' Granny nodded.

      'We have some good singers where we come from too,' said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously. 'Really?' said the manager. 'And where do you ladies come from?' 'Lancre.' The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. 'Do you have a conservatory there?' 'Yes, indeed,' said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, 'You should see the size of my tomatoes.' Granny rolled her eyes. 'Gytha, you haven't got a conservatory. It's just a big windowsill.' 'Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day - Ow. . .' 'I expect Senor Basilica is going to Ankh-Morpork?' said Granny. 'We,' said the manager, primly, 'have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season-' His voice faltered. He'd looked up at the luggage rack. 'What's that?' Granny glanced up. 'Oh, that's Greebo,' she said. 'And Mister Basilica's not to eat him,' said Nanny. 'What is it?' 'He's a cat.' 'It's grinning at me.' The manager shifted uneasily. 'And I can smell something,' he said. ' 'S funny,' said Nanny. 'I can't smell a thing.' There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed. 'Ah,' said the manager awkwardly, 'I. . . er. . .I see we're stopping to change horses. It's a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there's room on the seats outside.' He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn't come back. 'Well, well,' said Granny, as they lurched away again, 'it seems there's just you and me, Gytha. And Senor Basilica, who doesn't speak our language. Does he, Mr Henry Slugg?' Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. 'Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity's sake. . .' 'Have you done anything bad, Mr Slugg?' said Nanny. 'Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn't miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?' 'No.!' 'He tellin' the truth, Esme?' Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax's stare. 'Yes.' 'Oh, well, that's all right, then,' said Nanny. 'I understand. I don't have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin' to.' 'Oh, it's not that, I assure you,' said Henry. 'I have people to pay my taxes for me. . .' 'That's a good trick,' said Nanny. 'Mr Slugg's got a different trick,' said Granny. 'I reckon I know the trick. It's like sugar and water.' Henry waved his hands uncertainly. 'It's just that if they knew. . .' he began. 'Everything's better if it comes from a long way away. That's the secret,' said Granny. 'It's. . . yes, that's part of it,' said Henry. 'I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.' 'Where're you from, Henry?' said Nanny. 'Really from,' said Granny.

      'I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They're in Ankh-Morpork,' said Henry. 'It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.' 'What was the third way?' said Nanny. 'Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,' said Henry. 'But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way.' He sighed. 'I made a few coppers singing in taverns and suchlike,' he said, 'but when I tried for anything better they said “What is your name?” and I said “Henry Slugg” and they'd laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew who I was. And no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg.' Nanny nodded. 'It's like with conjurers,' she said. 'They're never called Fred Wossname. It's always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys.' 'And everyone takes notice,' said Granny, 'and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he's come from the King of Klatch, why's he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven.' 'The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,' said Henry. 'And then I was famous, but. . .' 'You'd got stuck as Enrico,' said Granny. He nodded. 'I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline-' 'Who was she?' said Granny. 'Oh, a girl I grew up with,' said Henry, vaguely. 'Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?' said Nanny, in an understanding voice. 'Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,' said Henry. 'We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels.' He sighed. 'But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi. . . and. . . and. . .' He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket. 'I don't mind the pasta and the squid,' he said. 'Well, not much. . . But you can't get a .decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn't what I'd call a good hard cheese in the whole country.' He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief. 'And people are so kind,' he said. 'I thought I'd get a few beefsteaks when I travelled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid. . .' He shuddered. 'Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings. . .' 'Why don't you say?' said Nanny. He shrugged. 'Enrico Basilica eats pasta,' he said. 'There's not much I can do about it now.' He sat back. 'You're interested in music, Mrs Ogg?' Nanny nodded proudly. 'I can get a tune out of just about anything if you give me five minutes to study it,' she said. 'And our Jason can play the violin and our Kev can blow the trombone and all my kids can sing and our Shawn can fart any melody you care to name. 'A very talented family, indeed,' said Enrico. He fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and took out two oblongs of cardboard. 'So please, ladies, accept these as a small token of gratitude from someone who eats other people's pies. Our little secret, eh?' He winked desperately at Nanny. 'They're open tickets for the opera.'

      'Well, that's amazin',' said Nanny, 'because we're going to-Ow!' 'Why, thank you very much,' said Granny Weatherwax, taking the tickets. 'How very gracious of you. We shall be sure to go.' 'And if you'll excuse me,' said Enrico, 'I must catch up on my sleep.' 'Don't worry, I shouldn't think it's had time to get far away,' said Nanny. The singer leaned back, pulled the handkerchief over his face and, after a few minutes, began to snore the happy snore of someone who had done his duty and now with any luck wouldn't have to meet these rather disconcerting old women ever again. 'He's well away,' said Nanny, after a while. She glanced at the tickets in Granny's hand. 'You want to visit the opera?' she said. Granny stared into space. 'I said, do you want to visit the opera?' Granny looked at the tickets. 'What I want don't signify, I suspect;' she said. Nanny Ogg nodded. Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought. And because the theatre was fiction made flesh, she hated the theatre most of all. But that was it-hate was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned. She didn't loathe the theatre, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the travelling theatre that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like ' 'Tain't so!' and 'Is that any way to behave?' As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig. But what she wanted wasn't important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circumferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks. . . . . .and stages. Breakfast was served in the Opera House's refectory at half-past nine. Actors were not known for their habit of early rising. Agnes started to fall forward into her eggs and bacon, and stopped herself just in time. 'Good morning!!' Christine sat down with a tray on which was, Agnes was not surprised to see, a plate holding one stick of celery, one raisin and about a spoonful of milk. She leaned towards Agnes and her face very briefly expressed some concern. 'Are you all right?! You look a little peaky!!' Agnes caught herself in mid-snore. 'I'm fine,' she said. 'Just a bit tired. . .' 'Oh, good!!' This exchange having exhausted her higher mental processes,. Christine went back to operating on automatic. 'Do you like my new dress?!' she exclaimed. 'Isn't it fetching?!' Agnes looked at it. 'Yes,' she said. 'Very. . . white. Very lacy. Very figure-hugging.' 'And do you know what?!' 'No. What?' 'I already have a secret admirer!! Isn't that thrilling?! All the great singers have them, you know!!' 'A secret admirer. . .' 'Yes!! This dress!! It arrived at the stage door just now!! Isn't that exciting?!'

      'Amazing,' said Agnes, glumly. 'And it's not as if you've even sung. Er. Who's it from?' 'He didn't say, of course!! It has to be a secret admirer!! He'll probably want to send me flowers and drink champagne out of my shoe!!' 'Really?' Agnes made a face. 'Do people do that?' 'It's traditional!!' Christine, boiling over with cheerfulness, had some to share. . . 'You do look very tired!' she said. Her hand went to her mouth. 'Oh!! We swapped rooms, didn't we!! I was so silly!! And, d'you know,' she added with that look of half-empty cunning that was the nearest she came to guile, 'I could have sworn I heard singing in the night. . . someone trying scales and things?!' Agnes had been brought up to tell the truth. She knew she should say: 'I'm sorry, I appear to have got your life by mistake. There seems to have been a bit of a confusion. . .' But, she decided, she'd also been brought up to do what she was told, not to put herself first, to be respectful to her elders and to use no swearword stronger than 'poot'. She could borrow a more interesting future. Just for a night or two. She could give it up any time she liked. 'You know, that's funny,' she said, 'because I'm right next door to you and I didn't.' 'Oh?! Well, that's all right, then!!' Agnes stared at the tiny meal on Christine's tray. 'Is that all you're having for breakfast?' 'Oh, yes! I can just blow up like a balloon, dear!! It's lucky for you, you can eat anything!! Don't forget it's practice in half an hour!' And she skipped off. She's got a head full of air, Agnes thought. I'm sure she doesn't mean to say anything hurtful. But, deep inside her, Perdita X Dream thought a rude word. Mrs Plinge took her broom out of the cleaning cupboard, and turned. 'Walter!' Her voice echoed around the empty stage. 'Walter?' She tapped the broom-handle warily. Walter had a routine. It had taken her years to train him into it. It wasn't like him not to be in the right place at the right time. She shook her head, and started work. She could see it'd be a mop job later. It would probably be ages before they got rid of the smell of turpentine. Someone came walking across the stage. They were whistling. Mrs Plinge was shocked. 'Mr Pounder!' The Opera House's professional rat catcher stopped, and lowered his struggling sack. Mr Pounder wore an old opera hat to show that he was a cut above your normal rodent operative, and its brim was thick with wax and the old candle ends he used to light his way through the darker cellars. He'd worked among the rats so long that there was something rat-like about him now. His face seemed to be merely a rearward extension of his nose. His moustache was bristly. His front teeth were prominent. People found themselves looking for his tail. 'What's that, Mrs Plinge?' 'You know you mustn't whistle on stage! That's terrible bad luck!' 'Ah, well, it's 'cos of good luck, Mrs Plinge. Oh, yes! If you did know what I d'know, you'd be a happy man, too. O' course, in your case you'd

      be a happy woman, on account of you being a woman. Ah! Some of the things I've seen, Mrs Plinge!' 'Found gold down there, Mr Pounder?' Mrs Plinge knelt down carefully to scrape away a spot of paint. Mr Pounder picked up his sack and continued on his way. 'Could be gold, Mrs Plinge. Ah. Could very well be gold-' It took a moment for Mrs Plinge to coax her arthritic knees into letting her stand up and shuffle around. 'Pardon, Mr Pounder?' she said. Somewhere in the distance, there was a soft thump as a bundle of sandbags landed gently on the boards. The stage was big and bare and empty, except for a sack which was scuttling determinedly for freedom. Mrs Plinge looked both ways very carefully. 'Mr Pounder? Are you there?' It suddenly seemed to her that the stage was even bigger and even more distinctly empty than before. 'Mr Pounder? Cooo-eee?' She craned around. 'Hello? Mr Pounder?' Something floated down from above and landed beside her. It was a grubby black hat, with candle ends around the brim. She looked up. 'Mr Pounder?' she said. Mr Pounder was used to darkness. It held no fears for him. And he'd always prided himself on his night vision. If there was any light at all, any speck, any glimmer of phosphorescent rot, he could make use of it. His candled hat was as much for show as anything else. His candled hat. . . he'd thought I He'd lost it but, it was strange, here it was, still on his head. Yes, indeed. He rubbed his throat thoughtfully. There was something important he couldn't quite remember. . . It was very dark. SQUEAK? He looked up. Standing in the air, at eye-level, was a robed figure about six inches high. A bony nose, with bent grey whiskers, protruded from the hood. Tiny skeletal fingers gripped a very small scythe. Mr Pounder nodded thoughtfully to himself. You didn't rise to membership of the Inner Circle of the Guild of Rat catchers without hearing a few whispered rumours. Rats had their own Death, they said, as well as their own kings, parliaments and nations. No human had ever seen it, though. Up until now. He felt honoured. He'd won the Golden Mallet for most rats caught every year for the past five years, but he respected them, as a soldier. might respect a cunning and valiant enemy. 'Er. . . I'm dead, aren't I. . . ?' SQUEAK. Mr Pounder felt that many eyes were watching him. Many small, shining eyes. 'And. . . what happens now?' SQUEAK. The soul of Mr Pounder looked at his hands. They seemed to be elongating, and getting hairier. He could feel his ears growing, and a certain rather embarrassing elongation happening at the base of his spine. He'd spent most of his life in a single-minded activity in dark places, yet even so. . .

      'But I don't believe in reincarnation!' he protested. SQUEAK. And this, Mr Pounder understood with absolute rodent clarity, meant: reincarnation believes in you. Mr Bucket went through his mail very carefully, and finally breathed out when the pile failed to disgorge another letter with the Opera House crest. He sat back and pulled open his desk drawer for a pen. There was an envelope there. He stared at it, and then slowly picked up his paperknife. Sliiiiit . . . . . .rustle. . . I will be obliged if Christine sings the role of Iodine in 'La Triviata' tonight. The weather continues fine. I trust you are well. Yrs. The Opera Ghost 'Mr Salzella! Mr Salzella!' Bucket pushed back his chair and hurried to the door, opening it just in time to confront a ballerina, who screamed at him. Since his nerves were already strained, he responded by screaming back at her. This seemed to have the effect that usually a wet flannel or a slap was necessary to achieve. She stopped and gave him an affronted look. 'He's struck again, hasn't he!' moaned Bucket. 'He's here! It's the Ghost!' said the girl, determined to get the line out even though it was not required. 'Yes, yes, I think I know,' muttered Bucket. 'I just hope it wasn't anybody expensive.' He stopped halfway along the corridor and then spun around. The girl cringed away from his wavering finger. 'At least stand on tiptoe!' he shouted. 'You probably cost me a dollar just running up here!' There was a crowd in a huddle on the stage. In the centre was that new girl, the fat one, kneeling down and comforting an old woman. Bucket vaguely recognized the latter. She was one of the staff that had come with the Opera House, as much part of the whole thing as the rats or the gargoyles that infested the rooftops. She was holding something in front of her. 'It just fell out of the flies,' she said. 'His poor hat!' Bucket looked up. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out a shape up among the battens, spinning slowly. . . 'Oh, dear,' he said. 'And I thought he'd written such a polite letter. . .' 'Really? Then now read this one,' said Salzella, coming up behind him. 'Must I?' 'It's addressed to you.' Bucket unfolded the piece of paper. Ahahahaha! Yrs. The Opera Ghost PS: Ahahahaha!!!! He gave Salzella an agonized look. 'Who's the poor fellow up there?'

      'Mr Pounder, the rat catcher. Rope dropped around his neck, other end attached to some sandbags. They went down. He went. . . up.' 'I don't understand! Is this man mad?' Salzella put an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the crowd. 'Well, now,' he said, as kindly as he could. 'A man who wears evening dress all the time, lurks in the shadows and occasionally kills people. Then he sends little notes, writing maniacal laughter. Five exclamation marks again, I notice. We have to ask ourselves: is this the career of a sane man?' 'But why is he doing it?' wailed Bucket. 'That is only a relevant question if he is sane,' said Salzella calmly. 'He may be doing it because the little yellow pixies tell him to.' 'Sane? How can he be sane?' said Bucket. 'You were right, you know. The atmosphere in this placed drive anyone crazy. I very well may be the only one here with both feet on the ground!' He turned. His eyes narrowed when he saw a group of, chorus girls whispering nervously. 'You girls! Don't just stand there! Let's see you jump up and down!' he rasped. 'On one leg!' He turned back to Salzella. 'What was I saying?' 'You were saying,' said Salzella, 'that you have both feet on. the ground. Unlike the corps de ballet. And the corpse de Mr Pounder.' 'I think that comment was in rather poor taste,' said Bucket coldly. 'My view,' said the director of music, 'is that we should shut down, get all the able-bodied men together, issue them with torches, go through this place from top to bottom, flush him out, chase him through the city, catch him and beat him to a pulp, and then throw what's left into the river. It's the only way to be sure.' 'You know we can't afford to shut down,' Bucket said. 'We seem to make thousands a week but we seem to spend thousands a week, too. I'm sure I don't know where it goes- I thought running this place was just a matter of getting bums on seats, but every time I look up there's a bum spinning gently in the air- What's he going to do next, I ask myself-' They looked at one another and then, as if pulled by some kind of animal magnetism, their gazes turned and flew out over the auditorium until they found the huge, glittering bulk of the chandelier. 'Oh, no. . .' moaned Bucket. 'He wouldn't, would he? That would shut us down.' Salzella sighed. 'Look, it weighs more than a ton,' he said. 'The supporting rope is thicker than your arm. The winch is padlocked when it's not in use. It's safe.' They looked at one another. 'I'll have a man guard it every minute there's a performance,' said Salzella. 'I'll do it personally, if you like.' 'And he wants Christine to sing Iodine tonight! She's got a voice like a whistle!' Salzella raised his eyebrows. 'That at least is not ,a problem, is it?' he said. 'Isn't it? It's a key role!' Salzella put his arm around the owner's shoulders. 'I think perhaps it is time for you to explore a few more little-known corners of the wonderful world that is opera,' he said. The stagecoach rolled to. a halt in Sator Square, Ankh-Morpork. The coach agent was waiting impatiently. 'You're fifteen hours late, Mr Reever!' he shouted. The coach-driver nodded impassively. He laid the reins down, jumped off the box, and inspected the horses. There was a certain woodenness about his movements.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      Passengers were grabbing their baggage and hurrying away. 'Well?' said the agent. 'We had a picnic,' said the coach-driver. His face was grey. 'You stopped for a picnic?' 'And a bit of a singsong,' said the driver, pulling the horses' feedbags from under the seat. 'You are telling me that you stopped the mail coach for a picnic and a singsong?' 'Oh, and the cat got stuck up a tree.' He sucked his hand, and the agent noticed that a handkerchief was tied around it. A hazy look of recollection clouded the driver's eyes. 'And then there were the stories,' he said. 'What stories?' 'The little fat one said everyone had to tell a story to help pass the time.' 'Yes? Well? I don't see how that could slow you down!' 'You should've heard her story. The one about the very tall man and the piano? I was so embarrassed I fell off the coach. I wouldn't use words like that even to my own dear grandmother!' 'And of course,' said the agent, who prided himself on his ironic approach, 'the word timetable never crossed your mind while all this was going on?' The driver turned to look directly at him for the first time. The agent took a step back. Here was a man who had hang-glided over Hell. 'You tell them,' said the driver, and walked away. The agent stared after him, and then walked around to the door. A small man with a hunted look climbed out, dragging a huge fat man behind him and gabbling urgently in a language the agent didn't understand. And then the agent was left alone with a coach and horses and an expanding circle of hurrying passengers. He opened the door and peered inside. 'Good morning, mister,' said Nanny Ogg. He looked, in some puzzlement, from her to Granny Weatherwax. 'Is everything all right, ladies?' 'Very nice journey,' said Nanny Ogg, taking his arm. 'We shall def'nitly patronize you another time.' 'The driver seemed to think there was a problem. . ., 'Problem?' said Granny. 'I didn't notice any problems. Did you, Gytha?' 'He could've been a bit quicker fetching the ladder,' said Nanny, climbing down. 'And I'm sure he muttered something under his breath that time we stopped to admire the view. But I'm prepared to be gracious about it.' 'You stopped to admire the view?' said the agent. 'When?' 'Oh, several times,' said Nanny. 'No sense in rushing around the whole time, is there? More haste less speed, ekcetra. Could you point us in the direction of Elm Street? Only we've lodgings at Mrs Palm's. Our Nev speaks highly of the place, he says no one ever looked for him there. . .' The agent stepped back, as people generally did in the face of Nanny's pump-action chatter. 'Elm Street?' he stuttered. 'But. . . respectable ladies shouldn't go there. . .' Nanny patted him on the shoulder. 'That's good,' she said. 'That way we won't run into anyone we know.' As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach.

      Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face. 'Ah, Perdita,' he said. 'Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?' 'Yes, thank you, Mr Bucket,' said Agnes dutifully. 'Good. That's good. Isn't that good, Mr Salzella? Don't you think that's good, Dr Undershaft?' Agnes looked at the three worried faces. 'We're all very pleased,' said Mr Bucket. 'And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I'm sure will help you to enjoy it even more.' Agnes watched the assembled faces. 'Yes?' she said guardedly. 'I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er'- Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support-'let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight's production of La Triviata.' 'Yes?' 'Um. It isn't the major role but of course it does include the famous “Departure” aria. . .' 'Oh. Yes?' 'Er. . . there is, er. . . that is, er. . .' Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. 'Mr Salzella?' Salzella leaned forward. 'What in fact we would like you to do. . . Perdita. . . is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact. . . play the role.' Agnes listened while they explained. She'd stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained. It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized-when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom-handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string. It wasn't immoral. The show had to go on. The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her. I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn't stop me. But there's nowhere to walk to except back. 'Yes, er, yes,' she said. 'I'm very. . . er. . . but why do it like this? Couldn't I simply take her place and sing the part?' The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once. 'Yes, but you see, Christine is. . . has. . . more stage experience-' '-technical grasp-' '-stage presence-' '-apparent lyrical ability-' '-fits the costume-' Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came. 'We would like you, as it were,' said Bucket, 'to ghost the part. . .' 'Ghost?' said Agnes. 'It's a stage term,' said Salzella. 'Oh, I see,' said Agnes. 'Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best.' 'Jolly good,' said Bucket. 'We won't forget this. And I'm certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role.' 'Er. I know it quite well, I think,' said Agnes, uncertainly.

      'Really? How?' 'I've been. . . taking lessons.' 'That is good, lass,' said Mr Bucket. 'Shows keenness. We're very impressed. But see Dr Undershaft in any case. . .' Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out. Undershaft sighed and shook his head. 'Poor child,' he said. 'Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigh, Dame Clarissa Extendo. . . whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder.' 'Didn't the climate change?' said Salzella nastily. 'There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung,' Undershaft went on. 'Now that was an opera.' 'Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?' said Salzella. 'No, thank you very much.' 'But can't you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?' 'Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and lo, Chief of the Gods.' 'Those were the days,' said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. 'We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning-' 'Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head. 'Amazing,' he said. 'Do you think she knows how fat she is?' The door of Mrs Palm's discreet establishment opened at Granny's knock. The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille. Nanny peered around the young lady's powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax's impassive face, and then back at the young lady. 'I'll tan our Nev's hide when I get home,' she muttered. 'Come away, Esme, you don't want to go in there. It'd take too long to explain-' 'Why, Granny Weatherwax!' said the girl happily. 'And who's this?' Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn't changed. 'Nanny Ogg,' Nanny said eventually. 'Yes, I'm Nanny Ogg. Nev's mum,' she added darkly. 'Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein' a'-the words 'respectable widow woman' tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shrivelled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for 'mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev's mum.' 'Hello, Colette,' said Granny. 'What fascinatin' earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs Palm at home?' 'She's always at home to important visitors,' said Colette. 'Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!' There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom. 'What? You've been here before?' said Nanny, eyeing the pink flesh and white late that made up much of the scenery. 'Oh, yes. Mrs Palm is an old friend. Practic'ly a witch.' 'You. . . you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?' said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She'd happily give way to Granny's expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were. 'Oh, yes,' said Granny, calmly. Nanny's patience gave out. 'It's a house of ill repute, is what it is!'

      'On the contrary,' said Granny. 'I believe people speak very highly of it.' 'You knew? And you never told me?' Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. 'The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?' 'Well, yes, but-' 'We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there's a lot of people who think witches are bad.' 'Yes, but-' 'Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,' said Granny, with a faint smile. 'In those shoes she was wearin', I'd twist my ankle,' said Nanny, gritting her teeth. 'I'd need a ladder just to get in 'em.' It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways. 'And it's a welcoming place and the beds are soft,' said Granny. 'Warm too, I expect,' said Nanny Ogg, giving in. 'And there's always a friendly light in the window.' 'Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable.' 'Shockable, no,' said Nanny. 'Easily surprised, yes. Dr Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half- moon spectacles. 'The, um, “Departure” aria, as it is known,' he said, 'is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless.' His eyes misted over. ' “Questa maledetta” sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him. . . “Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo to faccccc-cio. . . !”' He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. 'When Gigh sang it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house,' he mumbled. 'I was there. It was then that I decided that I would. . . oh, great days, indeed.' He put his glasses on and blew his nose. 'I'll run through it once,' he said, 'just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, André.' The young man who had been drafted in to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes. She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score. 'And now,' he said, 'let us see how you manage.' He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist. Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. André stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh. 'Ahem,' said Undershaft. 'Was I doing something wrong?' 'You were singing tenor,' said Undershaft, looking sternly at André. 'She was singing in your voice, sir!' 'Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?' They started again. 'Kwesta!? Maledetta!!. . .' Undershaft held up both hands. André's shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing. 'Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I daresay you're right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?' Agnes nodded. They started again. . .

      . . .and finished. Undershaft had sat down, half-turned away. He wouldn't look round to face her. Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. 'Er. Was that all right?' she said. André the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. 'I think we'd better leave him,' he said softly, pulling her towards the door. 'Was it that bad?' 'Not. . . exactly.' Undershaft raised his head, but didn't turn it towards her. 'More practice on those Rs, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,' he said hoarsely. 'Yes. Yes, I will.' André led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her. 'That was astounding,' he said. 'Did you ever hear the great Gigh sing?' 'I don't even know who Gigh is. What was I singing?' 'You didn't know that either?' 'I don't know what it means, no.' André looked down at the score in his hand. 'Well, I'm not much good at the language, but I suppose the opening could be sung something like this: This damn' door sticks This damn' door sticks It sticks no matter what the hell I do It's marked “Pull” and indeed I am pulling Perhaps it should be marked “Push”?' Agnes blinked. 'That's it?' 'Yes.' 'But I thought it was supposed to be very moving and romantic!' 'It is,' said André. 'It was. This isn't real life, this is opera. It doesn't matter what the words mean. It's the feeling that matters. Hasn't anyone told-? Look, I'm in rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? Perhaps after breakfast?' Oh, no, thought Agnes. Here it comes. The blush was moving inexorably upwards. She wondered if one day it might reach her face and carry on going, so that it ended up as a big pink cloud over her head. 'Er, yes,' she said. 'Yes. That would be. . . very helpful.' 'Now I've got to go.' He gave her a weak little smile, and patted her hand. 'And. . . I'm really sorry it's happening this way. Because. . . that was astounding.' He went to walk away, and then stopped. 'Uh. . .sorry if I frightened you last night,' he said. 'What?' 'On the stairs.' 'Oh, that. I wasn't frightened.' 'You. . . er. . . didn't mention it to anyone, did you? I'd hate people to think I was worrying over nothing.' 'Hadn't given it another thought, to tell you the truth. I know you can't be the Ghost, if that's what you're worried about. Eh?' 'Me? The Ghost. Haha!' 'Haha,' said Agnes. 'So, er. . . see you tomorrow, then. . .' 'Fine.' Agnes headed back to her room, deep in thought. Christine was there, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She spun around as Agnes entered; she even moved with exclamation marks.

      'Oh, Perdita!! Have you heard?! I'm to sing the part of Iodine tonight!! Isn't that wonderful?!' She dashed across the room and endeavoured to pick Agnes up and hug her, settling eventually for just hugging her. 'And I heard they're already letting you in the chorus!?' 'Yes, indeed.' 'Isn't that nice?! I've been practising all morning with Mr Salzella. Kesta!? Mallydetta!! Porter see bloker!!' She twirled happily. Invisible sequins filled the air with their shine. 'When I am very famous,' she said, 'you won't regret having a friend in me!! I shall do my very best to help you!! I am sure you bring me luck!!' 'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes, hopelessly. 'Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition, and, do you know, I think that little pixie is you!!' Agnes smiled unhappily. After you'd known Christine for any length of time, you found yourself fighting a desire to look into her ear to see if you could spot daylight coming the other way. 'Er. I thought we had swapped rooms?' 'Oh, that!!' said Christine, smiling. 'Wasn't I silly?! Anyway, I shall need the big mirror now that I am to be a prima donna! You don't mind, do you!?' 'What? Oh. No. No, of course not. Er. If you're sure. . .' Agnes looked at the mirror, and then at the bed. And then at Christine. 'No,' she said, shocked at the enormity of the idea that had just presented itself, delivered from the Perdita of her soul. 'I'm sure that will be fine.' Dr Undershaft blew his nose and tried to tidy himself up. Well, he didn't have to stand for it. Perhaps the child was somewhat on the heavy side, but Gigli, for example, had once crushed a tenor to death and no one had thought any worse of her for it. He'd protest to Mr Bucket. Dr Undershaft was a single-minded man. He believed in voices. It didn't matter what anyone looked like. He never watched opera with his eyes open. It was the music that mattered, not the acting and certainly not the shape of the singers. What did it matter what shape she was? Dame Tessitura had a beard you could strike a match on and a nose flattened half across her face, but she was still one of the best basses who ever opened beer bottles with her thumb. Of course, Salzella said that, while everyone accepted that large women of fifty could play thin girls of seventeen, people wouldn't accept that a fat girl of seventeen could do it. He said they'd cheerfully swallow a big lie and choke on a little fib. Salzella said that sort of thing. Something was going wrong these days. The whole place seemed. . . sick, if a building could be sick. The crowds were still coming, but the money just didn't seem to be there any more; everything seemed to be so expensive. . . And now they were owned by a cheesemonger, for heaven's sake, some grubby counter jumper who'd probably want to bring in fancy ideas. What they needed was a businessman, some clerk who could add up columns of figures properly and not interfere. That was the trouble with all the owners he had experienced-they started off thinking of themselves as businessmen, and then suddenly began to think they could make an artistic contribution. Still, possibly cheesemongers had to add up cheeses. just so long as this one stayed in his office with the books, and didn't go around acting as though he owned the place just because he happened to own the place. . .

      Undershaft blinked. He'd gone the wrong way again. No matter how long you'd been here, this place was a maze. He was behind the stage, in the orchestra's room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle. The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The from had been pulled right out of a trombone. He looked up into someone's face. 'But. . . why are you-' The half-moon spectacles tumbled over and over, and smashed on the boards. Then the attacker lowered his mask, as smooth and white as the skull of an angel, and stepped forward purposefully. . . Dr Undershaft blinked. There was darkness. A cloaked figure raised its head and looked at him through bony white sockets. Dr Undershaft's recent memories were a little confused, but one fact stood out. 'Aha,' he said. 'Got you! You're the Ghost!' YOU KNOW, YOU'RE RATHER AMUSINGLY WRONG. Dr Undershaft watched another masked figure pick up the body of. . . Dr Undershaft, and drag it into the shadows. 'Oh, I see. I'm dead.' Death nodded. SUCH WOULD APPEAR TO BE THE CASE. 'That was murder! Does anyone know?' THE MURDERER. AND YOU, OF COURSE. 'But him? How can-?' Undershaft began. WE MUST GO, said Death. 'But he just killed me! Strangled me with his bare hands!' YES. CHALK IT UP TO EXPERIENCE. 'You mean I can't do anything about it?' LEAVE IT TO THE LIVING. GENERALLY SPEAKING, THEY GET UNEASY WHEN THE DECEASED TAKES A CONSTRUCTIVE ROLE IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION. THEY TEND TO LOSE CONCENTRATION. 'You know, you do have a very good bass voice.' THANK YOU. 'Are there going to be. . . choirs and things?' WOULD YOU LIKE SOME? Agnes slipped out through the stage-door and into the streets of Ankh- Morpork. She blinked in the light. The air felt slightly prickly, and sharp, and too cold. What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she'd done things that were right. Go on, said Perdita. In fact, she probably wouldn't even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was a herbal shop, so she asked. And there was no harm in going in, so she went in. And it certainly wasn't against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep. And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress. That's right, said Perdita.

      In fact, if you averaged out the moral difficulty of what she was proposing over all the little activities she had to undergo in order to do it, it probably wasn't that bad at all, really- These comforting thoughts were arranging themselves in her mind as she headed back. She turned a corner and nearly walked into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax. She flung herself against the wall and stopped breathing. They hadn't seen her, although Nanny's foul cat leered at her over its owner's shoulder. They'd take her back! She just knew they would! The fact that she was a free agent and her own mistress and quite at liberty to go off to Ankh-Morpork had nothing to do with it. They'd interfere. They always did. She scurried back along the alley and ran as fast as she could to the rear of the Opera House. The stage-doorkeeper took no notice of her. Granny and Nanny strolled through the city towards the area known as the Isle of Gods. It wasn't exactly Ankh and it wasn't exactly Morpork, being situated where the river bent so much it almost formed an island. It was where the city kept all those things it occasionally needed but was uneasy about, like the Watch-house, the theatres, the prison and the publishers. It was the place for all those things which might go off bang in unexpected ways. Greebo ambled along behind them. The air was full of new smells, and he was looking forward to seeing if any of them belonged to anything he could eat, fight or ravish. Nanny Ogg found herself getting increasingly worried. 'This isn't really us, Esme,' she said. 'Who is it, then?' 'I mean the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?' 'Can't have witches being done down, Gytha.' 'I don't feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,' said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point. 'You've been exploited,' said Granny firmly. 'No I ain't.' 'Yes you have. You're a downtrodden mass.' 'No I ain't.' 'You've been swindled out of your life savings,' said Granny. , 'Two dollars?' 'Well, it's all you'd actually saved,' said Granny, accurately. 'Only 'cos I spent everything else,' said Nanny. Other people salted away money for their old age, but Nanny preferred to accumulate memories. 'Well, there you are, then.' 'I was putting that by for some new piping for my still up at Copperhead,' said Nanny.[5] 'You know how that scumble eats away at the metal-' 'You were putting a little something by for some security and peace of mind in your old age,' Granny translated. 'You don't get peace of mind with my scumble,' said Nanny happily. 'Pieces, yes; but not peace. It's made from the finest apples, you know,' she added. 'Well, mainly apples.' Granny stopped outside an ornate doorway, and peered at the brass plate affixed thereon. 'This is the place,' she said. They looked at the door.

      'I've never been one for front doors,' said Nanny, shifting from one foot to the other. Granny nodded. Witches had a thing about front doors. A brief search located an alleyway which led around the back of the building. Here was a pair of much larger doors, wide open. Several dwarfs were loading bundles of books on to a cart. A rhythmic thumping came from somewhere beyond the doorway. No one took any notice of the witches as they wandered inside. Movable type was known in Ankh-Morpork, but if wizards heard about it they moved it where no one could find it. They generally didn't interfere with the running of the city, but when it came to movable type the pointy foot was put down hard. They had never explained why, ' and people didn't press the issue because you didn't press the issue with wizards, not if you liked yourself the shape you were. They simply worked around the problem, and engraved everything. This took a long time and meant that Ankh-Morpork was, for example, denied the benefit of newspapers, leaving the population to fool themselves as best they could. A press was thumping gently at one end of the warehouse. Beside it, at long tables, a number of dwarfs and humans were stitching pages together and gluing on the covers. Nanny took a book off a pile. It was The Joye of Snacks. 'Can I help you, ladies?' said a voice. Its tone suggested very clearly that it wasn't anticipating offering any kind of help whatsoever, except out into the street at speed. 'We've come about this book,' said Granny. 'I'm Mrs Ogg,' said Nanny Ogg. The man looked her up and down. 'Oh yes? Can you identify yourself?' 'Certainly. I'd know me anywhere.' 'Hah! Well, I happen to know what Gytha Ogg looks like, madam, and she does not look like you.' Nanny Ogg opened her mouth to reply, and then said, in the voice of one who has stepped happily into the road and only now remembers about the onrushing coach:'. . . Oh.' 'And how do you know what Mrs Ogg looks like?' said Granny. 'Oh, is that the time? We'd better be going-'said Nanny. 'Because, as a matter of fact, she sent me a picture,' said Goatberger, taking out his wallet. 'I'm sure we're not at all interested,' said Nanny hurriedly, pulling on Granny's arm. 'I'm extremely interested,' said Granny. She snatched a folded piece of paper out of Goatberger's hands, and peered at it. 'Hah! Yes. . . that's Gytha Ogg all right,' she said. 'Yes, indeed. I remember when that young artist came to Lancre for the summer.' 'I wore my hair longer in those days,' muttered Nanny. 'Just as well, considering,' said Granny. 'I didn't know you had copies, though.' 'Oh, you know how it is when you're young,' said Nanny dreamily. 'It was doodle, doodle, doodle all summer long.' She awoke from her reverie. 'And I still weigh the same now as I did then,' she added. 'Except that it's shifted,' said Granny, nastily. She handed the sketch back to Goatberger. 'That's her all right,' she said. 'But it's out by about sixty years and several layers of clothing. This is Gytha Ogg, right here.' 'You're telling me this came up with Banana Soup Surprise?' 'Did you try it?' said Nanny. 'Mr Cropper the head printer did, yes.' 'Was he surprised?'

      'Not half as surprised as Mrs Cropper.' 'It can take people like that,' said Nanny. 'I think perhaps I overdo the nutmeg.' Goatberger stared at her. Doubt was beginning to assail him. You only had to look at Nanny Ogg grinning back at you to believe she could write something like The Joye of Snacks. 'Did you really write this?' he said. 'From memory,' said Nanny, proudly. 'And now she'd like some money,' said Granny. Mr Goatberger's face twisted up as though he'd just eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar. 'But we gave her the money back,' he said. 'See?' said Nanny, her face falling. 'I told you, Esme-' 'She wants some more,' said Granny. 'No, I don't-' 'No, she doesn't!' Goatberger agreed. 'She does,' said Granny. 'She wants a little bit of money for every book you've sold.' 'I don't expect to be treated like royalty,' said Nanny.[6] 'You shut up,' said Granny. 'I know what you want. We want some money, Mr Goatberger.' 'And what if I won't give it to you?' Granny glared at him. 'Then we shall go away and think about what to do next,' she said. 'That's no idle threat,' said Nanny. 'There's a lot of people've regretted Esme thinking about what to do next.' 'Come back when you've thought, then!' snapped Goatberger. He stormed off: 'I don't know, authors wanting to be paid, good grief-' He disappeared among the stacks of books. 'Er. . . do you think that could have gone better?' said Nanny. Granny glanced at the table beside them. It was stacked with long sheets of paper. She nudged a dwarf, who had been watching the argument with some amusement. 'What're these?' she said. 'They're proofs for the Almanack.' He saw her blank expression. 'They're sort of a trial run for the book so's we can check that all the spelling mistakes have been left in.' Granny picked it up. 'Come, Gytha,' she said. 'I don't want trouble, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. 'It's only money.' 'It ain't money any more,' said Granny. 'It's a way of keepin' score.' Mr Bucket picked up a violin. It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke. 'Who'd do something like this?' he said. 'Honestly, Salzella. . . what is the difference between opera and madness?' 'Is this a trick question?' 'No!' 'Then I'd say: better scenery. Ah. . . I thought so. . .' Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand. 'Would you like me to open it?' he said. 'It's addressed to you.' Bucket shut his eyes. 'Go on,' he said. 'Don't bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?' 'Five.' 'Oh.' Salzella passed the paper over.

      Bucket read: Dear Bucket, Whoops! Ahahahahahahahaha!!!!! Yrs, The Opera Ghost 'What can we do?' he said. 'One moment he writes polite little notes, the next he goes mad on paper!' 'Herr Trubelmacher has got everyone out hunting for new instruments,' said Salzella. 'Are violins more expensive than ballet shoes?' 'There are few things in the world more expensive than ballet shoes. Violins happen to be among them,' said Salzella. 'Further expense!' 'It seems so, yes.' 'But I thought the Ghost liked music! Herr Trubelmacher tells me the organ is beyond repair!!!' He stopped. He was aware that he had exclaimed a little less rationally than a sane man should. 'Oh, well,' Bucket continued wearily. 'The show must go on, I suppose.' 'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella. Bucket shook his head. 'How's it all going for tonight?' 'I think it will work, if that's what you mean. Perdita seems to have a very good grasp of the part.' 'And Christine?' 'She has an astonishingly good grasp of wearing a dress. Between them, they make one prima donna.' The proud owner of the Opera House got slowly to his feet. 'It all seemed so simple,' he moaned. 'I thought: opera, how hard can it be? Songs. Pretty girls dancing. Nice scenery. Lots of people handing over cash. Got to be better than the cut-throat world of yoghurt, I thought. Now everywhere I go there's-' Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up the remains of a pair of half-moon spectacles. 'These are Dr Undershaft's, aren't they?' he said. 'What're they doing here?' His eyes met Salzella's steady gaze. 'Oh, no,' he groaned. Salzella turned slightly, and stared hard at a big double bass case leaning against the wall. He raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, no,' said Bucket, again. 'Go on. Open it. My hands have gone all sweaty. . .' Salzella padded across to the case and grasped the lid. 'Ready?' Bucket nodded, wearily. The case was flung open. 'Oh, no!' Salzella craned round to see. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'A broken neck, and the body has been kicked in considerably. That'll cost a dollar or two to repair, and no mistake.' 'And all the strings are busted! Are double basses more expensive to rebuild than violins?' 'I am afraid that all musical instruments are incredibly expensive to repair, with the possible exception of the triangle,' said Salzella. 'However, it could have been worse, hmm?' 'What?' 'Well, it could have been Dr Undershaft in there, yes?'

      Bucket gaped at him, and then shut his mouth. 'Oh. Yes. Of course. Oh, yes. That would have been worse. Yes. Bit of luck there, I suppose. Yes. Um.' 'So that's an opera house, is it?' said Granny. 'Looks like someone built a great big box and glued the architecture on afterwards.' She coughed, and appeared to be waiting for something. 'Can we have a look around?' said Nanny dutifully, aware that Granny's curiosity was equalled only by her desire not to show it. 'It can't do any harm, I suppose,' said Granny, as if granting a big favour. 'Seein' as we've nothing else to do right this minute.' The Opera House was, indeed, that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But, as Granny had pointed out, the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone. Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front. Granny paused under a window. 'Someone's singing,' she said. 'Listen.' 'La-la-la-la-la-LAH,' trilled someone. 'Do-Re-Mi-Fah-SoLa-Ti-Do. . .' 'That's opera, right enough,' said Granny. 'Sounds foreign to me.' Nanny had an unexpected gift for languages; she could be comprehensibly incompetent in a new one within an hour or two. What she spoke was one step away from gibberish but it was authentically foreign gibberish. And she knew that Granny Weatherwax, whatever her other qualities, had an even bigger tin ear for languages than she did for music. 'Er. Could be,' she said. 'There's always a lot going on, I know that. Our Nev said they sometimes do different operations every night.' 'How did he find that out?' said Granny. 'Well, there was a lot of lead. That takes some shifting. He said he liked the noisy ones. He could hum along and also no one heard the hammering.' The witches strolled onwards. 'Did you notice young Agnes nearly bump into us back there?' said Granny. 'Yes. It was all I could do not to turn around,' said Nanny. 'She wasn't very pleased to see us, was she? I practically heard her gasp.' 'That's very suspicious, if you ask me,' said Nanny. 'I mean, she sees two friendly faces from back home, you'd expect her . to come runnin' up. . .' 'We're old friends, after all. Old friends of her grandma and her mum, anyway, and that's practic'ly the same.' 'Remember those eyes in the teacup?' said Nanny. 'She could be under the gaze of some strange occult force! We got to be careful. People can be very tricky when they're in the grip of a strange occult force. Remember Mr Scruple over in Slice?' 'That wasn't a strange occult force. That was acid stomach.' 'Well, it certainly seemed strangely occult for a while. Especially if the windows were shut.' Their perambulation had taken them to the Opera House's stage-door. Granny looked up at a line of posters. 'La Triviata,' she read aloud. 'The Ring of the Nibelungingung. . . ?' 'Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,' said Nanny, who also had the true witch's ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. 'There's your heavy opera, where basically people

      sing foreign and it goes like “Oh oh oh, I am dyin', oh, I am dyin', oh, oh, oh, that's what I'm doin”', and there's your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes “Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!”, although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That's basically all of opera, reely.' 'What? Either dyin' or drinkin' beer?' 'Basically, yes,' said Nanny, contriving to suggest that this was the whole gamut of human experience. 'And that's opera?' 'We-ll. . . there might be some other stuff. But mostly it's stout or stabbin'.' Granny was aware of a presence. She turned. A figure had emerged from the stage-door, carrying a poster, a bucket of glue and a brush. It was a strange figure, a sort of neat scarecrow in clothes slightly too small for it, although, to be truthful, there were probably no clothes that would have fit that body. The ankles and wrists seemed infinitely extensible and independently guided. It encountered the two witches standing at the poster board, and stopped politely. They could see the sentence marshalling itself behind the unfocused eyes. 'Excuse me ladies! The show must go on!' The words were all there and they made sense, but each sentence was fired out into the world as a unit. Granny pulled Nanny to one side. 'Thank you!' They watched in silence as the man, with great and meticulous care, applied paste to a neat rectangle and then affixed the poster, smoothing every crease methodically. 'What's your name, young man?' said Granny. 'Walter!' 'That's a nice beret you have there.' 'My mum bought it for me!' Walter chased the last air bubble to the edge of the paper and stood back. Then, completely ignoring the witches in his preoccupation with his task, he picked up the paste-pot and went back inside. The witches stared at the new poster in silence. 'Y'know, I wouldn't mind seein' an operation,' said Nanny, after a while. 'Senior Basilica did give us the tickets.' 'Oh, you know me,' said Granny. 'Can't be having with that sort of thing at all.' Nanny looked sideways at her, and grinned to herself. This was a familiar Weatherwax opening line. It meant: Of course I want to, but you've got to persuade me. 'You're right, o' course,' she said. 'It's for them folks in all their fine carriages. It's not for the likes of us.' Granny looked hesitant for a moment. 'I expect it's having ideas above our station,' Nanny went on. 'I expect if we went in they'd say: Be off, you nasty ole crones. . .' 'Oh, they would, would they?' 'I don't expect they want common folk like what we are comin' in with all those smart nobby people,' said Nanny. 'Is that a fact? Is that a fact, madam? You just come with me!' Granny stalked round to the front of the building, where people were already alighting from coaches. She pushed her way up the steps and shouldered through the crowd to the ticket office. She leaned forward. The man behind the grille leaned back.

      'Nasty old crones, eh?' she snapped. 'I beg your pardon-?' 'Not before time! See here, we've got tickets for-' She looked down at the pieces of cardboard, and pulled Nanny Ogg over. 'It says here Stalls. The cheek of it! Stalls? Us?' She turned back to the ticket man. 'See here, Stalls aren't good enough, we want seats in'-she looked up at the board by the ticket window-'the Gods. Yes, that sounds about right.' 'I'm sorry? You've got tickets for Stalls seats and you want to exchange them for seats in the Gods?' 'Yes, and don't you go expecting us to pay any more money!' 'I wasn't going to ask you for-' 'Just as well!' said Granny, smiling triumphantly. She looked approvingly at the new tickets. 'Come, Gytha.' 'Er, excuse me,' said the man as Nanny Ogg turned away, 'but what is that on your shoulders?' 'It's. . . a fur collar,' said Nanny. 'Excuse me, but I just saw it flick its tail.' 'Yes. I happen to believe in beauty without cruelty.' Agnes was aware of something happening backstage. Little groups of men were forming, and then breaking up as various individuals hurried away about their mysterious tasks. Out in front the orchestra was already tuning up. The chorus was filing on to be A Busy Marketplace, in which various jugglers, gypsies, sword- swallowers and gaily dressed yokels would be entirely unsurprised at an apparently drunken baritone strolling on to sing an enormous amount of plot at a passing tenor. She saw Mr Bucket and Mr Salzella deep in argument with the stage manager. 'How can we search the entire building? This place is a maze!' 'He might have just wandered off somewhere. . . ?' 'He's as blind as a bat without those glasses.' 'But we can't be certain something's happened to him.' 'Oh, Yes? You didn't say that when we opened the double-bass case. You were certain' he was going to be inside. Admit it.' 'I. . . wasn't expecting just to find a smashed double bass, yes. But I was feeling a bit mithered at that point.' A sword-swallower nudged Agnes. 'What?' 'Curtain up in one minute, dear,' he said, smearing mustard on his sword. 'Has something happened to Dr Undershaft?' 'Couldn't say, dear. You wouldn't have any salt, would you?' ' 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me. Was that your foot? 'Scuse me. . .' Leaving a trail of annoyed and pained patrons in their wake, the witches trod their way to their seats. Granny elbowed herself comfortable and then, having in some matters the boredom threshold of a four-year-old, said: 'What's happenin' now?' Nanny's skimpy knowledge of opera didn't come to her aid. So she turned to the lady beside her. ' 'Scuse me, could I borrow your programme? Thank you. 'Scuse me, could I borrow your spectacles? So kind.' She spent a few moments in careful study. 'This is the overture,' she said. 'It's kind of a free sample of what's going to happen. 'S got a summary of the story, too. La Triviata.' Her lips moved as she read. Occasionally her brow wrinkled.

      'Well, it's quite simple reely,' she said, at last. 'A lot of people are in love with one another, there's considerable dressing up as other people and general confusion, there's a cheeky servant, no one really knows who anyone is, a couple of ole dukes go mad, chorus of gypsies, etc. Your basic opera. Someone's prob'ly going to turn out to be someone else's long lost son or daughter or wife or something.' 'Shh!' said a voice behind them. 'Wish we'd brought something to eat,' muttered Granny. 'I think I've got some peppermints in my knicker leg.' 'Shh!' 'I would like my spectacles back, please.' 'Here you are, ma'am. They're not very good, are they?' Someone tapped Nanny Ogg on the shoulder. 'Madam, your fur stole is eating my chocolates!' And someone tapped Granny Weatherwax on her shoulder. 'Madam, kindly remove your hat.' Nanny Ogg choked on her peppermint. Granny Weatherwax turned to the red-faced gentleman behind her. 'You do know what a woman in a pointy hat is, don't you?' she said. 'Yes, madam. A woman in a pointy hat is sitting in front of me.' Granny gave him a stare. And then, to Nanny's surprise, she removed her hat. 'I do beg your pardon,' she said. 'I can see I was inadvertently bad- mannered. Pray excuse me.' She turned back to the stage. Nanny Ogg started breathing again. 'You feeling all right, Esme?' 'Never better.' Granny Weatherwax surveyed the auditorium, oblivious to the sounds around her. 'I assure you, madam, your fur is eating my chocolates. It's started on the second layer!' 'Oh, dear. Show him the little map inside the lid, will you? He's only after the truffles, and you can soon rub the dribble off the others.' 'Do you mind being quiet?' 'I don't mind, it's this man and his chocolates that's making the noise-' A big room, Granny thought. A great big room without windows. . . There was a tingling in her thumbs. She looked at the chandelier. The rope disappeared into an alcove in the ceiling. Her gaze passed along the rows of Boxes. They were all quite crowded. On one, though, the curtains were almost closed, as if someone inside wanted to see out without being seen. Then Granny looked among the Stalls. The audience was mainly human. Here and there was the hulking shape of a troll, although the troll equivalent of operas usually went on for a couple of years. A few dwarf helmets gleamed, although dwarfs normally weren't interested in anything without dwarfs in. There seemed to be a lot of feathers down there, and here and there the glint of jewellery. Shoulders were being worn bare this season. A lot of attention had been paid to appearances. The people were here to look, not to see. She closed her eyes. This was when you started being a witch. It wasn't when you did headology on daft old men, or mixed up medicines, or stuck up for yourself, or knew one herb from another. It was when you opened your mind to the world and carefully examined everything it picked up. She ignored her ears until the sounds of the audience became just a distant buzz.

      Or, at least, a distant buzz broken by the voice of Nanny Ogg. 'Says here that Dame Timpani, who sings the part of Quizella, is a diva,' said Nanny. 'So I reckon this is like a part-time job, then. Prob'ly quite a good idea, on account of you have to be able to hold your breath. Good trainin' for the singin'.' Granny nodded without opening her eyes. She kept them closed as the opera started. Nanny, who knew when to leave her friend to her own devices, tried to keep quiet but felt impelled to give out a running commentary. Then she said, 'There's Agnes! Hey, that's Agnes!' 'Stop wavin' and sit down,' murmured Granny, trying to hold on to her waking dream. - Nanny leaned over the balcony. 'She's .dressed up as a gypsy,' she said. 'And now there's a girl come forward to sing'- she peered at the stolen programme-'the famous “Departure” aria, it says here. Now that's what I call a good voice-' 'That's Agnes singin',' said Granny. 'No, it's this girl Christine.' 'Shut your eyes, you daft old woman, and tell me if that isn't Agnes singin',' said Granny. Nanny Ogg obediently shut her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. 'It's Agnes singing!' 'Yes.' 'But there's that girl with the big smile right out there in front moving her lips and everything!' 'Yes.' Nanny scratched her head. 'Something a bit wrong here, Esme. Can't have people stealing our Agnes's voice.' Granny's eyes were still shut. 'Tell me if the curtains on that Box down there on the right have moved,' she said. 'I just saw them twitch, Esme.' 'Ah.' Granny let herself relax again. She sank into the seat as the aria washed over her, and opened her mind once more. . . Edges, walls, doors. . . Once a space was enclosed it became a universe of its own. Some things remained trapped in it. The music passed through one side of her head and out the other, but with it. came other things, strands of things, echoes of old screams. . . She drifted down further, down below the conscious, into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. There was fear here. It stalked the place like a great dark animal. It lurked in every corner. It was in the stones. Old terror crouched in the shadows. It was one of the most ancient terrors, the one that meant that no sooner had mankind learned to walk on two legs than it dropped to its knees. It was the terror of impermanence, the knowledge that all this would pass away, that a beautiful voice or a wonderful figure was something whose arrival you couldn't control and whose departure you couldn't delay. It wasn't what she had been looking for, but it was perhaps the sea in which it swam. She went deeper. And there it was, roaring through the night-time of the soul of the place like a deep cold current. As she drew closer she saw that it was not one thing but two, twisted around one another. She reached out. . . Trickery. Lies. Deceit. Murder. 'No!' She blinked.

      Everyone had turned to look at her. Nanny tugged at her dress. 'Sit down, Esme!' Granny stared. The chandelier hung peacefully over the crowded seats. 'They beat him to death!' 'What's that, Esme?? 'And they throw him into the river!' 'Esme!' 'Sh!' 'Madam, will you sit down at once!' '. . .and now it's started on the Nougat Whirls!' Granny snatched at her hat and did a crabwise run along the row, crushing some of the finest footwear in Ankh-Morpork under her thick Lancre soles. Nanny hung back reluctantly. She'd quite enjoyed the song, and she wanted to applaud. But her pair of hands wasn't necessary. The audience had exploded as soon as the last note had died away. Nanny Ogg looked at the stage, and took note of something, and smiled. 'Like that, eh?' 'Gytha!' She sighed. 'Coming, Esme. 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me. Sorry. 'Scuse me. . .' Granny Weatherwax was out in the red plush corridor, leaning with her forehead against the wall. 'This is a bad one, Gytha,' she muttered. 'It's all twisted up. I ain't at all sure I can make it happen right. The poor soul. . .' She straightened up. 'Look at me, Gytha, will you? Gytha obediently opened her eyes wide. She winced a little as a fragment of Granny Weatherwax's consciousness crept behind her eyes. Granny put her hat on, tucking in the occasional errant wisp of grey hair and then taking, one by one, the eight hatpins and ramming them home with the same frowning deliberation with which a mercenary might check his weapons. 'All right,' she said at last. Nanny Ogg relaxed. 'It's not that I mind, Esme,' she said, 'but I wish you'd use a mirror.' 'Waste of money,' said Granny. Now fully armoured, she strode off along the corridor. 'Glad to see you didn't lose your temper with the man who went on about your hat,' said Nanny, running along behind. 'No point. He's going to be dead tomorrow.' 'Oh, dear. What of?' 'Run over by a cart, I think.' 'Why didn't you tell him?' 'I could be wrong.' Granny reached the stairs and thundered down them. 'Where're we going?' 'I want to see who's behind those curtains.' The applause, distant but still thunderous, filled the stairwell. 'They certainly like Agnes's voice,' said Nanny. 'Yes. I hopes we're in time.' 'Oh, bugger!' 'What?' 'I left Greebo up there!' 'Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a maze.' Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it. 'Ah. Now, then. . .' She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle. 'Can I help you, ladies?'

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks. Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray. 'We were just wondering,' said Granny, 'which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?' The tray began to shake. 'Here, shall I hold that for you?' .said Nanny. 'You'll spill something if you're not careful.' 'What do you know about Box Eight?' said the old lady. 'Ah. Box Eight,' said Granny. 'That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it. . . ?' 'No, please. . .' Granny strode forward and grasped the handle. The door was locked. The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. 'Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do. . .' she said. The woman pulled at Granny's arm. 'Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!' Granny thrust out her hand. 'The key, madam!' Behind her, Nanny inspected a glass of champagne. 'Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!' The woman was clearly terrified. 'Iron,' said Granny, rattling the handle. 'Can't magic iron. . .' 'Here,' said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. 'Give me one of your hatpins. Our Nev's taught me all kindsa tricks. . .' Granny's hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs Plinge's lined face. She lowered her hand. 'No,' she said. 'No, I reckon we'll leave it for now. . . 'I don't know what's happening. . .' sobbed Mrs Plinge. 'It never used to be like this. . .' 'Have a good blow,' said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back. '. . .there was none of this killing people. . . he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera. . . it made him feel better. . .' 'Who's this we're talking about?' said Granny. Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman's head. There were some things best left to Nanny. '. . . he'd unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat. . . and where was the harm in it, that's what I'd like to know. . .' 'Have another good blow,' said Nanny. '. . .and now there's people dropping like flies out of the flies. . . they say it's him, but I know he never meant any harm. . .' ' 'Course not,' said Nanny, soothingly. '. . .many's the time I've seen 'em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him. . . and then poor Mr Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that. . .' 'It's terrible when that happens,' said Nanny Ogg. 'What's your name, dear?' 'Mrs Plinge,' sniffed Mrs Plinge. 'It came right down in front of me. I'd have recognized it anywhere. . .' 'I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny. 'Oh, dear! I've got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it's dangerous going home this time of night. . . Walter walks me home but he's got to stay late tonight. . . oh dear. . .' 'Have another good blow,' said Nanny. 'Find a bit that isn't too soggy.'

      There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm's length, so that her knuckles cracked. 'Dangerous, eh?' she said. 'Well, we can't see you all upset like this. I'll walk you home and Mrs Ogg will see to things here.' '. . .only I've got to attend to the Boxes. . . I've got all these drinks to serve. . . could've sworn I had them a moment ago. . .' 'Mrs Ogg knows all about drinks,' said Granny, glaring at her friend. 'There's nothing I don't know about drinks,' agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. 'Especially these.' '. . .and what about our Walter? He'll worry himself silly. . .' 'Walter's your son?' said Granny. 'Wears a beret?' The old woman nodded. 'Only I always comes back for him if he's working late. . .' she began. 'You come back for him. . . but he sees you home?' said Granny. 'It's. . . he's. . . he's. . .' Mrs Plinge rallied. 'He's a good boy,' she said defiantly. 'I'm sure he is, Mrs Plinge,' said Granny. She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details. There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the door handle. Granny smiled, and took Mrs Plinge's arm. 'I'll be back as soon as I can,' she said. Nanny nodded, and watched them go. There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs. Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily. Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest. Another bell started to ring. There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port. A bell fell off its spring. Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, 'Where are those drinks, woman!' Nanny tried the port. Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence[7] but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them. The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world. Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying. . . All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.

      She methodically unscrewed the top off ajar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple. Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor. Nanny's philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down. The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding. 'What happens now?' whispered Agnes to the next gypsy. He pulled off his bandanna. 'Well, dear, we generally nip out to- Oh, no, they're going for a curtain call!' The curtains opened again. The light caught Christine, who curtsied and waved and sparkled. Her fellow-gypsy nudged Agnes. 'Look at Dame Timpani,' he said. 'There's a nose in a sling if ever I saw one.' Agnes stared at the prima donna. 'She's smiling,' she said. 'So does a tiger, dear.' The curtains shut once more, with a finality that said the stage manager was going to strike the set and would scream at someone if they dared to touch those ropes again . . . . Agnes ran off with the others. There wasn't too much to do in the next act. She'd tried to memorize the plot earlier-although other members of the chorus had done their best to dissuade her, on the basis that you could either sing them or understand them, but not both. Nevertheless, Agnes was conscientious. '. . . so Peccadillo (ten.), the son of Duke Tagliatella (bass), has secretly disguised himself as a swineherd to woo Quizella, not knowing that Doctor Bufola (bar.) has sold the elixir to Ludi the servant, without realizing he is really the maid Iodine (sop.) dressed up as a boy because Count Artaud (bar.) claims that. . .' A deputy stage manager pulled her out of the way and waved at someone in the wings. 'Lose the countryside, Ron.' There was a series of whistles from offstage, answered by another from above. The backcloth rose. From the gloom above, the sandbag counterweights began to descend. '. . . then Artaud reveals, er, that Zibeline must marry Fideli, I mean Fiabe, not knowing, er, that the family fortunes. . .' The sandbags came down. On one side of the stage, at least. On the other side, Agnes was interrupted in her impossible task by the screaming, and looked around into the upside-down and not at all well features of the late Dr Undershaft. Nanny skipped through a handy door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it. After a few moments the sound of running feet clattered past. Well, that had been fun. She removed the lace bonnet and apron and, because there was a basic honesty in Nanny, she tucked them in a pocket to give back to Mrs Plinge later. Then she pulled out a flat, round black shape and banged it against her arm. The point shot out. After a few adjustments her official hat was almost as good as new. She looked around. A certain absence of light and carpeting, together with a very presence of dust, suggested that this was a part of the place the public weren't supposed to see.

      Oh, damn. She supposed she had better find another door. Of course, that'd mean she'd have to leave Greebo, wherever he was, but he'd turn up. He always did when he wanted feeding. There was a flight of steps leading down. She followed them to a corridor which was slightly better lit and ambled along it for quite a way. And then all she had to do was follow the screams. She emerged among the flats and jumbled props backstage. No one bothered about her. The appearance of a small, amiable old lady was not about to cause comment at this point. People were running backwards and forwards, shouting. More impressionable people were just standing in one place and screaming. A large lady was sprawled over two chairs having hysterics, while some distracted stage- hands tried to fan her with a script. Nanny Ogg was not certain whether something important had happened or whether this was just a continuation of opera by other means. 'I should loosen her corsets, if I was you,' she said as she ambled past. 'Good heavens, madam, there's enough panic in here as it is!' Nanny moved on to an interesting crowd of gypsies, noblemen and stage- hands. Witches are curious by definition and inquisitive by nature. She moved in. 'Let me through. I'm a nosy person,' she said, employing both elbows. It worked, as this sort of approach generally does. There was a dead person lying on the floor. Nanny had seen death in a wide variety of guises, and certainly knew strangulation when it presented itself. It wasn't the nicest end, although it could be quite colourful. 'Oh dear,' she said. 'Poor man. What happened to him?' 'Mr Bucket says he must have got caught up in the-' someone began. 'He didn't get caught in anything! This is the Ghost's work!' said someone else. 'He could still be up there!' All eyes turned upwards. 'Mr Salzella's sent some stage-hands to flush him out.' 'Have they got flaming torches?' said Nanny. Several of them looked at her as if wondering, for the first time, who she was. 'What?' 'Got to have flaming torches when you're tracking down evil monsters,' said Nanny. 'Well-known fact.' There was a moment while this sunk in, and then: 'That's true.' 'She's right, you know.' 'Well-known fact, dear.' 'Did they have flaming torches?' 'Don't think so. Just ordinary lanterns.' 'Oh, they're no good,' said Nanny. 'That's for smugglers, lanterns. For evil monsters you need flaming-' 'Excuse me, boys and girls!' The stage manager had stood on a box. 'Now,' he said, a little pale around the face, 'I know you're all familiar with the phrase “the show must go on”. . .' There was a chorus of groans from the chorus. 'It's very hard to sing a jolly song about eating hedgehogs when you're waiting for an accident to happen to you,' shouted a gypsy king. 'Funny thing, if we're talking about songs about hedgehogs, I myself-' Nanny began, but no one was paying her any attention. 'Now, we don't actually know what happened-' 'Really? Shall we guess?' said a gypsy.

      '-but we have men up in the fly loft now-' 'Oh? In case of more accidents?' '-and Mr Bucket has authorized me to say that there will be an additional two dollars' bonus tonight in recognition of your bravely agreeing to continue with the show-' 'Money? After a shock like this? Money? He thinks he can offer us a couple of dollars and we'll agree to stay on this cursed stage?' 'Shame!' 'Heartless!, 'Unthinkable!' 'Should be at least four!' 'Right! Right!' 'For shame, my friends! To talk about a few dollars when there is a dead man lying there. . . Have you no respect for his memory?' 'Exactly! A few dollars is disrespectful. Five dollars or nothing!' Nanny Ogg nodded to herself, and wandered off and found a sufficiently big piece of cloth to cover the late Dr Undershaft. Nanny rather liked the theatrical world. It was its own kind of magic. That was why Esme disliked it, she reckoned. It was the magic of illusions and misdirection and foolery, and that was fine by Nanny Ogg, because you couldn't be married three times without a little fooling. But it was just close enough to Granny's own kind of magic to make Granny uneasy. Which meant she couldn't leave it alone. It was like scratching an itch. People didn't take any notice of little old ladies who looked as though they fitted in, and Nanny Ogg could fit in faster than a dead chicken in a maggot factory. Besides, Nanny had one additional little talent, which was a mind like a buzzsaw behind a face like an elderly apple. Someone was crying. A strange figure was kneeling beside the late chorus master. It looked like a puppet with the strings cut. 'Can you give me a hand with this sheet, mister?' said Nanny quietly. The face looked up. Two watery eyes, running with tears, blinked at Nanny. 'He won't wake up!' Nanny mentally changed gear. 'That's right, luv,' she said. 'You're Walter, ain't you?' 'He was always very good to me and our mum! He never gave me a kick!' It was obvious to Nanny that there was no help here. She knelt down and began to do her best with the departed. 'Miss they say it were the Ghost miss! It weren't the Ghost miss! He'd never do a thing like that! He was always good to me and our mum!' Nanny changed gear again. You had to slow down a bit for Walter Plinge. 'My mum'd know what to do!' 'Yes, well. . . she's gone home early, Walter.' Walter's waxy face started to contort into an expression of terminal horror. 'She mustn't walk home without Walter to look after her!' he shouted. 'I bet she always says that,' said Nanny. 'I bet she always makes sure her Walter's with her when she goes home. But I expect that right now she'd want her Walter to just get on with things so's she can be proud of him. Show's not half over yet.' ' 'S dangerous for our mum!' Nanny patted his hand and absent-mindedly wiped her own hand on her dress. 'That's a good boy,' she said. 'Now, I've got to go off-' 'The Ghost wouldn't harm no one!'

      'Yes, Walter, only I've got to go but I'll find someone to help you and you must put poor Dr Undershaft somewhere safe until after the show. Understand? And I'm Mrs Ogg.' Walter gawped at her, and then nodded sharply. 'Good boy.' Nanny left him still looking at the body and headed further backstage. A young man hurrying past found that he'd suddenly acquired an Ogg. ' 'Scuse me, young man,' said Nanny, still holding his arm, 'but d'you know anyone around here called Agnes? Agnes Nitt?' 'Can't say I do, ma'am. What does she do?' He made to hurry on as politely as possible, but Nanny's grip was steel. 'She sings a bit. Big girl. Voice with double joints in it. Wears black.' 'You don't mean Perdita?' 'Perdita? Oh, yes. That'd be her all right.' 'I think she's seeing to Christine. They're in Mr Salzella's office.' 'Would Christine be the thin girl in white?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 'And I expect you're going to show me where this Mr Salzella's office is?' 'Er, am I- Er, yes. It's just along the stage there, first door on the right.' 'What a good boy to help an old lady,' said Nanny. Her grip increased to a few ounces short of cutting off circulation. 'And wouldn't it be a good idea if you helped young Walter back there do something respectful for the poor dead man?' 'Back where?' Nanny turned around. The late Dr Undershaft had gone nowhere, but Walter had vanished. 'Poor chap was a bit upset, I shouldn't wonder,' said Nanny. 'Only to be expected. So. . . how about if you got another strapping young lad to help you out instead?' 'Er. . . yes.' 'What a good boy,' Nanny repeated. It was mid-evening. Granny and Mrs Plinge pushed their way through the crowds towards the Shades, a part of the city that was as thronged as a rookery, fragrant as a cesspit, and vice versa. 'So,' said Granny, as they entered the network of foetid alleys, 'your boy Walter usually sees you home, does he?' 'He's a good boy, Mistress Weatherwax,' said Mrs Plinge defensively. 'I'm sure you're grateful for a strong lad to lean on,' said Granny. Mrs Plinge looked up. Looking into Granny's eyes was like looking into a mirror. What you saw looking back at you was yourself, and there was no hiding-place. 'They torment him so,' she mumbled. 'They poke at him and hide his broom. They're not bad boys round here, but they will torment him.' 'He brings his broom home, does he?' 'He looks after his things,' said Mrs Plinge. 'I've always brought him up to look after his things and not be a trouble. But they will poke the poor soul and call him such names. . .' The alleyway opened into a yard, like a well between the high buildings. Washing-lines crisscrossed the rectangle of moonlit sky. 'I'm just in here,' said Mrs Plinge. 'Much obliged to you.' 'How does Walter get home without you?' said Granny. 'Oh, there's plenty of places to sleep in the Opera House. He knows that if I don't come for him he's to stop there for the night. He does what he's told, Mistress Weatherwax. He's never any trouble.' 'I never said he was.'

      Mrs Plinge fumbled in her purse, as much to escape Granny's stare as to look for the key. 'I expect your Walter sees most of what goes on in the Opera House,' said Granny, taking one of Mrs Plinge's wrists in her hand. 'I wonder what your Walter. . . saw?' The pulse jumped at the same time as the thieves did. Shadows unfolded themselves. There was the scrape of metal. A low voice said, 'There's two of you, ladies, and there's six of us. There's no use in screaming.' 'Oh, deary deary me,' said Granny. Mrs Plinge dropped to her knees. 'Oh, please don't hurt us, kind sirs, we are harmless old ladies! Haven't you got mothers?' Granny rolled her eyes. Damn, damn and blast. She was a good witch. That was her role in life. That was the burden she had to bear. Good and Evil were quite superfluous when you'd grown up with a highly developed sense of Right and Wrong. She hoped, oh she hoped, that young though these were, they were dyed-in-the-wool criminals . . 'I 'ad a mother once,' said the nearest thief. 'Only I think I must of et 'er. . .' Ah. Top marks. Granny raised both hands to her hat to draw out two long hatpins. . . A tile slid off the roof, and splashed into a puddle. They looked up. A caped figure was visible for a moment against the moonlight. It thrust out a sword at arm's length. Then it dropped, landing lightly in front of one astonished man. The sword whirled. The first thief spun and thrust at the shadowy shape in front of him, which turned out to be another thief, whose arm jerked up and dragged its own knife along the ribcage of the thief beside him. The masked figure danced among the gang, his sword almost leaving trails in the air. It occurred to Granny later that it never actually made contact, but then, it never needed to-when six are against one in a melee in the shadows, and especially if those six aren't used to a target that is harder to hit than a wasp, and even more so if they got all their ideas of knifefighting from other amateurs, then there's six chances in seven that they'll stab a crony and about one chance in twelve that they'll nick their own earlobe. The two that remained uninjured after ten seconds looked at one another, turned, and ran. And then it was over. The surviving vertical figure bowed low in front of Granny Weatherwax. 'Ah. Bella Donna!' There was a swirl of black cloak and red silk, and it too was gone. For a moment soft footsteps could be heard skimming over the cobbles. Granny's hand was still halfway to her hat. 'Well I never!' she said. She looked down. Various bodies were groaning or making soft bubbling noises. 'Deary deary me,' she said. Then she pulled herself together. 'I reckon we're going to need some nice hot water and some bits of bandage, and a good sharp needle for the stitching, Mrs Plinge,' she said. 'We can't let these poor men bleed to death now, can we, even if they do try to rob old ladies. . .' Mrs Plinge looked horrified. 'We've got to be charitable, Mrs Plinge,' Granny insisted. 'I'll pump up the fire and tear up a sheet,' said Mrs Plinge. 'Don't know if I can find a needle. . .'

      'Oh, I 'spect I've got a needle,' said Granny, extracting one' from the brim of her hat. She knelt down by a fallen thief. 'It's rather rusty and blunt,' she added, 'but we shall have to do the best we can.' The needle gleamed in the moonlight. His round, frightened eyes focused on it, and then on Granny's face. He whimpered. His shoulder blades tried to dig him into the cobbles. It was perhaps as well that no one else could see Granny's face in the shadows. 'Let's do some good,' she said. Salzella threw his hands in the air. 'Supposing he'd come down in the middle of the act?' he said. 'All right, all right,' said Bucket, who was sitting behind his desk as a man might hide behind a bunker. 'I agree. After the show we call in the Watch. No two ways about it. We shall just have to ask them to be discreet.' 'Discreet? Have you ever met a Watchman?' said Salzella. 'Not that they'll find anything. He'll have been over the rooftops and away, you may depend upon it. Whoever he is. Poor Dr Undershaft. He was always so highly strung.' 'Never more so than tonight,' said Salzella. 'That was tasteless!' Salzella leaned over the desk. 'Tasteless or not, the company are theatre people. Superstitious. One little thing like someone being murdered on stage and they go all to pieces.' 'He wasn't murdered on stage, he was murdered off stage. And we can't be sure it was murder! He'd been very. . . depressed, lately.' Agnes had been shocked, but it hadn't been shock at Dr Undershaft's death. She'd been astonished at her own reaction. It had been startling and unpleasant to see the man, but even worse to see herself actually being interested in what was happening-in the way people reacted, in the way they moved, in the things they said. It had been as if she'd stood outside herself, watching the whole thing. Christine, on the other hand, had just folded up. So had Dame Timpani. Far more people had fussed over Christine than around the prima donna, despite the fact that Dame Timpani had come around and fainted again quite pointedly several times and had eventually been forced to go for hysterics. No one had assumed for a minute that Agnes couldn't cope. Christine had been carried into Salzella's backstage office and put on a couch. Agnes had fetched a bowl of water and a cloth and was wiping her forehead, for there are some people who are destined to be carried to comfortable couches and some people whose only fate is fetching a bowl of cold water. 'Curtain goes up again in two minutes,' said Salzella. 'I'd better go and round up the orchestra. They'll all be in the Stab In The Back over the road. The swine can get through half a pint before the applause has died away.' 'Are they capable of playing?' 'They never have been, so I don't see why they should start now,' said Salzella. 'They're musicians, Bucket. The only way a dead body would upset them is if it fell in their beer, and even then they'd play if you offered them Dead Body Money.' Bucket walked over to the recumbent Christine. 'How is she?' 'She keeps mumbling a bit-' Agnes began. 'Cup of tea? Tea? Cup of tea, anyone? Nothing nicer than a cup of tea, well, I tell a lie, but I see the couch is occupied, just my little joke, no offence meant, anyone for a nice cup of tea?'

      Agnes looked around in horror. 'Well, I could certainly do with one,' said Bucket, with false joviality. 'How about you, miss?' Nanny winked at Agnes. 'Er. . .no, thank you. . . do you work here?' said Agnes. 'I'm just helping out for Mrs Plinge, who has been taken poorly,' said Nanny, giving her another wink. 'I'm Mrs Ogg. Don't mind me.' This seemed to satisfy Bucket, if only because random teadistributors represented the most minor of threats at this point. 'It's more like Grand Guignol than opera out there tonight,' said Nanny. She nudged Bucket. ' 'S foreign for “blood all over the stage”,' she said helpfully. 'Really.' 'Yep. It means. . . Big Gignol.' Music started in the distance. 'That's the overture to Act Two,' said Bucket. 'Well, if Christine is still unwell, then. . .' He looked desperately at Agnes. Well, at a time like this people would understand. Agnes's chest swelled further with pride. 'Yes, Mr Bucket?' 'Perhaps we could find you a white-' Christine, her eyes still shut, raised her wrist to her forehead and groaned. 'Oh, dear, what happened?' Bucket knelt down instantly. 'Are you all right? You had a nasty shock! Do you think you could go on for the sake of your art and people not asking for their money back?' She gave him a brave smile. Unnecessarily brave, it seemed to Agnes. 'I can't disappoint the dear public!' she said. . 'Jolly good!' said Bucket. 'I should hurry on out there, then. Perdita will help you-won't you, Perdita?' 'Yes. Of course.' 'And you'll be in the chorus for the duet,' said Bucket. 'Nearby in the chorus.' Agnes sighed. 'Yes, I know. Come on, Christine.' 'Dear Perdita. . .' said Christine. Nanny watched them go. Then she said, 'I'll have that cup if you've finished with it.' 'Oh. Yes. Yes, it was very nice,' said Bucket. 'Er. . . I had a bit of an accident up at the Boxes,' said Nanny. Bucket clutched at his chest. 'How many died?' 'Oh, no one died, no one died. They got a bit damp because I spilled some champagne.' Bucket sagged with relief. 'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' he said. 'When I say spilled. . . I mean, it went on happening. . .' He waved her away. 'It cleans up well off the carpet,' he said. 'Does it stain ceilings?' 'Mrs. . . ?' 'Ogg., 'Please just go away.' Nanny nodded, gathered up the teacups and wandered out of the office. If no one questioned an old lady with a tray of tea, they certainly weren't bothered about one behind a pile of washing-up. Washing-up is a badge of membership anywhere. As far as Nanny Ogg was concerned, washing-up was also something that happened to other people, but she felt that it might be a good idea to stay in character. She found an alcove with a pump and a sink in it, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. 'You shouldn't do that, you know,' said a voice. 'That's very unlucky.'

      She glanced around at a stage-hand. 'What, washing-up causes seven years' bad luck?' she said. 'You were whistling.' 'Well? I always whistle when I'm thinkin'.' 'You shouldn't whistle on stage, I meant.' It's unlucky?' 'I suppose you could say that. We use whistle codes when we're shifting the scenery. Having a sack of sandbags land on you could be unlucky, I suppose.' Nanny glanced up. His gaze followed hers. just here the ceiling was about two feet away. 'It's just safest not to whistle,' the boy mumbled. 'I'll remember that,' said Nanny. 'No whistlin'. Interestin'. We do live and learn, don't we?' The curtain went up on Act Two. Nanny watched from the wings. The interesting thing was the way in which people contrived to keep one hand higher than their necks in case of accidents. There seemed to be far more salutes and waves and dramatic gestures than were strictly called for in the opera. She watched the duet between Iodine and Bufola, possibly the first in the history of the opera where both singers kept their eyes turned resolutely upwards. Nanny enjoyed music, as well. If music were the food of love, she was game for a sonata and chips at any time. But it was clear that the sparkle -had gone out of things tonight. She shook her head. A figure moved through the shadows behind her, and reached out. She turned, and looked at a fearsome face. 'Oh, hello, Esme. How did you get in?' 'You've still -got the tickets so I had to talk to the man on the door. But he'll be right as rain in a minute or two. What's been happening?' 'Well. . . the Duke's sung a long song to say that he must be going, and the Count has sung a song saying how nice it is in the springtime, and a dead body's fallen out of the ceiling.' 'That goes on a lot in opera, does it?' 'Shouldn't think so.' 'Ah. In the theatre, I've noticed, if you watch dead bodies long enough you can see them move.' 'Doubt if this one'll move. Strangled. Someone's murdering opera people. I bin chatting to the ballet girls.' 'Indeed?' 'It's this Ghost they're all talking about.' 'Hmm. Wears one of those black opera suits and a white mask?' 'How did you know that?' Granny looked smug. 'I mean, I can't imagine who'd want to murder opera people. . .' Nanny thought of the expression on Dame Timpani's face. 'Except p'raps other opera people. And p'raps the musicians. And some of the audience, p'raps.' 'I don't believe in ghosts,' said Granny firmly. 'Oh, Esme! You know I've got a dozen of 'em in my house!' 'Oh, I believe in ghosts,' said Granny. 'Sad things hangin' around goin' woogy woogy woogy. . . but I don't believe they kill people or use swords.' She walked away a little. 'There's too many ghosts here already.' Nanny kept quiet. It was best to do so when Granny was listening without using her ears.

      'Gytha?' 'Yes, Esme?' 'What does “Bella Donna” mean?' 'It's the nobby name for Deadly Nightshade, Esme.' 'I thought so. Huh! The cheek of it!' 'Only, in opera, it means Beautiful Woman.' 'Really? Oh.' Granny's hand reached up and patted the iron-hard bun of her hair. 'Foolishness!' . . .he'd moved like music, like someone dancing to a rhythm inside his head. And his face for a moment in the moonlight was the skull of an angel. . . The duet got another standing ovation. Agnes faded gently back into the chorus. She had to do little else during the remainder of the act except dance, or at least move as rhythmically as she could, with the rest of the chorus during the Gypsy Fair, and listen to the Duke singing a song about how lovely the countryside was in summer. With an arm extended dramatically above his head. She kept peering into the wings. If Nanny Ogg was here then the other one would be around somewhere. She wished she'd never written those wretched letters home. Well. . . they wouldn't drag her back, no matter what they tried. . . * * * The remainder of the opera passed without anyone dying, except where the score required them to do so at some length. There was a minor upset when a member of the chorus was almost brained by a sandbag dislodged from a gantry by the stage-hands stationed there to prevent accidents. There was more applause at the end. Christine got most of it. And then the curtains closed. And opened and closed a few times as Christine took her bows. Agnes felt perhaps she took one more bow than the applause really justified. Perdita, looking out through her eyes, said: of course she did. And then they closed the curtains for the last time. The audience went home. From the wings, and up in the flies, the stagehands whistled their commands. Parts of the world vanished into the aerial darkness. Someone went round and put out most of the lights. Rising like a birthday cake, the chandelier was winched into its loft so that the candles could be snuffed. Then there were the footsteps of the men leaving the loft. . . Within twenty minutes of the last handclap of applause the auditorium was empty and dark, except for just a few lights. There was the clank of a bucket. Walter Plinge walked on to the stage, if such a word could be employed for his mode of progress. He moved like a puppet on elastic strings, so that it seemed only coincidentally that his feet touched the ground. Very slowly, and very conscientiously, he began to mop the stage. After a few minutes a shadow detached itself from the curtains and walked over to him. Walter looked down. 'Hello Mister Pussy Cat,' he said. Greebo rubbed against his legs. Cats have an instinct for anyone daft enough to give them food, and Walter certainly was well qualified. 'I shall go and find you some milk shall I Mister Cat?' Greebo purred like a thunderstorm.

      Walking his strange walk, advancing only by averages, Walter disappeared into the wings. There were two dark figures sitting in the balcony. 'Sad,' said Nanny. 'He's got a good job in the warm and his mother keeps an eye on him,' said Granny. 'A lot of people fare worse.' 'Not a big future for him, though,' said Nanny. 'Not when you think about it.' 'There was a couple of cold potatoes and half a herring for their supper,' said Granny. 'Hardly a stick of furniture, too.' 'Shame.' 'Mind you, she's a little bit richer now,' Granny conceded. 'Especially if she sells all those knives and boots,' she added to herself. 'It's a cruel world for old ladies,' said Nanny, matriarch of a vast extended tribe and undisputed tyrant of half the Ramtops. 'Especially one as terrified as Mrs Phnge,' said Granny. 'Well, I'd be frightened too, if I was old and had Walter to think about.' 'I ain't talking about that, Gytha. I know about fear.' 'That's true,' said Nanny. 'Most of the people you meet are full of fear.' 'Mrs Phnge is living in fear,' said Granny, appearing not to hear this. 'Her mind is flat with it. She can't hardly think for the terror. I could feel it coming off of her like mist.' 'Why? Because of the Ghost?' 'I don't know yet. Not all of it, anyway. But I will find out.' Nanny fished in the recesses of her clothing. 'Fancy a drink?' she said. There was a muffled clink from somewhere in her petticoats. 'I got champagne, brandy and port. Also some nibbles and biscuits.' 'Gytha Ogg, I believe you are a thief,' said Granny. 'I ain't!' said Nanny, and added, with that grasp of advanced morality that comes naturally to a witch: 'Just because I occasionally technic'ly steal something, that doesn't make me a thief. I don't think thief.' 'Let's get back to Mrs Palm's.' 'All right,' said Nanny. 'But can we get something to eat first? I don't mind the cooking, but the grub there is a bit of an all-day breakfast, if you know what I mean. . .' There was a sound from the stage as they stood up. Walter had returned, followed by a slightly fatter Greebo. Oblivious to the watchers, he continued to mop the stage. 'First thing tomorrow,' said Granny, 'we'll go and see Mr Goatberger the Almanack man again. I've had time to think about what to do next. And then we're going to sort this out.' She glared at the innocent figure washing the stage arid said, under her breath: 'What is it you know, Walter Plinge? What is it you've seen?' 'Wasn't it amazing?!' said Christine, sitting up in bed. Her nightdress, Agnes had noted, was white. And extremely lacy. 'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes. 'Five curtain calls!! Mr Bucket says that's more than anyone's ever had since Dame Gigli!! I'm sure I won't be able to sleep for the excitement!!' 'So you just drink up that lovely hot milk drink I've done for us,' said Agnes. 'It took me ages to carry the saucepan up those stairs.' 'And the flowers!!' said Christine, ignoring the mug Agnes had placed beside her. 'They started arriving right after the performance, Mr Bucket said!! He said-'

      There was a soft knock at the door. Christine adjusted her dress. 'Come!!' The door opened and Walter Plinge shuffled in, hidden under the bouquets of flowers. After a few steps he stumbled on his own feet, plunged forward, and dropped them. Then he stared at the two girls in mute embarrassment, turned suddenly, and walked into the door. Christine giggled. 'Sorry mu-miss,' said Walter. 'Thank you, Walter,' said Agnes. The door closed. 'Isn't he strange?! Have you seen the way he stares at me?! Do you think you could find some water for these, Perdita?!' 'Certainly, Christine. It's only seven flights of stairs.' 'And as a reward I shall drink this lovely drink you have made for me!! Has it got spices in it?' 'Oh, yes. Spices,' said Agnes. 'It's not like one of those potions your witches cook up, is it?!' 'Er, no,' said Agnes. After all, everyone in Lancre used fresh herbs. 'Er. . . there's not going to be anything like enough vases for them all, even if I use the guzunder. . .' 'The what?!' 'The. . . you know. It's goes-under. . . the bed. Guzunder.' 'You're so funny!!' 'There won't be, anyway,' said Agnes, blushing hotly. Behind her eyes, Perdita committed murder. 'Then put in all the ones from the earls and knights and I shall see to the others tomorrow!' said Christine, picking up the drink. Agnes picked up the kettle and started towards the door. 'Perdita, dear?' said Christine, the mug halfway to her lips. Agnes turned. 'It did seem to me you were singing the teensiest bit loud, dear! I'm sure it must have been a little difficult for everyone to hear me.' 'Sorry, Christine,' said Agnes. She walked down in darkness. Tonight there was a candle burning in a niche on every second landing. Without them the stairs would have been merely dark; with them, shadows crept arid leapt at every corner. She reached the pump in the little alcove by the stage manager's office, and filled the kettle. Out on the stage, someone began to sing. It was Peccadillo's part of a duet of three hours earlier, but sung without music and in a tenor voice of such tone and purity that the kettle dropped out of Agnes's hand and spilled cold water over her feet. She listened for a while, and then realized that she was singing the soprano part under her breath. The song came to an end. She could hear, far off, the hollow sound of footsteps retreating in the distance. She ran to the door to the stage, .paused a moment, and then opened it and went forward and out on to the huge dim emptiness. The candles left burning were as much illumination as stars on a clear night. There was no one there. She walked into the centre of the stage, and stopped, and caught her breath at the shock. She could feel the auditorium in front of her, the huge empty space making the sound that velvet would make if it could snore. It wasn't silence. A stage is never silent. It was the noise produced by a million other sounds that have never quite died away-the thunder of