applause, the overtures, the arias. They poured down. . . fragments of tunes, lost chords, snatches of song. She stepped back, and trod on someone's foot. Agnes spun around. 'André, there's no-' Someone crouched back. 'Sorry miss!' Agnes breathed out. 'Walter?' 'Sorry miss!' 'It's all right! You just startled me.' 'Didn't see you miss!' Walter was holding something. To Agnes's amazement, the darker shape in the darkness was a cat, flopped over Walter's arms like an old rug and purring happily. It was like seeing someone poking their arm into a mincing machine to see what was jamming it. 'That's Greebo, isn't it?' 'He's a happy cat! He's full of milk!' 'Walter, why're you in the middle of the stage in the dark when everyone's gone home?' 'What were you doing miss?' It was the first time she'd heard Walter ask a question. And he's sort of a janitor, after all, she told herself. He can go anywhere. 'I. . . got lost,' she said, ashamed at the lie. 'I. . . I'll be going up to my room now. Er. Did you hear someone singing?' 'All the time miss!' 'I meant just now.' 'Just now I'm talking to you miss!' 'Oh. . .' 'G'night miss!' She walked through the soft warm gloom to the backstage door, resisting at every step the urge to look round. She collected the kettle and hurried up the stairs. . Behind her, on the stage, Walter carefully lowered Greebo to the floor, took off his beret, and removed something white and papery from inside it. 'What shall we listen to, Mister Cat? I know, we shall listen to the overture to Die Flederleiv by J. Q. Bubbla, cond. Vochua Doinov.' Greebo gave him the fat-cheeked look of a cat prepared to put up with practically anything for food. And Walter sat down beside him and listened to the music coming out of the walls. When Agnes got back to the room Christine was already fast asleep, snoring the snore of those in herbal heaven. The mug lay by the bed. It wasn't a bad thing to do, Agnes reassured herself. Christine probably needed a good night's sleep. It was practically a kindly act. She turned her attention to the flowers. There were quite a lot of roses and orchids. Most of them had cards attached. Many aristocratic men apparently appreciated good singing or, at least, good singing that appeared to come from a face like Christine's. Agnes arranged the flowers Lancre fashion, which was to hold the pot with one hand and the bouquet in the other and forcibly bring the two into conjunction. The last bunch was the smallest, and wrapped in red paper. There was no card. In fact, there were no flowers. Someone had merely wrapped up half a dozen blackened and spindly rose- stems and then, for some reason, sprayed them with scent. It was musky and rather pleasant, but a bad joke all the same. She threw them in the bin with the rubbish, blew out the candle, and sat down to wait. She wasn't certain for whom. Or what.

      After a minute or two she was aware that there was a glow coming from the waste bin. It was the barest fluorescence, like a sick glow-worm, but it was there. She crawled across the floor and peered in. There were rosebuds on the dead sticks, transparent as glass, visible only by the glimmer on the edge of each petal. They flickered like marsh lights. Agnes lifted them out carefully and fumbled in the darkness for the empty mug. It wasn't the best of vases, but it would have to do. Then she sat and watched the ghostly flowers until. . . . . .someone coughed. She jerked her head up, aware that she'd fallen asleep. 'Madam?' 'Sir?!' The voice was melodious. It suggested that, at any minute, it might break into song. 'Attend. Tomorrow you must sing the part of Laura in Il Truccatore. We have much to do. One night is barely enough. The aria in Act One will occupy much of our time.' There was a brief passage of violin music. 'Your performance tonight was. . . good. But there are areas that we must build upon. Attend.' 'Did you send the roses?!' 'You like the roses? They bloom only in darkness.' 'Who are you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?' There was silence for a moment. 'Yes.' Then: 'Let us examine the role of Laura in Il Truccatore “The Master of Disguise”, also sometimes vulgarly known as “The Man with a Thousand Faces”. . .' When the witches arrived at Goatberger's offices next morning they found a very large troll sitting on the stairs. It had a club across its knees and held up a shovel-sized hand to prevent them going any further. 'No one's allowed in,' it said. 'Mr Goatberger is in a meetin'.' 'How long is this meetin' going to be?' said Granny. 'Mr Goatberger is a very elongated meeter.' Granny gave the troll an appraising stare. 'You been in publishin' long?' she said. 'Since dis mornin',' said the troll proudly. 'Mr Goatberger gave you the job?' 'Yup. Come up Quarry Lane and picked me special for. . .'-the troll's brow creased as it tried to remember the unfamiliar words-'. . .the fast track inns fast-movin'_ worlds publishin'.' 'And what exactly is your job?' ' 'Ead 'fitter.' ' 'Souse me,' said Nanny, pushing forward. 'I'd know that stratum anywhere. You're from Copperhead in Lancre, ain't you?' 'So what?' 'We're from Lancre, too.' 'Yeah?' 'This is Granny Weatherwax, you know.' The troll gave her a disbelieving grin, and then its brow corrugated again, and then it looked at Granny. She nodded. 'The one you boys call Aaoograha hoa, you know?' said Nanny. ' “She Who Must Be Avoided”?'

      The troll looked at its club as if seriously considering the possibility of beating itself to death. Granny patted it on the lichen-encrusted shoulder. 'What's your name, lad?' 'Carborundum, miss,' it mumbled. One of its legs began to tremble. 'Well, I'm sure you're going to make a good life for yourself here in the big city,' said Granny. 'Yes, why don't you go and start now?' said Nanny. The troll gave her a grateful look and fled, without even bothering to open the door. 'Do they really call me that?' said Granny. 'Er. Yes,' said Nanny, kicking herself. 'It's a mark of respect, of course.' 'Oh.' 'Er. . .' 'I've always done my best to get along with trolls, you know that.' 'Oh, yes.' 'How about the dwarfs?' said Granny, as someone might who had found a hitherto unsuspected boil and couldn't resist poking it. 'Have they got a name for me, too?' 'Let's go and see Mr Goatberger, shall we?' said Nanny brightly. 'Gytha!' 'Er. . . well. . . I think it's K'ez'rek d'b'duz,' said Nanny. 'What does that mean?' 'Er. . . “Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain”,' said Nanny. 'Oh.' Granny was uncharacteristically silent as they made their way up the stairs. Nanny didn't bother to knock. She opened the door and said, 'Coo-ee, Mr Goatberger! It's us again, just like you said. Oh, I shouldn't try to get out of the window like that-you're three flights up and that bag of money is a bit dangerous if you're climbing around.' The man edged around the room so that his desk was between him and the witches. 'Wasn't there a troll downstairs?' he said. 'It's decided to break out of publishing,' said Nanny. She sat down and gave him a big smile. 'I 'spect you've got some money for us.' Mr Goatberger realized that he was trapped. His face contorted into a series of twisted expressions as he experimented with some replies. Then he smiled as widely as Nanny and sat down opposite her. 'Of course, things are very difficult at the moment,' he said. 'In fact I can't recall a worse time,' he added, with considerable honesty. He looked at Granny's face. His grin stayed where it was but the rest of his face began to edge away. 'People just don't seem to be buying books,' he said. 'And the cost of the etchings, well, it's wicked.' 'Everyone I knows buys the Almanack,' said Granny. 'I reckon everyone in Lancre buys your Almanack. Everyone in the whole Ramtops buys the Almanack, even the dwarfs. That's a lot of half dollars. And Gytha's book seems to be doing very well.' 'Well, of course, I'm glad it's so popular, but what with distribution, paying the peddlers, the wear and tear on-' 'Your Almanack will last a household all winter, with care,' said Granny. 'Providing no one's ill and the paper's nice and thin.' 'My son Jason buys two copies,' said Nanny. 'Of course, he's got a big family. The privy door never stops swinging' 'Yes but, you see, the point is. . . I don't actually have to pay you anything,' said Mr Goatberger, trying to ignore this. His smile had the

      face all to itself now. 'You paid me to print it, and I gave you your money back. In fact I think our accounts department made a slight error in your favour, but I won't-' His voice trailed away. Granny Weatherwax was unfolding a sheet of paper. 'These predictions for next year. . .' she said. 'Where'd you get that?' 'I borrowed it. You can have it back if you like-' 'Well, what about them?' 'They're wrong.' 'What do you mean, they're wrong? They're predictions!' 'I don't see there being a rain of curry in Klatch next May. You don't get curry that early.' 'You know about the predictions business?' said Goatberger. 'You? I've been printing predictions for years. 'I don't do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do,' Granny admitted. 'But I'm pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one.' 'Indeed? What's going to happen in thirty seconds?' Granny told him. Goatberger roared with laughter. 'Oh, yes, that's a good one, you should be writing them for us!' he said. 'Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious; eh? That's better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn't even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?' 'No.' 'No?' 'Twenty-one seconds now,' said Granny. Mr Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today. He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows. He really hadn't expected it to be like this. He'd liked opera. It had all seemed so artistic. He'd watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant. Someone knocked at the door. Mr Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. 'Who's dead?' he said. 'N-no one Mr Bucket! I've got your letters!' 'Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you.' He took the bundle and shut the door. There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let- There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it. He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash. It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be. Finally he disembowelled it with the, paperknife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite. When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows: My Dear Bucket, I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I assure you she is more than capable.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough. My I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival. Wishing you the very best, The Opera Ghost 'Mr Salzella!' Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. 'You do not intend to accede to this?' he said. 'She does sing superbly, Salzella.' 'You mean the Nitt girl?' 'Well. . . yes. . . you know what I mean.' 'But this is nothing less than blackmail!' 'Is it? He's not actually threatening anything.' 'You let her. . . I mean them, of course. . . you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr Undershaft.' 'What do you advise, then?' There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door. 'Come in, Walter,' said Bucket and Salzella together. Walter jerked in, holding the coalscuttle. 'I've been to see Commander Vimes of the city Watch,' said Salzella. 'He said he'll have some of his best men here tonight. Undercover.' 'I thought you said they were all incompetent.' Salzella shrugged. 'We've got to do this properly. Did you know Dr Undershaft was strangled before he was hung?' 'Hanged,' said Bucket, without thinking. 'Men are hanged. It's dead meat that's hung.' 'Indeed?' said Salzella. 'I appreciate the information. Well, poor old Undershaft was strangled, apparently. And then he was hung.' 'Really, Salzella, you do have a misplaced sense-' 'I've finished now Mr Bucket!' 'Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go.' 'Yes Mr Bucket!' Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously. 'I'm afraid it's working here,' said Salzella. 'If you don't find some way of dealing with. . . are you all right, Mr Bucket?' 'What?' Bucket, who'd been staring at the closed door, shook his head. 'Oh. Yes. Er. Walter. . .' 'What about him?' 'He's. . . all right, is he?' 'Oh, he's got his. . . funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage-hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him. . . you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail-holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?' 'Oh. . . I just wondered. Silly, really.' 'I suppose he is, technically.' 'No, I meant- Oh, it doesn't matter. . .' Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat. Every thirty seconds she'd say, 'How much was that again?' 'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence,' said Granny. She was looking thoughtful. 'I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,' said Nanny. 'Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?'

      'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence.' 'I've never had seventy dollars before,' said Nanny. 'I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said-' 'Yes, I know. But I'm working my way up to it gradual. I'll say this about money. It really chafes.' 'I don't know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,' said Granny. 'It's the last place anybody would look.' Nanny sighed. 'How much did you say it was?' 'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty-seven pence.' 'I'm going to need a bigger tin.' 'You're going to need a bigger chimney.' 'I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg.' She nudged Granny. 'You're going to have to be polite to me now I'm rich,' she said. 'Yes, indeed,' said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. 'Don't think I'm not considering that.' She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie. The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them. 'We've got to get back in there,' Granny said. 'And into Box Eight.' 'Crowbar,' said Nanny, firmly. 'A No. 3 claw end should do it.' 'We're not your Nev,' said Granny. 'Anyway, breaking in wouldn't be the same thing. We've got to have a right to be there.' 'Cleaners,' said Nanny. 'We could be cleaners, and. . . no, 's not right me being a cleaner now, in my position.' 'No, we can't have that, with you in your position.' Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. 'O' course,' she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, 'we could always buy Box Eight.' 'Wouldn't work,' said Nanny. People were hurrying down the steps with the cuff-adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. 'They're scared of selling it.' 'Why not?' said Granny. 'There's people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone's prepared to sell his own grandmother if he'd make enough money.' 'It'd cost a fortune, anyway,' said Nanny. She looked at Granny's triumphant expression and groaned. 'Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!' She thought for a moment. 'Anyway, it still wouldn't work. I mean, look at us, we don't look like the right kind of people. . .' Enrico Basilica got out of the coach. 'But we know the right kind of people,' said Granny. 'Oh, Esme!' The shop bell tinkled in a refined tone,, as if it were embarrassed to do something as vulgar as ring. It would have much preferred to give a polite cough. This was Ankh-Morpork's most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available. This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place. 'Shop!' yelled Nanny. A lady appeared from behind a curtain and observed the visitors, quite possibly with her nose.

      'Have you come to the right entrance?' she said. Madame Dawning had been brought up to be polite to servants and trades people, even when they were as scruffy as these two old crows. 'My friend here wants a new dress,' said the dumpier of the two. 'One of the nobby ones with a train and a padded bum.' 'In black,' said the thin one. 'And we wants all the trimmings,' said the dumpy one. 'Little handbag onna string, pair of glasses onna stick, the whole thing.' 'I think perhaps that might be a leetle more than you're thinking of spending,' said Madame Dawning. 'How much is a leetle?' said the dumpy one. 'I mean that this is rather a select dress shop.' 'That's why we're here. We don't want rubbish. My name's Nanny Ogg and this here is. . . Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax.' Madame Dawning regarded Lady Esmerelda quizzically. There was no doubt that the woman had a certain bearing. And she stared like a duchess. 'From Lancre,' said Nanny Ogg. 'And she could have a conservatory if she liked, but she doesn't want one.' 'Er. . .'Madame Dawning decided to play along for a while. 'What style were you considering?' 'Something nobby,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I perhaps would like a leetle more guidance than that-' 'Perhaps you could show us some things,' said Lady Esmerelda, sitting down. 'It's for the opera.' 'Oh, you patronize the opera?' 'Lady Esmerelda patronizes everything,' said Nanny Ogg stoutly. Madame Dawning had a manner peculiar to her class and upbringing. She'd been raised to see the world in a certain way. When it didn't act in that certain way she wobbled a bit but, like a gyroscope, eventually recovered and went on spinning just as if it had. If civilization were to collapse totally and the survivors were reduced to eating cockroaches, Madame Dawning would still use a napkin and look down on people who ate their cockroaches the wrong way round. 'I will, er, show you, some examples,' she said. 'Excuse me one moment.' She scuttled into the long workrooms behind the shop, where there was considerably less gilt, and leaned against the wall and summoned her chief seamstress. 'Mildred, there are two very strange-' She stopped. They'd followed her! They were wandering down the aisle between the rows of dressmakers, nodding at people and inspecting some of the dresses on the dummies. She hurried back. 'I'm sure you'd prefer-' 'How much is this one?' said Lady Esmerelda, fingering a creation intended for the Dowager Duchess of Quirm. 'I am afraid that one is not for sale-' 'How much would it be if it was for sale?' 'Three hundred dollars, I believe,' said Madame Dawning. 'Five hundred seems about right,' said Lady Esmerelda. 'Does it?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Oh, it does, does it?' The dress was black. At least, in theory it was black. It was black in the same. way that a starling's wing is black. It was black silk, with jet beads and sequins. It was black on holiday. 'It looks about my size. We'll take it. Pay the woman, Gytha.' Madame's gyroscope precessed rapidly. 'Take it? Now? Five hundred dollars? Pay? Pay now? Cash?' 'See to it, Gytha.' 'Oh, all right.'

      Nanny Ogg turned away modestly and raised her skirt. There was a series of rustlings and elasticated twangings, and then she turned around, holding a bag. She counted out fifty rather warm ten-dollar pieces into Madame Dawning's unprotesting hand. 'And now we'll go back into the shop and have a poke around for the other stuff,' said Lady Esmerelda. 'I fancy ostrich feathers myself. And one of those big cloaks the ladies wear. And one of those fans edged with lace.' 'Why don't we get some great big diamonds while we're about it?' said Nanny Ogg sharply. 'Good idea.' Madame Dawning could hear them bickering as they ambled away up the aisle. She looked down at the money in her hand. She knew about old money, which was somehow hallowed by the fact that people had hung on to it for years, and she knew about new money, which seemed to be being made by all these upstarts that were flooding into the city these days. But under her powdered bosom she was an Ankh-Morpork shopkeeper, and knew that the best kind of money was the sort that was in her hand rather than someone else's. The best kind of money was mine, not yours. Besides, she was also enough of a snob to confuse rudeness with .good breeding. In the same way that the really rich can never be mad (they're eccentric), so they can also never be rude (they're outspoken and forthright). She hurried after Lady Esmerelda and her rather strange friend. Salt of the earth, she told herself. She was in time to overhear a mysterious conversation. 'I'm being punished, ain't I, Esme?' 'Can't imagine what you're talking about, Gytha.' 'Just 'cos I had my little moment.' 'I really don't follow you. Anyway, you said you were at your wits' end with thinking what you'd do with the money.' 'Yes, but I'd have quite liked to have been at my wits' end on a big comfy chase longyou somewhere with lots of big strong men buyin' me chocolates and pressin' their favours .on me.' 'Money don't buy happiness, Gytha.' 'I only wanted to rent it for a few weeks.' Agnes rose late, the music still ringing in her ears, and dressed in a dream. But she hung a bed sheet over the mirror first, just in case. There were half a dozen of the chorus dancers in the canteen, sharing a stick of celery and giggling. And there was André. He was eating something absentmindedly while staring at a sheet of music. Occasionally he'd wave his spoon in the air with a faraway look on his face, and then put it down and make a few notes. In mid-beat he caught sight of Agnes, and grinned. 'Hello. You look tired.' 'Er. . . yes.' 'You've missed all the excitement.' 'Have I?' 'The Watch have been here, talking to everyone and asking lots of questions and writing things down very slowly.' 'What sort of questions?' 'Well, knowing the Watch, probably “Was it you what did it, then?” They're rather slow thinkers.' 'Oh dear. Does that mean tonight's performance is cancelled?'

      André laughed. He had a rather pleasant laugh. 'I don't think Mr Bucket could possibly cancel it!' he said. 'Even if people are dropping like flies out of the flies.' 'Why not?' 'People have been queuing for tickets!' 'Why?' He told her. 'That's disgusting!' said Agnes. 'You mean they're coming because it might be dangerous?' 'Human nature, I'm afraid. Of course, some of them want to hear Enrico Basilica. And. . . well. . . Christine seems popular. . .' He gave her a sorrowful look. 'I don't mind, honestly,' lied Agnes. 'Um. . . how long have you worked here, André?' 'Er. . . only a few months. I. . . used to teach music to the Seriph's children in Klatch.' 'Um. . . what do you think about the Ghost?' He shrugged. 'Just some kind of madman, I suppose. 'Um. . . do you know if he sings? I mean, is good at singing?' 'I heard that he sends little critiques to the manager. Some of the girls say they've heard someone singing in the night, but they're always saying silly things.' 'Um. . . are there any secret passages here?' He looked at her with his head on one side. 'Who've you been talking to?' 'Sorry?' 'The girls say there are. Of course, they say they see the Ghost all the time. And sometimes in two places at once.' 'Why should they see him more?' 'Perhaps he just likes looking at young ladies. They're always practising in odd corners. Besides, they're all halfcrazed with hunger anyway.' 'Aren't you interested in the Ghost? People have been killed!' 'Well, people are saying it might have been Dr Undershaft.' 'But he was killed!' 'He might have hanged himself. He'd been very depressed lately. And he'd always been a bit strange. Nervy. It's going to be a bit difficult without him, though. Here, I've brought you a stack of old programmes. Some of the notes may help, since you haven't been in the opera long.' Agnes stared at them, unseeing. People were disappearing and the first thought that everyone had was that it was going to be inconvenient without them. The show must go on. Everyone said that. People said it all the time. Often they smiled when they said it, but they were serious all the same, under the smile. No one ever said why. But yesterday, when the chorus had been arguing about the money, everyone knew that they weren't actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game. The show went on. She'd heard all the stories. She'd heard about shows continuing while fire raged around the city, while a dragon was roosting on the roof, while there was rioting in the streets outside. Scenery collapsed? The show went on. Leading tenor died? Then appeal to the audience for any student of music who knew the part, and give him his big chance while his predecessor's body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like something important. But. . . the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didn't even think about it any more, as though there were fog in their heads. On the other hand. . . someone was teaching her to sing at night. A mysterious person sang songs on the stage when everyone had gone home. She tried to think of that voice belonging to someone who killed people.

      It didn't work. Maybe she'd caught some of the fog and didn't want it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people? She'd been idly turning the pages of an old programme and a name caught her eye. She quickly shuffled through the others beneath. There it was again. Not in every performance, and never in a major role, but it was there. Generally it played an innkeeper or a servant. 'Walter Plinge?' she said. 'Walter? But. . . he doesn't sing, does he?' She held up a programme and pointed. 'What? Oh, no!' André laughed. 'Good heavens. . . it's a. . . a kind of convenient name, I suppose. Sometimes someone has to sing a very minor part. . . perhaps a singer is in a role that they'd rather not be remembered in. . . well, here, they just go down on the programme as Walter Plinge. Lots of theatres have a useful name like that. Like A. N. Other. It's convenient for everyone.' 'But. . . Walter Plinge?' 'Well, I suppose it started as a joke. I mean, can you imagine Walter Plinge on stage?' André grinned. 'In that little beret he wears?' 'What does he think about it?' 'I don't think he minds. It's hard to tell, isn't it?' There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo the longdrawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don't have three hands, and ends with the roinroinroin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor. They heard an irate female voice. 'Walter Plinge!' 'Sorry Mrs Clamp!' 'Damn' thing keeps holding on to the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect-' There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a spoing. 'Now where's it gone?' 'Don't know Mrs Clamp!' 'And what's that cat doing in here?' André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. 'It is a little cruel, I suppose,' he said. 'The poor chap is a bit daft.' 'I'm not at all sure,' said Agnes, 'that I've met anyone here who isn't.' He grinned again. 'I know,' he said. 'I mean, everyone acts as if it's only the music that matters! The plots don't make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they've got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine-that's practically normal compared to opera! It's an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasn't for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!' She realized he was looking at her with an opera face. 'Of course, that's it, isn't it? It is the show that matters, isn't it?' she said. 'It's all show.' 'It's not meant to be real,' said André. 'It's not like theatre. No one's saying, “You've got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king.” The plot's only there to fill in time before the next song.' He leaned forward and took her hand. 'This must be wretched for you,' he said.

      No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets. She pulled her hand away. 'I, er, better go and practise,' she said, feeling the blush start. 'You really picked up the role of Iodine very well,' said André. 'I, er, have a private tutor,' said Agnes. 'Then he's really studied opera; that's all I can say.' 'I. . . think he has.' 'Esme?' 'Yes, Gytha?' 'It's not that I' m complaining or anything. . .' 'Yes?' '. . .but why isn't it me who's being the posh opera patronizes?' 'Because you're as common as muck, Gytha.' 'Oh. Right.' Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldn't see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. 'Fair enough.' 'It's not as though I like this.' 'Shall I do madam's feet?' said the manicurist. She stared at Granny's boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer. 'I got to admit, it's a nice hairstyle,' said Nanny. 'Madam has marvellous hair,' said the hairdresser. 'What is the secret?' 'You've got to make sure there's no newts in the water,' said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away. . . and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. 'Hmm,' she said. At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Granny's boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities she'd been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didn't know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do. Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didn't have Granny's gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong. 'Esme? I reckon we've spent. . . probably more'n a thousand dollars so far, and that's not including hirin' the coach, and we haven't paid Mrs Palm for the room.' 'You said nothing was too much trouble to help a Lancre girl,' said Granny. But I didn't say nothing was too much money, thought Nanny, and then scolded herself for thinking like that. But she was definitely feeling a little lighter in the underwear regions. There seemed to be a general consensus among the artisans of beauty that they'd done what they could. Granny swivelled the chair around. 'What do you think?' she said. Nanny Ogg stared. She'd seen many strange things in her life, some of them twice. She'd seen elves and walking stones and the shoeing of a unicorn. She'd had a farmhouse dropped on her head. But she'd never seen Granny Weatherwax in rouge. All her normal expletives of shock and surprise fused instantly, and she found herself resorting to an ancient curse belonging to her grandmother. 'Well, I'll be mogadored!' she said. 'Madam has extremely good skin,' said the cosmetics lady. 'I know,' said Granny. 'Can't seem to do anything about it.' 'I'll be mogadored!' said Nanny again.

      'Powder and paint,' said Granny. 'Huh. Just another kind of mask. Oh, well.' She gave the hairdresser a dreadful smile. 'How much do we owe you?' she said. 'Er. . . thirty dollars?' said the hairdresser. 'That is. . ., 'Give the w. . . man thirty dollars and another twenty to make up for his trouble,' said Granny, clutching at her head. 'Fifty dollars? You could buy a shop for-' 'Gytha!' 'Oh, all right. 'Scuse me, I'm just going to the bank.' She turned away demurely, raised the hem of her skirt -twangtwingtwongtwang -and turned back with a handful of coins. 'There you go, my good wo. . . sir,' she said sourly. There was a coach waiting outside. It was the best Granny had been able to hire with Nanny's money. A footman held open the door as Nanny helped her friend aboard. 'We'll go straight to Mrs Palm's so's I can change,' said Granny as they pulled away. 'And then to the Opera House. We ain't got much time.' 'Are you all right?' 'Never felt better.' Granny patted her hair. 'Gytha Ogg, you wouldn't be a witch if you couldn't jump to conclusions, right?' Nanny nodded. 'Oh, yes.' There was no shame in it. Sometimes there wasn't time to do anything else but take a flying leap. Sometimes you had to trust to experience and intuition and general awareness and take a running jump. Nanny herself could clear quite a tall conclusion from a standing start. 'So I've no doubt at all that there's some kind of idea floating around in your mind about this Ghost. . .' 'Well. . . sort of an idea, yes. . .' 'A name, perhaps?' Nanny shifted uncomfortably, and not only because of the moneybags under her skirt. 'I got to admit something crossed my mind. A kind of. . . feeling. I mean, you never can tell. . .' Granny nodded. 'Yes. It's all neat, isn't it? It's a lie.' 'You said last night you saw the whole thing!' 'It's still a lie. Like the lie about masks.' 'What lie about masks?' 'The way people say they hide faces.' 'They do hide faces;' said Nanny Ogg. 'Only the one on the outside.' No one took much notice of Agnes. The stage was being set for the new performance tonight. The orchestra was rehearsing. The ballerinas had been herded into their practice-room. In various other rooms people were singing at cross-purposes. But no one seemed to want her to do anything. I'm just a wandering voice, she thought. She climbed the stairs to her room and sat on the bed. The curtains were still drawn and, in the gloom, the strange roses glowed. She had rescued them from the bin because they were beautiful, but, in a way, she'd have been happier if they weren't there. Then she could have believed she'd imagined the whole thing. There was no sound from Christine's room. Telling herself that it was really her room anyway, and Christine had just been allowed to borrow it, Agnes went in. It was a mess. Christine had got up, got dressed either that or a thorough but overenthusiastic burglar had gone through every drawer in the place-and gone. The bouquets that Agnes had put into whatever

      receptacles she could find last night were where she had left them. The others were where she had left them, too, and they were already dying. She caught herself wondering where she could find some jars and pots for them, and hated herself for it. It was as bad as saying 'poot!' You might as well paint WELCOME on yourself and lie down on the doorstep of the universe. It was no fun at all, having a wonderful personality. Oh. . . and good hair. And then she went and found pots for them anyway. The mirror dominated the room. It seemed to grow a little larger each time she looked at it. All right. She had to know, didn't she? Heart pounding, she felt around the edges of it. There was a little raised area that might have looked like part of the frame, but as her fingers moved across it there was a 'click' and the mirror swung inwards a fraction of an inch. When she pushed at it, it moved. She breathed out. And stepped in. 'It's disgusting!' said Salzella. 'It's pandering to the most depraved taste!' Mr Bucket shrugged. 'It's not as though we're putting “Good Chance of Seeing Someone Throttled on Stage” on the posters,' he said. 'But news has got around. People like. . . drama.' 'You mean the Watch didn't want us to shut down?' 'No. They just said we should mount guards like last night and they'd take steps.' 'Steps to the nearest place of safety, no doubt.' 'I don't like it any more than you do, but it's gone too far. We need the Watch now. Anyway, there'd be a riot if we closed. Ankh-Morpork has always enjoyed. . . excitement. We're completely sold out. The show must go on.' 'Oh, yes,' said Salzella nastily. 'Would you like me to slit a few throats in the second act? Just so no one feels disappointed?' 'Of course not,' said Bucket. 'We don't want any deaths. But. . .' The 'but' hung in the air like the late Dr Undershaft. Salzella threw up his hands. 'Anyway, I believe we are past the worst,' said Mr Bucket. 'I hope so,' said Salzella. 'Where's Senor Basilica?' said Bucket. 'Mrs Plinge is showing him his dressing-room.' 'Mrs Plinge hasn't been murdered?' 'No, no one has been found dead so far today,' said Salzella. 'That is good news.' 'Yes, and it must be, oh, at least ten past twelve,' said Salzella with an irony that Bucket quite failed to notice. 'I will go and fetch him up so that we can have lunch, shall I? It must be a good half an hour since he had a snack.' Bucket nodded. After the director had gone he surreptitiously checked his desk drawers again. There was no letter. Perhaps it was over. . . Perhaps it was true what they were saying about the late doctor. Someone knocked at the door, four times. Only one person could achieve four knocks without any rhythm whatsoever. 'Come in, Walter.' Walter Plinge stumbled into the room. 'There's a lady!' he said. 'She's to see Mr Bucket!' Nanny Ogg poked her head around the door. 'Coo-ee,' she said. 'It's only me.' 'It's. . . Mrs Ogg, isn't it?' said Mr Bucket.

      There was something slightly worrying about the woman. He didn't recall her name on the list of employees. On the other hand, she was clearly around the place, she wasn't dead, and she made a decent cup of tea, so was it his worry if she wasn't getting paid? 'Good gracious, I'm not the lady,' said Nanny Ogg. 'I'm as common as muck, me, on the highest authority. No, she's waiting down in the foyer. I thought I'd better nip round here and warn you.' 'Warn me? Warn me about what? I don't have any other appointments this morning. Who is this lady?' 'Have you ever heard of Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax?' 'No. Should I?' 'Famous patron of the opera. Conservatories all over the place,' said Nanny. 'Pots of money, too.' 'Really? But I'm due to-' Bucket looked out of the window. There was a coach and four horses outside. It had so much rococo ornamentation on it that it was surprising it ever managed to move. 'Well, I-' he began again. 'It is really very incon-' 'She ain't the sort of person who likes to be kept waiting,' said Nanny, with absolute honesty. And then, because Granny had been getting on her nerves all morning and the initial embarrassment at Mrs Palm's still rankled and there was a streak of mischief in Nanny a mile wide, she added, 'They say she was a famous courtesan in her younger days. They say she didn't like to be kept waiting then, either. Retired now, of course. So they say.' 'You know, I've visited most of the major opera houses and I've never heard the name,' mused Bucket. 'Ah, I heard she likes to keep her donations secret,' said Nanny. Mr Bucket's mental compass once again swung around to point due Money. 'You'd better show her up,' he said. 'I could perhaps give her a few minutes-' 'No one ever gave Lady Esmerelda less than half an hour,' said Nanny, and gave Bucket a wink. 'I'll go and fetch her, shall I?' She bustled away, towing Walter behind her. Mr Bucket stared after her. Then, after a moment's thought, he got up and checked the set of his moustache in the mirror over the fireplace. He heard the door open and turned with his finest smile in place. It faded only slightly at the sight of Salzella, ushering the impressive bulk of Basilica in front of him. The little manager and interpreter fussed along beside him, like a tugboat. 'Ah, Senor Basilica,' said Bucket. 'I trust the dressingrooms are to your satisfaction?' Basilica gave him a blank smile while the interpreter spoke in Brindisian, and then replied. 'Senor Basilica says they are fine but the larder isn't big enough,' he said. 'Haha,' said Bucket, and then stopped when no one else laughed. 'In fact,' he said hurriedly, 'Senor Basilica will I'm sure be very happy to hear that our kitchens have made a special effort to-' There was another knock at the door. He hurried across and opened it. Granny Weatherwax stood there, but not for long. She pushed him aside and swept into the room. There was a choking noise from Enrico Basilica. 'Which one of you is Bucket?' she demanded. 'Er. . . me. . .' Granny removed a glove and extended her hand. 'So sorry,' she said. 'Ai am not used to important people opening their own doors. Ai am Esmerelda Weatherwax.'

      'How charming. I've heard so much about you,' lied Bucket. 'Pray let me introduce you. No doubt you know Senor Basilica?' 'Of course,' said Granny, looking Henry Slugg in the eye. 'I'm sure Senor Basilica recalls the many happy times we've had in other opera houses whose names I can't quite remember at the moment.' Henry grimaced a smile, and said something to the interpreter. 'That is astonishing,' said the interpreter. 'Senor Basilica has just said how fondly he recalls meeting you many times before at opera houses that have just slipped his mind at present.' Henry kissed Granny's hand, and looked up at her with pleading in his eyes. My word, thought Bucket, that look he's giving her. . . I wonder if they ever- 'Oh, uh, and this is Mr Salzella, our director of music,' he said, remembering himself. 'Honoured,' said Salzella, giving Granny a firm handshake and looking her squarely in the eye. She nodded. 'And what's the first thing you'd take out of a burning house, Mr Salzella?' she enquired. He smiled politely. 'What would you like me to take, madam?' She nodded thoughtfully and let go of his hand. 'May I get you a drink? said Bucket. 'A small sherry,' said Granny. Salzella sidled up to Bucket as he was pouring the drink. 'Who the hell is she?' 'Apparently she's rolling in money,' whispered Bucket. 'And very keen on opera.' 'Never heard of her.' 'Well, Senor Basilica has, and that's good enough for me. Make yourself pleasant to them, will you, while I try to sort out lunch.' He pulled open the door and tripped over Nanny Ogg. 'Sorry!' said Nanny, standing up and giving him a cheerful grin. 'These doorknobs are a bugger to polish, aren't they?' 'Er, Mrs-' ,Ogg., '--Ogg, could you run along to the kitchens and tell Mrs Clamp there will be another one for lunch, please.' 'Right you are.' Nanny bustled away. Bucket nodded approvingly. What a reliable old lady, he thought. It wasn't exactly a secret. When the room had been divided a space had been left between the walls. At the far end it opened on to a staircase, a perfectly ordinary staircase, which even had some grubby daylight via a dirt-encrusted window. Agnes was vaguely disappointed. She had expected, well, a real secret passage, perhaps with a few torches flickering secretly in rather valuable secret wrought-iron holders. But the staircase had just been walled off from the rest of the place at some time. It wasn't secret-it had merely been forgotten. There were cobwebs in the corners. The cocoons of extinct flies hung down from the ceiling. The air smelled of long-dead birds. But there was a clear track through the dust. Someone had used the stairs several times. She hesitated between up and down, and headed up. That was no great journey-after one more flight it ended at a trapdoor that wasn't even bolted.

      She pushed at it, and then blinked in the unaccustomed light. Wind caught at her hair. A pigeon stared at her, and flew away as she poked her head into the fresh air. The door had opened out on to the Opera House's roof, just one more item in a forest of skylights and airshafts. She went back inside and headed downwards. And became aware, as she did so, of the voices. . . The old stairs hadn't been totally forgotten. Someone had at least seen their usefulness as an airshaft. Voices filtered up. There were scales, distant music, snatches of conversation. As she went down she passed through layers of noise, like a very carefully made sundae of sound. Greebo sat on top of the kitchen cupboard and watched the performance with interest. 'Use the ladle, why don't you?' said a scene-shifter. 'It won't reach! Walter!' 'Yes Mrs Clamp?' 'Give me that broom!' 'Yes Mrs Clamp!' Greebo looked up at the high ceiling, to which was affixed a sort of thin, ten-pointed star. In the middle of it was a pair of very frightened eyes. ' “Plunge it into boiling water”,' said Mrs Clamp, 'that's what it said in the cook-book. It never said “Watch out, it'll grip the sides of the pot and spring straight up in the air”-' She flailed around with the broom-handle. The squid shrank back. 'And that pasta's all gone wrong,' she muttered. 'I've had it grilling for hours and it's still hard as nails, the wretched stuff.' 'Coo-ee, it's only me,' said Nanny Ogg, poking her head around the door, and such was the all embracing nature of her personality that even those who didn't know who she was took this on trust. 'Having a bit of trouble, are you?' She surveyed the scene, including the ceiling. There was a smell of burning pasta in the air. 'Ah,' she said. 'This'd be the special lunch for Senior Basilica, would it?' 'It was meant to be,' said the cook, still making ineffectual swipes. 'Blasted thing won't come down, though.' Other pots were simmering on the long iron range. Nanny nodded towards them. 'What's everyone else having?' she said. 'Mutton and clootie dumplings, with slumpie,' said the cook. 'Ah. Good honest food,' said Nanny, speaking of wall-towall suet oiled with lard. 'And there's supposed to be Jammy Devils for pudding and I've been so tied up with this wretched thing I haven't even made a start!' Nanny carefully took the broom out of the cook's hands. 'Tell you what,' she said, 'you make enough dumplings and slumpie for five people, and I'll help by knocking up a quick pudding, how about that?' 'Well, that's a very. handsome offer, Mrs-' 'Ogg.' 'The jam's in the jar by-' 'Oh, I won't bother about jam,' said Nanny. She looked at the spice-rack, grinned, and then stepped behind a table for modesty -twingtwangtwongtwang -'Got any chocolate?' she said, producing a slim volume. 'I've got a recipe right here that might be fun. . .' She licked her thumb and opened the book at page 53. Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce.

      Yes, thought Nanny, that would be fun. If people wanted to go around teaching people lessons, other people should remember that those people knew a thing or two about people. Scraps of conversation floated out of the walls as Agnes wound her secret way down the forgotten stairs. It was. . . thrilling. No one was saying anything important. There were no convenient guilty secrets. There were just the sounds of people getting through the day. But they were secret sounds. It was wrong to listen, of course. Agnes had been brought up in the knowledge that a lot of things were wrong. It was wrong to listen at doors, to look people directly in the eye, to talk out of turn, to answer back, to put yourself forward. . . But behind the walls she could be the Perdita she'd always wanted to be. Perdita didn't care about anything. Perdita got things done. Perdita could wear anything she wanted. Perdita X Nitt, mistress of the darkness, magdalen of cool, could listen in to other people's lives. And never, ever have to have a wonderful personality. Agnes knew she should go back up to her room. Whatever lay in the increasingly shadowy depths was probably something she ought not to find. Perdita continued downwards. Agnes went along for the ride. The pre-luncheon drinks were going quite well, Mr Bucket thought. Everyone was making polite conversation and absolutely no one had been killed up to the present moment. And it had been very gratifying to see the tears of gratitude in Senor Basilica's eyes when he was told that the cook was preparing a special Brindisian meal, just for him. He'd seemed quite overcome. It was reassuring that he knew Lady Esmerelda. There was something about the woman that left Mr Bucket terribly perplexed. He was finding it a little difficult to converse with her. As a conversational gambit, 'Hello, I understand you have a lot of money, can I have some please?' lacked, he felt, a certain subtlety. 'So, er, madam,' he ventured, 'what brings you to our, er, city?' 'I thought perhaps I could come and spend some money,' said Granny. 'Got rather a lot of it, you know. Keep havin' to change banks 'cos they get filled up.' Somewhere in Bucket's tortured brain, part of his mind went 'whoopee' and clicked its heels. 'I'm sure if there's anything I can do-' he murmured. 'As a matter of fact, there is,' said Granny. 'I was thinking of-' A gong banged. 'Ah,' said Mr Bucket. 'Luncheon is served.' He extended his arm to Granny, who gave it an odd look before remembering who she was and taking it. There was a small exclusive dining-room off his office. It contained a table set for five and, looking rather fetching in a waitress's lacy bonnet, Nanny Ogg. She bobbed a curtsey. Enrico Basilica made a tiny strangling noise at the back of his throat. ' 'Scuse me, there's been a bit of a problem,' said Nanny. 'Who's dead?' said Bucket. 'Oh, no one's dead,' said Nanny. 'It's the dinner, it's still alive and hangin' on to the ceiling. And the pasta's all gone black, see. I said to Mrs Clamp, I said, it may be foreign but I don't reckon it should be crunchy

      'This is terrible! What a way to treat an honoured guest!' said Bucket. He turned to the interpreter. 'Please assure Senor Basilica that we will send out for fresh pasta straight away. What were we having, Mrs Ogg?' 'Roast mutton with clootie dumplings,' said Nanny. Behind the face of Senor Basilica the throat of Henry Slugg made another little growling sound. 'And there's some nice slumpie with a knob of butter,' Nanny went on. Bucket looked around, puzzled. 'Is there a dog somewhere in here?' he said. 'Well, I for one don't believe in pandering to singers,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Fancy food, indeed! I never heard the like! Why not give him mutton with the rest of us?' 'Oh, Lady Esmerelda, that's hardly a way to treat-' Bucket began. Enrico's elbow nudged his interpreter, with the special nudge of a man who could see clootie dumplings vanishing into the long grass if he weren't careful. He rumbled out a very pointed sentence. 'Senor Basilica says he would be more than happy to taste the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,' said the interpreter. 'No, we really can't-' Bucket tried again. 'In fact Senor Basilica insists that he tries the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,' said the interpreter. 'S' right. Si,' said Basilica. 'Good,' said Granny. 'And give him some beer while you're about it.' She gave the tenor's stomach a playful poke, losing her finger down to the second joint. 'Why, in a day or two I expect you could practically turn him into a native!' * * * The wooden stairs gave way to stone. Perdita said: He'll have a vast cave somewhere under the Opera House. There will be hundreds of candles, casting an exciting yet romantic light over the, yes, the lake, and there will be a dinner-table shining with crystal glass and silverware, and of course he will have, yes, a huge organ- Agnes blushed hotly in the darkness. -on which, that is to say, he will play in a virtuoso style many operatic classics. Agnes said: It'll be damp. There will be rats. 'Another clootie dumpling, Senior?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Mmfmmfmmf!' 'Take two while you're about it.' It was an education watching Enrico Basilica eat. It wasn't as though he gobbled his food, but he did eat continuously, like a man who intends to go on doing it all day on industrial lines, his napkin tucked neatly into his collar. The fork was loaded while the current consignment was being thoroughly masticated, so that the actual time between mouthfuls was as small as possible. Even Nanny, no stranger to a metabolism going for the burn, was impressed. Enrico Basilica ate like a man freed at last from the tyranny of tomatoes with everything. 'I'll order another mint-sauce tanker, shall I?' she said. Mr Bucket turned to Granny Weatherwax. 'You were saying that you might be inclined to patronize our Opera House,' he murmured. 'Oh, yes,' said Granny. 'Is Senor Basilica going to sing tonight?' 'Mmfmmf' 'I hope so,' muttered Salzella. 'That or explode.'

      'Then I shall definitely want to be there,' said Granny. 'A little more lamb here, my good woman.' 'Yes ma'am,' said Nanny Ogg, making a face at the back of Granny's head. 'Er. . . seats for tonight, in fact, are-' Bucket began. 'A Box would do me,' said Granny. 'I'm not fussy.' 'In fact, even the Boxes are-' 'How about Box Eight? I've heard as Box Eight is always empty.' Bucket's knife rattled on his plate. 'Er, Box Eight, Box Eight, you see, we don't. . .' 'I was thinking of donating a little something,' said Granny. 'But Box Eight, you see, although technically unsold, is. . .' 'Two thousand dollars was what I had in mind,' said Granny. 'Oh, dear me, your waitress has let her dumplings go all over the place. It's so difficult to get reliable and polite staff these days, ain't it. . . ?' Salzella and Bucket stared at one another across the table. Then Bucket said, 'Excuse me, my lady, I must just have a brief discussion with my director of music.' The two men hurried to the far end of the room, where they began to argue in whispers. 'Two thousand dollars!' hissed Nanny, watching them. 'It might not be enough,' said Granny. 'They're both looking very red in the face.' 'Yes, but two thousand dollars!' 'It's only money.' 'Yes, but it's only my money, not only your money,' Nanny pointed out. 'We witches have always held everything in common, you know that,' said Granny. 'Well, yes,' said Nanny, and once again cut to the heart of the sociopolitical debate. 'It's easy to hold everything in common when no one's got anything.' 'Why, Gytha Ogg,' said Granny, 'I thought you despised riches!' 'Right, so I'd like to get the chance to despise them up close.' , 'But I knows you, Gytha Ogg. Money'd spoil you.' 'I'd just like the chance to prove that it wouldn't, that's all I'm saying.' 'Hush, they're coming back-' Mr Bucket approached, smiled uneasily, and sat down. 'Er,' he began, 'it has to be Box Eight, does it? Only we could perhaps persuade someone in one of the other-' 'Wouldn't hear of it,' said Granny. 'I've heard that there's no one ever seen in Box Eight.' 'Er. . . haha. . . it's laughable, I know, but there are some old theatrical traditions associated with Box Eight,, absolute rubbish of course, but. . .' He left the 'but' hanging there hopefully. It froze in the face of Granny's stare. 'You see, it's haunted,' he mumbled. 'Oh lawks,' said Nanny Ogg, vaguely remembering to stay in character. 'Another vat of slumpie, Senior Basilica? And how about another quart of beer?' 'Mmfmmf,' said the tenor encouragingly, taking time out from his eating to point a fork at his empty mug. Granny went on staring. 'Excuse me,' said Bucket again. He and Salzella went into another huddle, out of which came sounds like 'But two thousand dollars! That's a lot of shoes!' Bucket surfaced again. His face was grey. Granny's stare could do that to people.

      'Er. . . because of the danger, er, which of course doesn't exist, haha, we. . . that is, the management. . . feel it incumbent on us to insist, that is, politely request, that if you do enter Box Eight you do so in company with a. . . man.' He ducked slightly. 'A man?' said Granny. 'For protection,' said Bucket in a little voice. 'Although who'd protect him we really couldn't say,' said Salzella under his breath. 'We thought perhaps one of the staff. . .' Bucket mumbled. 'Ai am quate capable of finding my own man should the need arise,' said Granny, in a voice with snow on it. Bucket's polite reply died in his throat when he saw, just behind Lady Esmerelda, Mrs Ogg grinning like a full moon. 'Anyone for pudding?' she said. She held a big bowl on a tray. There seemed to be a heat haze over it. 'My word,' he said, 'that looks delicious!' Enrico Basilica looked over the top of his food with the expression of a man who has had the amazing privilege of going to heaven while still alive. 'Mmmf!' It was damp. And, with the demise of Mr Pounder, there were indeed rats. The stone looked old, too. Of course, all stone was old, Agnes told herself, but this had grown old as masonry. Ankh-Morpork had been here for thousands of years. Where other cities were built on clay or rock or loam, Ankh-Morpork was built on Ankh-Morpork. People constructed new buildings on the remains of earlier ones, knocking out a few doorways here and there to turn ancient bedrooms into cellars. The stairs petered out on damp flagstones, in almost total darkness. Perdita thought it looked romantic and gothic. Agnes thought it looked gloomy. If someone used this place they'd need lights, wouldn't they? And a fumbling search confirmed it. She found a candle and some matches tucked into a niche in the wall. That was sobering for Agnes and Perdita together. Someone used this prosaic book of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on the cover, and this piece of perfectly ordinary candle. Perdita would have preferred a flaming torch. Agnes didn't know what she would have preferred. It was just that, if a mysterious person came and sang in the walls, and moved around the place like a ghost, and possibly killed people. . . well, you'd prefer a bit more style than a box of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on it. That was the sort of thing a murderer would use. She lit the candle and, in two minds about it all, went on into the dark. Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce was a great success and heading down the little red lane as though hotwired. 'More, Mr Salzella?' said Bucket. 'This really is first-class stuff; isn't it? I must congratulate Mrs Clamp.' 'There is a certain piquancy, I must say,' said the director of music. 'How about you, Senor Basilica?' 'Mmmf.' 'Lady Esmerelda?' 'I don't mind if I do,' said Granny, passing her plate across. 'I'm sure I detect a hint of cinnamon,' said the interpreter, a brown ring around his mouth. 'Indeed, and possibly just a trace of nutmeg,' said Mr Bucket. 'I thought. . . cardamom?' said Salzella.

      'Creamy yet spicy,' said Bucket. His eyes unfocused slightly. 'And curiously. . . warming.' Granny stopped chewing, and looked down suspiciously at her plate. Then she sniffed at her spoon. 'Is it, er. . .is it just me, or is it a trifle. . . warm in here?' said Bucket. Salzella had gripped the arms of his chair. His forehead glistened. 'Do you think we could open a window?' he said. 'I feel a little. . . strange.' 'Yes, by all means,' said Bucket. Salzella half-rose, and then a preoccupied expression suffused his features. He sat down suddenly. 'No, I rather believe I'll just sit quietly for a moment,' he said. 'Oh, dear,' said the interpreter. There was a hint of vapour around his collar. Basilica tapped him politely on the shoulder, grunted hopefully, and made pass-it-here motions in the direction of the half-finished dish of chocolate pudding. 'Mmmf?' he said. 'Oh, dear,' said the interpreter. Mr Bucket ran a finger around his collar. Sweat was beginning to roll down his face. Basilica gave up on his stricken colleague and reached across in a businesslike way to hook the dish with his fork. 'Er. . . Yes,' said Bucket, trying to keep his eyes away from Granny. 'Yes. . . indeed,' said Salzella, his voice coming from a long way away. 'Oh, dear,' said the interpreter, his eyes watering. 'Ai! Meu Deus! Dio Mio! O Goden! D'zuk f't! Aagorahaa!' Senor Basilica upended the rest of the Special Secret Sauce on to his plate and carefully scraped out the dish with his spoon, holding it upside-down to reach the last little bit. 'The weather has been a little. . . cool of late,' Bucket managed. 'Very cold, in fact.' Enrico held the sauce-dish up to the light and regarded it critically in case there was any drop hiding in a corner. 'Snow, ice, frost. . . that sort of thing,' said Salzella. 'Yes, indeed! Coldness of all descriptions, in fact.' 'Yes! Yes!' said Bucket gratefully. 'And at a time like this I think it is very important to try to remember the names of, say, any number of boring and hopefully chilly things!' 'Wind, glaciers, icicles-' 'Not icicles!' 'Oh,' said the interpreter, and slumped forward into his plate. His head hit a spoon, which cartwheeled into the air and bounced off Enrico's head. Salzella started to whistle under his breath and pound the arm of his chair. Bucket blinked. In front of him was the water jug. The cold water jug. He reached out. . . 'Oh, oh, oh, dear me, what can I say, I seem to have spilled it all over myself,' he said, through the rising clouds of steam. 'What a butterfingers I am, to be sure. I shall ring for Mrs Ogg to bring us another one.' 'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella. 'And perhaps you would care to do it soon? I am also feeling very. . . accident-prone.' Basilica, still chewing, lifted his interpreter's head off the table and carefully tipped the man's unfinished pudding into his own plate.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      'In fact, in fact, in fact,' said Salzella, 'I think I shall just. . . have a brisk. . . have a nice cold. . .if you would excuse me a minute. . .' He pushed back his chair and fled the room in a kind of crouching gait. Mr Bucket glistened. 'I'll just, I'll just, I'll just. . . be back quite shortly,' he said, and scurried away. There was silence, broken only by the scrape of Senor Basilica's spoon and a sizzling noise from the interpreter. Then the tenor belched baritone. 'Whoops, pardon my Klatchian,' he said. 'Oh. . . damn.' He appeared to notice the depleted table for the first time. He shrugged, and smiled hopefully at Granny. 'Is there a cheeseboard, do you think?' he said. The door flew open and Nanny Ogg burst in, holding a bucket of water in both hands. 'All right, all right, that's-' she began, and then stopped. Granny dabbed primly at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Ogg?' she said. Nanny looked at the empty dish in front of Basilica. 'Or perhaps some fruit?' said the tenor. 'A few nuts?' 'How much has he had?' she whispered. 'Best part of half,' said Granny. 'But I don't reckon it's having any effect on account of not touching the sides.' Nanny turned her attention to Granny's plate. 'How about you?' she said. 'Two helpings,' said Granny. 'With extra sauce, Gytha Ogg, may you be forgiven.' Nanny looked at her with something like admiration in her eyes. 'You ain't even sweating!' she said. Granny picked up her water glass and held it at arm's length. After a few seconds, the water began to boil. 'All right, you're getting really good, I've got to admit it,' said Nanny. 'I reckon I should have to get up real early to put one over on you.' 'I reckon you should never go to sleep,' said Granny. 'Sorry, Esme.' Senor Basilica, at a loss to follow the conversation, realized with reluctance that the meal was probably over. 'Absolutely superb,' he said. 'I just loved that pudding, Mrs Ogg.' 'I should just jolly well expect you did, Henry Slugg,' said Nanny. Henry carefully removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket, put it over his face, and leaned back in his chair. The first snore occurred a few seconds later. 'He's easy to have around, isn't he?' said Nanny. 'Eat, sleep and sing. You certainly know where you are with him. I've found Greebo, by the way. He's still following Walter Plinge around.' Her expression became a little defiant. 'Say what you like, young Walter's all right by me if Greebo likes him.' Granny sighed. 'Gytha, Greebo would like Norris the Eyeball-Eating Maniac of Quirm if he knew how to put food in a bowl.' And now she was lost. She'd done her best not to be. As Agnes had walked through each dank room she'd thoughtfully taken note of details. She'd carefully remembered right and left turns. And yet she was lost. Here and there were steps down to lower cellars, but the water-level was so high that it was lapping at the first step. And it stank. The candle burned with a greenish-blue edge to the flame. Somewhere, said Perdita, there was the secret room. If there wasn't a huge and glittering secret cavern, what on earth was life for? There had

      to be a secret room. A room, full of. . . giant candles, and enormous stalagmites. . . But it certainly isn't here, said Agnes. She felt a complete idiot. She'd gone through the mirror looking for. . . well, she wasn't quite prepared to admit what she might have been looking for, but whatever it was it certainly wasn't this. She'd have to shout for help. Of course, someone might hear, but that was always a risk when you shouted for help. She coughed. 'Er. . . hello?' The water gurgled. 'Er. . . help? Is there anyone there?' A rat ran over her foot. Oh, yes, she thought bitterly with Perdita's part of her brain, if Christine had come down here there probably would have been some great glistening cave and delicious danger. The world saved up rats and smelly cellars for Agnes, because she had such a wonderful personality. 'Um. . .anyone?' More rats scuttled across the floor. There was a faint squeaking from the side-passages. 'Hello?' She was lost in some cellars with a candle getting shorter by the second. The air was foul, the flagstones were slippery, no one knew where she was, she could die down here, she could be- Eyes glowed in the darkness. One was green-yellow, the other pearly white. A light appeared behind them. Something was coming along the passageway, casting long shadows. Rats tumbled over themselves in their panic to get away. . . Agnes tried to press herself into the stone. 'Hello Miss Perdita X Nitt!' A familiar shape juddered out of the darkness, just behind Greebo. It was all knees and elbows; it carried a sack over one shoulder and held a lantern in its other hand. Something fled from the darkness. The terror leached out of it. . . 'You don't want to be down here Miss Nitt with all the rats!' 'Walter!' 'Got to do Mister Pounder's job now the poor man is passed away! I am a person of all jobs! No peas for the wicked! But Mister Greebo just hits them with his paws and they're off to rat heaven in a jiff!' 'Walter!' repeated Agnes, out of sheer relief. 'Come for an explore have you? These ole tunnels goes all the way to the river! You have to keep your wits about you not to get lost down here! Want to come back with me?' It was impossible to be frightened of Walter Plinge. Walter attracted a number of emotions, but terror wasn't among them. 'Er. . . yes,' said Agnes. 'I got lost. Sorry.' Greebo sat down and started to wash himself in what Agnes considered to be a supercilious way. If a cat could snigger, he would be sniggering. 'Now I've got a full sack I have to take it to Mister Gimlet's shop!' announced Walter, turning around and loping out of the cellar without bothering to see if she was following him. 'We get a ha'penny each which is not to be sneezed at! The dwarfs think a rat is a good meal which only goes to show it would be a strange world if we were all alike!' It seemed a ridiculously short journey to the foot of some different stairs, which had a well-used look to them.

      'Have you ever seen the Ghost, Walter?' said Agnes, as Walter put his foot on the first step. He didn't turn around. 'It is wrong to tell lies!' 'Er. . . yes, so I believe. So. . . when did you last see the Ghost?' 'I last saw the Ghost in the big room in the ballet school!' 'Really? What did he do?' Walter paused for a moment, and then the words came out all together. 'He ran off?' He stamped up the stairs in a way that suggested very emphatically that the exchange was over. Greebo sneered at Agnes and followed him. The stairs went up just one flight and came out through a trapdoor backstage. She had been lost only a door or two from the real world. No one noticed her emerge. But then no one noticed her at all. They just assumed that she'd be around when she was needed. Walter Plinge had already loped off, in something of a hurry. Agnes hesitated. They probably wouldn't even notice she wasn't there, right up to the point when Christine opened her mouth. . . He hadn't wanted to answer, but Walter Plinge spoke when spoken to and she had a feeling that he wasn't able to lie. Telling lies would be being bad. She'd never seen the ballet school. It wasn't far backstage, but it was a world of its own. The dancers issued from it every day like so many very thin and twittering sheep under the control of elderly women who looked as though they breakfasted on pickled limes. It was only after she'd timidly asked a few questions of the stage-hands that she'd realized that the girls had joined the ballet because they'd wanted to. She had seen the dancers' dressing-room, where thirty girls washed and changed in a space rather smaller than Bucket's office. It bore the same relationship to ballet as compost did to roses. She looked around again. Still no one had paid any attention to her. She headed for the school. It was up a few steps, along a foetid corridor lined with notice-boards and smelling of ancient grease. A couple of girls fluttered past. You never saw just one: they went around in groups, like mayflies. She pushed open the door and stepped into the school. Reflections of reflections of reflections. . . There were mirrors on every wall. A few girls, practising on the bars that lined the room, looked up as she entered. Mirrors. . . Out in the passage she leaned against the wall and got her breath back. She'd never liked mirrors. They always seemed to be laughing at her. But didn't they say it was the mark of a witch, not liking to get between two mirrors? It sucked out your soul, or something. A witch would never get between two mirrors if she could help it. . . But, of course, she very definitely wasn't a witch. So she took a deep breath, and went back into the room. Images of herself stretched away in every direction. She managed a few steps, then wheeled around and groped for the doorway again, watched by the surprised dancers. Lack of sleep, she told herself. And general over-excitement. Anyway, she didn't need to go right into the room, now that she knew who the Ghost was. It was so obvious. The Ghost didn't require any mysterious nonexistent caves when all he needed to do was hide where everyone could see him. Mr Bucket knocked at the door of Salzella's office. A muffled voice said, 'Come in.'

      There was no one in the office, but there was another closed door in the far wall. Bucket knocked again, and then rattled the door handle. 'I'm in the bath,' said Salzella. 'Are you decent?' 'I'm fully clothed, if that's what you mean. Is there a pail of ice out there?' 'Was it you who ordered it?' said Bucket guiltily. 'Yes!' 'Only I, er, I had it taken to my office so I could stick my feet in it. . .' 'Your feet?' 'Yes. Er. . . I went for a brisk run around the city, don't know why, just felt like it. . .' 'Well?' 'My boots caught fire on the second lap.' There was a sloshing noise and some sotto voce grumbling and then the door swung open, revealing Salzella in a purple dressing-gown. 'Has Senor Basilica been safely tethered?' he said, dripping on the floor. 'He's going through the music with Herr Trubelmacher.' 'And he's. . . all right?' 'He sent along to the kitchen for a snack.' Salzella shook his head. 'Astonishing.' 'And they've put the interpreter in a cupboard. They don't seem to be able to get him unfolded.' Bucket sat down carefully. He was wearing carpet slippers. 'And-' Salzella prompted. 'And what?' 'Where did that dreadful woman go?' 'Mrs Ogg is showing her around. Well, what else could I do? Two thousand dollars, remember!' 'I am endeavouring to forget,' said Salzella. 'I promise never to talk about that lunch ever again, if you don't either.' 'What lunch?' said Bucket innocently. 'Well done.' 'She does seem to have an amazing effect though, doesn't she. . .' 'I don't know who you are talking about.' 'I mean, it's not hard to see how she made her money. . .' 'Good heavens, man, she's got a face like a hatchet!' 'They say that Queen Ezeriel of Klatch had a squint, but that didn't stop her having fourteen husbands, and that was only the official score. Besides, she's knocking on a bit. . .' 'I thought she'd been dead for two hundred years!' 'I'm talking about Lady Esmerelda.' 'So am I.' 'At least try to be civil to her at the soiree before the performance tonight.' 'I'll try.' 'The two thousand might be only the start, I hope. Every time I open a drawer there are more bills! We seem to owe money to everyone!' 'Opera is expensive.' 'You're telling me: Whenever I try to make a start on the books, something dreadful happens. Do you think I might just have a few hours without something awful happening?' 'In an opera house?' The voice was muffled by the half-dismantled mechanism of the organ. 'All right-give me middle C.'

      A hairy finger pressed a key. It made a thudding noise and somewhere in the mechanism something else went woing. 'Blast, it's come off the peg. . . hold on again. . . The note rang out sweet and clear. 'O-kay,' said the voice of the man hidden in the exposed entrails of the organ. 'Wait until I tighten the peg. . .' Agnes stepped closer. The hulking figure seated at the organ turned around and gave her a friendly grin, which was much wider than the average grin. Its owner was covered in red hair and, while short-changed in the leg department, had obviously been first in the queue when the arm counter opened. And had also been given a special free offer of lip. . . .try 'André?' said Agnes weakly. The organist extracted himself from the mechanism. He was holding a complicated wooden bar with springs on it. 'Oh, hello,' he said. 'Er. . . who is this?' said Agnes, backing away from the primeval organist. 'Oh, this is the Librarian. I don't think he has a name. He's the Librarian at Unseen University but, much more importantly, he's their organist and it turns out our organ is a Johnson[8], just like theirs. He's given us some spare parts-' 'Ook' 'Sorry, lent us some spare parts.' 'He plays the organ?' 'In an amazingly prehensile way, yes.' Agnes relaxed. The creature didn't seem about to attack. 'Oh,' she said. 'Well. . . I suppose it's natural, because sometimes barrel-organ men came to our village and they often had a dear little mon-' There was a crashing chord. The orang-utan raised its other hand and waved a finger politely in front of Agnes's face. 'He doesn't like being called a monkey,' said André. 'And he likes you.' 'How can you tell?, 'He doesn't usually go in for warnings.' She stepped back quickly and grabbed the boy's arm. 'Can I have a word with you?' she said. 'We've got only a few hours and I'd really like to get this-' 'It's important.' He followed her into the wings. Behind them, the Librarian tapped a few keys on the half-repaired keyboard and then ducked underneath. 'I know who the Ghost is,' whispered Agnes. André stared at her. Then he pulled her further into the shadows. 'The Ghost isn't anybody,' he said softly. 'Don't be silly. It's just the Ghost.' 'I mean he's someone else when he takes his mask off.' Who. 'Should I tell Mr Bucket and Mr Salzella?' 'Who? Tell them about who?' 'Walter Plinge.' He stared at her again. 'If you laugh I'll. . . I'll kick you,' said Agnes. 'But Walter isn't even-' 'I didn't believe it either but he said he saw the Ghost in the ballet school and there's mirrors all over the walls and he'd be quite tall if he stood up properly and he roams around in the cellars-' 'Oh, come on. . .' 'The other night I thought I heard him singing on the stage when everyone else had gone.'

      'You saw him?' 'It was dark.' 'Oh, well. . .' André began dismissively. 'But afterwards I'm certain I heard him talking to the cat. Talking normally, I mean. I mean like a normal person, I mean. And you've got to admit. . . he is strange. Isn't he just the sort of person who'd want to wear a mask to hide who he is?' She sagged. 'Look, I can see you don't want to listen-' 'No! No, I think. . . well. . .' 'I just thought I'd feel better if I told someone.' André smiled in the gloom. 'I wouldn't mention it to anyone else, though.' Agnes looked down at her feet. 'I suppose it does sound a bit far- fetched. . .' André laid a hand on her arm. Perdita felt Agnes draw herself back. 'Do you feel better?' he said. 'I. . . don't know. . . I mean. . . I don't know. . . I mean, I just can't imagine him hurting anyone. . . I feel so stupid. . .' 'Everyone's on edge. Don't worry about it.' 'I'd. . . hate you to think I was being silly-' 'I'll keep an eye on Walter, if you like.' He smiled at her. 'But I'd better get on with things,' he added. He gave her another smile, as fast and brief as summer lightning. 'Thank y-' He was already walking back to the organ. * * * This shop was a gentlemen's outfitters. 'It's not for me,' said Nanny Ogg. 'It's for a friend. He's six foot tall, very broad shoulders.' 'Inside leg?' 'Oh, yes.' She looked around the store. Might as well go all the way. It was her money, after all. 'And a black coat, long black tights, shoes with them shiny buckles, one of those top hats, a big cloak with a red silk lining, a bow-tie, a really posh black cane with a very nobby silver knob on it. . . and. . . a black eye-patch.' 'An eye-patch?' 'Yes. Maybe with sequins or something on it, since it's the opera.' The tailor stared at Nanny. 'This is a little irregular,' he said. 'Why can't the gentleman come in himself?' 'He ain't quite a gentleman yet.' 'But, madam, I meant that we have to get the size right.' Nanny Ogg looked around the shop. 'Tell you what,' she said, 'you sell me something that looks about right and we'll adjust him to fit. 'Souse me. . .' She turned away demurely -twingtwangtwong -and turned back, smoothing down her dress and holding a leather bag. 'How much'll it be?' she said. The tailor looked blankly at the bag. 'I'm afraid we won't be able to have all that ready until at least next Wednesday,' he said. Nanny Ogg sighed. She felt she was becoming familiar with one of the most fundamental laws of physics. Time equalled money. Therefore, money equalled time.

      'I was sort of hoping to get it all a bit quicker than that,' she said, jingling the bag up and down. The tailor looked down his nose at her. 'We are craftsmen, madam. How long did you think it should take?' 'How about ten minutes?' ' Twelve minutes later she left the shop with a large packet under one arm, a hatbox under the other, and an ebony cane between her teeth. Granny was waiting outside. 'Got it all?' 'Ess.' 'I'll take the eye-patch, shall I?' 'We've got to get a third witch,' said Nanny, trying to rearrange the parcels. 'Young Agnes has got good strong arms.' 'You know if we was to drag her out of there by the scruff of her neck we'd never hear the last of it,' said Granny. 'She'll be a witch when she wants to be.' They headed for the Opera House's stage-door. 'Afternoon, Les,' said Nanny cheerfully as they entered. 'Stopped itching now, has it?' 'Marvellous bit of ointment that was you gave me, Mrs Ogg,' said the stage-doorkeeper, his moustache bending into something that might have been a smile. 'Mrs Les keeping well? How's her sister's leg?' 'Doing very well, Mrs Ogg, thank you for asking.' 'This is just Esme Weatherwax who's helping me with some stuff,' said Nanny. The doorkeeper nodded. It was clear that any friend of Mrs Ogg was a friend of his. 'No trouble at all, Mrs Ogg.' As they passed through into the dusty network of corridors Granny reflected, not for the first time, that Nanny had a magic all of her own. Nanny didn't so much enter places as insinuate herself; she had unconsciously taken a natural talent for liking people and developed it into an occult science. Granny Weatherwax did not doubt that her friend already knew the names, family histories, birthdays and favourite topics of conversation of half the people here, and probably also the vital wedge that would cause them to open up. It might be talking about their children, or a potion for their bad feet, or one of Nanny's really filthy stories, but Nanny would be in and after twenty-four hours they'd have known her all their lives. And they'd tell her things. Of their own free will. Nanny Got On with people. Nanny could get a statue to cry on her shoulder and say what it really thought about pigeons. It was a knack. Granny had never had the patience to acquire it. just occasionally, she wondered whether it might have been a good idea. 'Curtain up in an hour and a half,' said Nanny. 'I promised Giselle I'd give her a hand. . .' 'Who's Giselle?' 'She does makeup.' 'You don't know how to do makeup!' 'I distempered our privy, didn't I?' said Nanny. 'And I paint faces on eggs for the kiddies every Soul Cake Tuesday.' 'Got to do anything else, have you?' said Granny sarcastically. 'Open the curtains? Fill in for a ballet dancer who's been taken poorly?' 'I did say I'd help with the drinks at the swarray,' said Nanny, letting the irony slide off like water on a red-hot stove. 'Well, a lot of the staff have buggered off 'cos of the Ghost. It's in the big foyer in half an hour. I expect you ought to be there, being a patronizer.' 'What's a swarray?' said Granny suspiciously. 'It's a sort of posh party before the opera.' 'What do I have to do?'

      'Drink sherry and make polite conversation,' said Nanny. 'Or conversation, anyway. I saw the grub being done for it. They've even got little cubes of cheese on sticks stuck in a grapefruit, and you don't get much posher than that.' 'Gytha Ogg, you ain't done any. . . special dishes, have you?' 'No, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg meekly. 'Only you've got an imp of mischief in you.' 'Been far too busy for anything like that,' said Nanny. Granny nodded. 'Then we'd better find Greebo,' she said. 'You sure about this, Esme?' said Nanny. 'We might have a lot to do tonight,' said Granny. 'Maybe we could do with an extra pair of hands.' 'Paws.' 'At the moment, yes.' * * * It was Walter. Agnes knew it. It wasn't knowledge in her mind, exactly. It was practically something she breathed. She felt it as a tree feels the sun. It all fitted. He could go anywhere, and no one took any notice of Walter Plinge. In a way he was invisible, because he was always there. And, if you were someone like Walter Plinge, wouldn't you long to be someone as debonair and dashing as the Ghost? If you were someone like Agnes Nitt, wouldn't you long to be someone as dark and mysterious as Perdita X Dream? The traitor thought was there before she could choke it off. She added hurriedly: But I've never killed anyone. Because that's what I'd have to believe, isn't it? If he's the Ghost, then he's killed people. All the same. . . he does look odd, and he talks as if the words are trying to escape. . . A hand touched her shoulder. She spun round. 'It's only me!' said Christine. '. . .Oh.' 'Don't you think this is a marvellous dress!?' 'What?' 'This dress, silly!!' Agnes looked her up and down. 'Oh. Yes. Very nice,' she said, disinterest lying on her voice like rain on a midnight pavement. 'You don't sound very impressed!! Really, Perdita, there's no need to be jealous!!' 'I'm not jealous, I was thinking. . .' She'd only seen the Ghost for a moment, but he certainly hadn't moved like Walter. Walter walked as though his body were being dragged along by his head. But the certainty was as hard as marble now. 'Well, you don't seem very impressed, I must say!!' 'I'm wondering if Walter Plinge is the Ghost,' said Agnes, and immediately cursed herself, or at least pooted. She felt embarrassed enough about André's reaction. Christine's eyes widened. 'But he's a clown!!' 'He walks odd and he talks odd,' said Agnes, 'but if he stood up straight-' Christine laughed. Agnes felt herself getting angry. 'And he practically told me he was!' 'You believed him, did you?!' Christine made a little tutting sound that Agnes considered quite offensive. 'Really, you girls believe the strangest things!!'

      'What do you mean, we girls?' 'Oh, you know! The dancers are always saying they've seen the Ghost all over the place-' 'Good grief! Do you think I'm some sort of impressionable idiot? Think for a minute before answering!' 'Well, of course I don't, but-' 'Huh!' Agnes strode off into the wings, concerned more with effect than direction. The background noise of the stage faded behind her as she stepped into the scenery store. It didn't lead anywhere except to a pair of big double doors opening to the world outside. It was full of bits of castles, balconies and romantic prison cells, stacked any old how. Christine hurried up behind her. 'I really didn't mean. . . look, not Walter. . . he's just a very odd odd-job man!' 'He does all kinds of jobs! No one ever knows where he is-they all just assume he's around!' 'All right, but you don't have to get so worked up-' There was the faintest of sounds behind them. They turned. The Ghost bowed. 'Who's a good boy, then? Nanny's got a bowl of fish eggs for a good boy,' said Nanny, trying to see under the big dresser in the kitchen. 'Fish eggs?' said Granny, coldly. 'I borrowed them from the stuff they've done for the swarray,' said Nanny. 'Borrowed?' said Granny. 'That's right. Come along, Greebo, who's a good boy then?' 'Borrowed. You mean. . . when the cat's finished with them, you're going to give them back?' 'It's only a manner of speaking, Esme,' said Nanny in a hurt little voice. 'It's not the same as stealing if you don't mean it. Come along, boy, here's some lovely fish eggs for you. . .' Greebo pulled himself further into the shadows. * * * There was a little sigh from Christine and she folded up into a faint. But she managed, Agnes noticed sourly, to collapse in a way that probably didn't hurt when she hit the ground and which showed off her dress to the best effect. It was beginning to dawn on Agnes that Christine was remarkably clever in some specialized ways. She looked back at the mask. 'It's all right,' she said, her voice sounding hoarse even to her. 'I know why you're doing it. I really do.' No expression could cross that ivory face, but the eyes flickered. Agnes swallowed. The Perdita part of her wanted to give in right now, because that would be more exciting, but she stood her ground. 'You want to be something else and you're stuck with what you are,' said Agnes. 'I know all about that. You're lucky. All you have to do is put on a mask. At least you're the right shape. But why did you have to go and kill people? Why? Mr Pounder couldn't have done you any harm! But. . . he poked around in odd places, didn't he, and he. . . found something?' The Ghost nodded slightly, and then held out his ebony cane. He grasped both ends and pulled, so that a long thin sword slid out. 'I know who you are!' Agnes burst out, as he stepped forward. 'I. . . I could probably help you! It might not have been your fault!' She backed

      away. 'I haven't done anything to you! You don't have to be afraid of me!' She backed away further as the figure advanced. The eyes, in the dark hollows of the mask, glinted like tiny jewels. 'I'm your friend, don't you see? Please, Walter! Walter!' There was, far off, an answering sound that seemed as loud as thunder and as impossible, in the circumstances, as a chocolate kettle. It was the clank of a bucket handle. 'What's the matter Miss Perdita Nitt?' The Ghost hesitated. There was the sound of footsteps. Irregular footsteps. The Ghost lowered the sword, opened a door in a piece of scenery painted to represent a castle wall, bowed ironically and slipped away. Walter rounded a corner. He was an unlikely knight errant. For one thing, he had on evening dress obviously designed for someone of a different shape. He was still wearing his beret. He also wore an apron and was carrying a mop and bucket. But no heroic lance-wielding rescuer ever galloped over a drawbridge more happily. He was practically surrounded by a golden glow. '. . . Walter?' 'What's the matter with Miss Christine?' 'She. . . er. . . she fainted,' said Agnes. 'Er' Probably. . . yes, probably the excitement. With the opera. Tonight. Yes. Probably. The excitement. Because of the opera tonight.' Walter gave her a slightly worried look. 'Yes,' he said, and added patiently, 'I know where there's a medicine box shall I get it?' Christine groaned and fluttered her eyelashes. 'Where am I?' Perdita gritted Agnes's teeth. Where am I? That didn't sound the sort of thing someone said when they woke up from a faint; it sounded more like the sort of thing they said because they'd heard it was the sort of thing people said. 'You fainted,' she said. She looked hard at Walter. 'Why were you in here, Walter?' 'Got to mop out the stage-hands' privy Miss Nitt. Always having trouble I've been working on it for months!' 'But you're wearing evening dress!' 'Yes then I got to be a waiter afterwards because we're short-handed and there's no one else to be a waiter when they have drinks and sausages on poles before the opera.' No one could have moved that fast. True, Walter and the Ghost hadn't both been in the room at the same time, but she'd heard his voice. No one could have had time to duck around behind the piles of flats and turn up at the opposite side of the room in seconds, unless they were some sort of wizard. Some of the girls did say the Ghost could almost seem to be in two places at once. Perhaps there were other secret places like the old staircase. Perhaps he- She stopped herself. Walter Plinge wasn't the Ghost, then. There was no sense in trying to find some excitable explanation to prove wrong right. She'd told Christine. Well, Christine was giving her just a slightly bemused look as Walter helped her up. And she'd told André, but he hadn't seemed to believe her so probably that was all right. Which meant that the Ghost was. . . . . .someone else. She'd been so certain. 'You'll enjoy it, mother. You really will.'

      ' 'Tain't for the likes of us, Henry. I don't see why Mr Morecombe couldn't give you tickets to see Nellie Stamp at the music hall. Now that's what I call music. Proper tunes you can understand.' 'Songs like “She Sits Among the Cabbages and Leeks” are not very cultural, mother.' Two figures wandered through the crowds heading for the Opera House. This was their conversation. ' 'S a good laugh, though. And you don't have to hire suits. Seems daft to me, havin' to wear a special suit just to listen to music.' 'It enhances the experience,' said young Henry, who had read this somewhere. 'I mean, how does the music know?' said his mother. 'Now, Nellie Stamp-' 'Come along, mother.' It was going to be one of those evenings, he knew it. Henry Lawsy did his best. And, given the starting point, it wasn't a bad best. He was a clerk in the firm of Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, a somewhat oldfashioned legal partnership. One reason for its less-than- modern approach was the fact that Messrs Morecombe and Honeyplace were vampires and Mr Slant was a zombie. The three partners were, therefore, technically dead, although this did not prevent them putting in a proper day's work-normally during the night, in the case of Mr Morecombe and Mr Honeyplace. From Henry's point of view the hours were good and the job was not onerous, but he chafed somewhat about his promotion prospects because clearly dead men's shoes were being fully occupied by dead men. He'd decided that the only way to succeed was to better himself by Improving His Mind, which he tried to do at every opportunity. It is probably a full description of Henry Lawsy's mind that if you had given him a book called How to Improve Your Mind in Five Minutes, he would have read it with a stopwatch. His progress through life was hampered by his tremendous sense of his own ignorance, a disability which affects all too few people. Mr Morecombe had given him two opera tickets as a reward for sorting out a particularly problematical tort. He'd invited his mother because she represented 100 per cent of all the women he knew. People tended to shake Henry's hand cautiously, in case it came off. He'd bought a book about the opera and read it carefully, because he'd heard that it was absolutely unheard-of to go to an opera without knowing what it was about, and the chance of finding out while you were actually watching it was remote. The book's reassuring weight was in his pocket right now. All he needed to complete the evening was a less embarrassing parent. 'Can we get some peanuts before we go in?' said his mother. 'Mother, they don't sell peanuts at the opera.' 'No peanuts? What're you supposed to do if you don't like the songs?' Greebo's suspicious eyes were two glows in the gloom. 'Poke him with a broom-handle,' suggested Granny. 'No,' said Nanny. 'With someone like Greebo you have to use a little bit of kindness.' Granny closed her eyes and waved a hand. There was a yowl from under the kitchen's dresser and a sound .of frantic scrabbling. Then, his claws scoring tracks in the floor, Greebo came out backwards, fighting all the way. 'Mind you, a lot of cruelty does the trick as well,' Nanny conceded. 'You've never been much of a cat person, have you, Esme?' Greebo would have hissed at Granny, except that even his cat brain was just bright enough to realize this was not the best move he could make.

      'Give him his fish eggs,' Granny said. 'He might as well have them now as later.' Greebo inspected the dish. Oh, this was all right, then. They wanted to give him food. Granny nodded at Nanny Ogg. They held out their hands, palm-up. Greebo was halfway through the caviar when he felt It happening. 'Wrrroowlllll-' he wailed, and then the voice went deeper as his chest expanded, and rose physically as his back legs lengthened under him. His ears flattened against his head, and then crept down the sides. '-llllwwaaaa-' 'The jacket's a forty-four-inch chest,' said Nanny. Granny nodded. '-aaaaoooo-' His face flattened. His whiskers spread out. Greebo's nose developed a life of its own. '-oooooss. . . sshit!' 'He certainly gets the hang of it quicker these days,' said Nanny. 'You put some clothes on right now, my lad,' said Granny, who had shut her eyes. Not that this made much difference, she had to admit later. Greebo fully clothed still managed to communicate the nakedness beneath. The insouciant moustache, the long sideburns and the tousled black hair combined with the well-developed muscles to give the impression of the more louche kind of buccaneer or a romantic poet who'd given up on the opium and tried red meat instead. He had a scar running across his face, and a black patch now where it crossed the eye. When he smiled, he exuded an easy air of undistilled, excitingly dangerous lasciviousness. He could swagger while asleep. Greebo could, in fact, commit sexual harassment simply by sitting very quietly in the next room. Except as far as the witches were concerned. To Granny a cat was a damn' cat whatever shape it was, and Nanny Ogg always thought of him as Mister Fluffy. She adjusted the bow-tie and stood back critically. 'What do you think?' she said. 'He looks like an assassin, but he'll do,' said Granny. 'Oh, what a nasty thing to say!' Greebo waved his arms experimentally and fumbled with the ebony cane. Fingers took a bit of getting used to, but cat reflexes learned fast. Nanny waved a finger playfully under his nose. He took a half-hearted swipe at it. 'Now you just stay with Granny and do what she tells you like a good boy,' she said. 'Yess, Nan-ny,' said Greebo reluctantly. He managed to grip the stick properly. 'And no fighting.' 'No, Nan-ny.' 'And no leaving bits of people on the doormat.' 'No, Nan-ny.' 'We'll have no trouble like we did with those robbers last month.' 'No, Nan-ny.' He looked depressed. Humans had no fun. Incredible complications surrounded the most basic activities. 'And no turning back into a cat again until we say.' 'Yess, Nan-ny.' 'Play your cards right and there could be a kipper in this for you.' 'Yess, Nan-ny.' 'What're we going to call him?' said Granny. 'He can't just be Greebo, which I've always said was a damn' silly name for a cat.' 'Well, he looks aristocratic-' Nanny began.

      'He looks like a beautiful brainless bully,' Granny corrected her. 'Aristocratic,' repeated Nanny. 'Same thing.' 'We can't call him Greebo, anyway.' 'We'll think of something.' Salzella leaned disconsolately against the marble banister of the foyer's grand staircase and stared gloomily into his drink. It had always seemed to him that one of the major flaws in the whole business of opera was the audience. They were quite unsuitable. The only ones worse than the ones who didn't know anything at all about music, and whose idea of a sensible observation was 'I liked that bit near the end when her voice went wobbly', were the ones who thought they did. . . 'Want a drink do you Mister Salzella? There's lots you know!' Walter Plinge ambled by, his black suit making him look like a very good class of scarecrow. 'Plinge, you just say “Drink, sir?” ' said the director of music. 'And please take off that ridiculous beret.' 'My mum made it for me!' 'I'm sure she did, but-' Bucket sidled up to him. 'I thought I told you to keep Senor Basilica away from the canapes!' he hissed. 'I'm sorry, I couldn't find a big enough crowbar,' said Salzella, waving away Walter and his beret. 'Anyway, isn't he supposed to be communing with his muse in his dressing-room? The curtain goes up in twenty minutes!' 'He says he sings better on a full stomach.' 'Then we're in for a big treat tonight.' Bucket turned and surveyed the scene. 'It's going well, anyway,' he said. 'I suppose so.' 'The Watch are here, you know. In secret. They're mingling.' 'Ah. . . let me guess. . .' Salzella looked around at the crowds. There was, indeed, a very short man in a suit intended for a rather larger man; this was especially the case with the opera cloak, which actually trailed on the floor behind him to give the overall impression of a superhero who had spent too much time around the Kryptonite. He was wearing a deformed fur hat and trying surreptitiously to smoke a cigarette. 'You mean that little man with the words “Watchman in Disguise” flashing on and off just above his head?' 'Where? I didn't see that!' Salzella sighed. 'It's Corporal Nobby Nobbs,' he said wearily. 'The only known person to require an identity card to prove his species. I've watched him mingle with three large sherries.' 'He's not the only one, though,' said Mr Bucket. 'They're taking this seriously., 'Oh, yes,' said Salzella. 'If we look over there, for example, we see Sergeant Detritus, who is a toll, and who is wearing what in the circumstances is actually a rather well-fitting suit. It is therefore, I feel, something of a pity he has neglected to remove his helmet. And these, you understand, the Watch has chosen for their ability to blend.' 'Well, they'll certainly be useful if the Ghost strikes again,' said Bucket, hopelessly. 'The Ghost would have to-' Salzella stopped. He blinked. 'Oh, good grief,' he whispered. 'What has she found?' Bucket turned. 'That's Lady Esmerelda. . . oh.'

      Greebo strolled in alongside her with the gentle swagger that makes women thoughtful and men's knuckles go white. The buzz of conversation was momentarily hushed, and then rose again to -a slightly shriller buzz. 'I'm impressed,' said Salzella. 'He certainly doesn't look like a gentleman,' said Bucket. 'Look at the colour of that eye!' He set his face into what he hoped was a smile, and bowed. 'Lady Esmerelda!' he said. 'How pleasant to see you again! Won't you introduce us to your. . . guest?' 'This is Lord Gribeau,' said Granny. 'Mr Bucket, the owner, and Mr Salzella, who seems to run the place.' 'Haha,' said Salzella. Gribeau snarled, revealing longer incisors than any that Bucket had seen outside a zoo. And Bucket had never seen such a greenish-yellow eye. The pupil was all wrong. . . 'Ahaha. . .' he said. 'And may I order you something?' 'He'll have milk,' said Granny firmly. 'I expect he has to keep up his strength,' said Salzella. Granny spun around. Her expression would have etched steel. 'Anyone for a drink?' said Nanny Ogg, appearing out of nowhere with a tray and adroitly stepping between them like a very small peace-keeping force. 'Got a bit of everything here. . .' 'Including a glass of milk, I see,' said Bucket. Salzella looked from one witch to the other. 'That's remarkably foresighted of you,' he said. 'Well, you never know,' said Nanny. Gribeau took the glass in both hands and lapped at it with his tongue. Then he looked at Salzella. 'What yourrr lookin aat? Neverrr seem mil-uk drun beforr?' 'Never quite. . .like that, I must admit.' Nanny winked at Granny Weatherwax as she turned to scurry away. Granny caught her arm. 'Remember,' she whispered, 'when we go into the Box. . . you keep an eye on Mrs Plinge. Mrs Plinge knows something. I ain't sure what's going to happen. But it is going to happen.' 'Right,' said Nanny. She bustled off, muttering under her breath, 'Oh, yes. . . do this, do that-' 'Drink here, please, ma'am.' Nanny looked down. 'Good grief,' she said. 'What are you?' The apparition in the fur hat winked at her. 'I'm the Count de Nobbs,' it said, 'and this here,' it added, indicating a mobile wall, 'is the Count de Tritus.' Nanny glanced at the troll. 'Another Count? I'm sure there's unaccountably more Counts here than I can count. And what can I get you, officers?' she said. 'Officers? Us?' said the Count de Nobbs. 'What makes you think we're Watchmen?' 'He's got a helmet on,' Nanny pointed out. 'Also, he's got his badge pinned to his coat.' 'I told you to put it away!' Nobby hissed. He looked at Nanny and smiled uneasily. 'Milit'ry chic,' he said. 'It's just a fashion accessory. Actually, we are gentlemen of means and have nothing to do with the city Watch whatsoever.' 'Well, gentlemen, would you like some wine?' 'Not while we on duty, yanks,' said the troll. 'Oh, yes, thank you very much, Count de Tritus,' said Nobby bitterly. 'Oh, yes, very undercover, that is! Why don't you just wave your truncheon around where everyone can see it?' 'Well, if you t'ink it'd help-'

      'Put it away!' The Count de Tritus's eyebrows met with the effort of thought. 'Dat was irony, den, was it? To a superior officer?' 'Can't be a superior officer, can you, 'cos we ain't Watchmen. Look, Commander Vimes explained it three times. . .' Nanny Ogg tactfully moved away. It was bad enough watching them blow their cover without sucking at it as well. This was a new world, all right. She was used to a life where the men wore the bright clothes and the women wore black. It made it a lot easier to decide what to put on in the mornings. But inside the Opera House the rules of clothing were all in reverse, just like the laws of common sense. Here the women dressed like frosted peacocks and the men looked like penguins. So. . . there were coppers here. Nanny Ogg was basically a law-abiding person when she had no reason to break the law, and therefore had that kind of person's attitude to law-enforcement officers, which was one of deep and permanent distrust. There was their approach to theft, for example. Nanny had a witch's view of theft, which was a lot more complicated than the attitude adopted by the law and, if it came to it, people who owned property worth stealing. They tended to wield the huge blunt axe of the law in circumstances that required the delicate scalpel of common sense. No, thought Nanny. Policemen with their great big boots were not required here on a night like this. It would be a good idea to put a thumbtack under the ponderous feet of Justice. She ducked behind a gilt statue and fumbled in the recesses of her clothing while people nearby looked around in puzzlement at the erratic twanging of elastic. She was sure she had one around somewhere-she'd packed it in case of emergencies. . . There was the clink of a small bottle. Ah, yes. A moment later Nanny Ogg emerged decorously with two small glasses on her tray, and headed purposefully for the Watchmen. 'Fruit drink, officers?' she said. 'Oh, silly me, what am I saying, I didn't mean officers. Home-made fruit drink?' Detritus sniffed suspiciously, immediately clearing his sinuses. 'What's in it?' he said. 'Apples,' said Nanny Ogg promptly. 'Well. . . mainly apples.' Under her hand, a couple of spilt drops finished eating their way through the metal of the tray and dropped on to the carpet, where they smoked. The auditorium buzzed with the sound of operagoers settling down and Mrs Lawsy trying to find her shoes. 'You really shouldn't have taken them off, mother.' 'My feet are giving me gyp.' 'Did you bring your knitting?' 'I think I must've left it in the Ladies.' 'Oh, mother.' Henry Lawsy marked his place in his book and raised his runny eyes heavenward, and blinked. Right above him-a long way above him-was a glittering circle of light. His mother followed his gaze. 'What's that, then?' 'I think it's a chandelier, mother.' 'It's a pretty big one. What's holding it up?' 'I'm sure they've got special ropes and things, mother.' 'Looks a bit dangerous, to my mind.' 'I'm sure it's absolutely safe, mother.' 'What do you know about chandeliers?'

      'I'm sure people wouldn't come into the Opera House if there was any chance of a chandelier dropping on their heads, mother,' said Henry, trying to read his book. Il Truccatore, The Master of Disguise. Il Truccatore (ten.), a mysterious nobleman, causes scandal in the city when he woos high-born ladies while disguised as their husbands. However, Laura (sop.), the new bride of Capriccio (bar.), refuses to give in to his blandishments- Henry put a bookmark in the book, took a smaller book from his pocket, and carefully looked up 'blandishments'. He was moving in a world he wasn't quite sure of; embarrassment lay waiting at every turn, and he wasn't going to get caught out over a word. Henry lived his life in permanent dread of Being Asked Questions Later. -and with the help of his servant Wingie (ten.) he adopts a subterfuge- The dictionary came out again for a moment. --culminating- And again. -in the scene at the famous Masked Ball at the Duke's Palace. But Il Truccatore has not reckoned with his old adversary the Count de- 'Adversary'. . .Henry sighed, and reached for his pocket. 'Curtain up in five minutes. . .' Salzella reviewed his troops. They consisted of scenebuilders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty per cent of Walter Plinge had managed to stand to attention. 'Now, you all know your positions,' said Salzella. 'And if you see anything, anything at all, you are to let me know at once. Do you understand ?' 'Mr Salzella!' 'Yes, Walter?' 'We mustn't interrupt the opera Mr Salzella!' Salzella shook his head. 'People will understand, I'm sure-' 'Show must go on Mr Salzella!' 'Walter, you will do what you're told!' Someone raised a hand. 'He's got a point, though, Mr Salzella. . .' Salzella rolled his eyes. 'Just catch the Ghost,' he said. 'If we can do it without a lot of shouting, that's good. Of course I don't want to stop the show.' He saw them relax. A deep chord rolled out over the stage. 'What the hell was that?' Salzella strode behind the stage and was met by André, looking excited. 'What's going on?' 'We repaired it, Mr Salzella! Only. . . well, he doesn't want to give up the seat. . .' The Librarian nodded at the director of music. Salzella knew the orang- utan, and among the things he knew was that, if the Librarian wanted to sit somewhere, then that was where he sat. But he was a first-class organist, Salzella had to admit. His lunchtime recitals in the Great Hall of Unseen University were extremely popular, especially since the

      University's organ had every single sound-effect that Bloody Stupid Johnson's inverted genius had been able to contrive. No one would have believed, before a pair of simian hands had worked on the project, that something like Doinov's romantic Prelude in G could be rescored for Whoopee Cushion and Squashed Rabbits. 'There's the overtures,' said André, 'and the ballroom scene. . .' 'At least get him a bow-tie,' said Salzella. 'No one can see him, Mr Salzella, and he hasn't really got much of a neck. . .' 'We do have standards, André.' 'Yes, Mr Salzella.' 'Since you seem to have been relieved of employment this evening, then perhaps you could help us apprehend the Ghost.' 'Certainly, Mr Salzella.' 'Fetch him a tie, then, and come with me.' A little later, left to himself, the Librarian opened his copy of the score and placed it carefully on the stand. He reached down under the seat and pulled out a large brown paper bag of peanuts. He wasn't entirely sure why André, having talked him into playing the organ this evening, had told the other man that it was because he, the Librarian, wouldn't budge. In fact, he'd got some interesting cataloguing to do and had been looking forward to it. Instead, he seemed to be here for the night, although a pound of shelled peanuts was handsome pay by any ape's standards. The human mind was a deep and abiding mystery and the Librarian was glad he didn't have one any more. He inspected the bow-tie. As André had foreseen, it presented certain problems to someone who'd been behind the door when the necks were handed out. Granny Weatherwax stopped in front of Box Eight and looked around. Mrs Plinge wasn't visible. She unlocked the door with what was probably the most expensive key in the world. 'And you behave yourself,' she said. 'Ye-ess, Gran-ny,' moaned Greebo. 'No going to the lavatory in the corners.' 'No, Gran-ny.' Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow-tie, even with his fine moustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn't trust them to do anything except turn up for meals. The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room. There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that'd be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely. She smiled at what she saw. She'd been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain. Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair. 'You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,' said Granny. 'Ye-ess, Gran-ny.' 'And watch the opera, it's good for you.' 'Ye-ess, Gran-ny.'

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      'Evenin', Mrs Phnge!' said Nanny cheerfully. 'Ain't this excitin'? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin' somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin' to remember how to play. . . all the exhilaration an' drama of the operatic experience waitin' to unfold. . .' 'Oh, hello, Mrs Ogg,' said Mrs Plinge. She was polishing glasses in her tiny bar. 'Certainly very packed,' said Nanny. She looked sidelong at the old woman.[9] 'Every seat sold, I heard.' This didn't achieve the expected reaction. 'Shall I give you a hand cleaning out Box Eight?' she went on. 'Oh, I cleaned it out last week,' said Mrs Plinge. She held a glass up to the light. 'Yes, but I heard her ladyship is very particular,' said Nanny. 'Very picky about things.' 'What ladyship?' 'Mr Bucket has sold Box Eight, see,' said Nanny. She heard a faint tinkle of glass. Ah. Mrs Plinge appeared at the doorway of her nook. 'But he can't do that!' 'It's his Opera House,' said Nanny, watching Mrs Plinge carefully. 'I suppose he thinks he can.' 'It's the Ghost's Box!' Opera-goers were appearing along the corridor. 'I shouldn't think he'd mind just for one night,' said Nanny Ogg. 'The show must go on, eh? Are you all right, Mrs Plinge?' 'I think I'd just better go and-' she began, stepping forward. 'No, you have a good sit down and a rest,' said Nanny, pressing her back with gentle but irresistible force. 'But I should go and-' 'And what, Mrs Plinge? said Nanny. The old woman went pale. Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected. 'I daresay you wanted to go and have a word with somebody, did you, Mrs Plinge?' said Nanny softly. 'Someone who might be a little shocked to find his Box full, perhaps? I reckon I could put a name to that someone, Mrs Plinge. Now, if-' The old woman's hand came up holding a bottle of champagne and then came down hard in an effort to launch the SS Gytha Ogg on to the seas of unconsciousness. The bottle bounced. Then Mrs Plinge leapt past and scuttled away, her polished little black boots twinkling. Nanny Ogg caught the doorframe and swayed a little while blue and purple fireworks went off behind her eyes. But there was dwarf in the Ogg ancestry, and that meant a skull you could go mining with. She stared muzzily at the bottle. 'Year of the Insulted Goat,' she mumbled. ' 'S a good year.' Then consciousness gained the upper hand. She grinned as she galloped after the retreating figure. In Mrs Plinge's place she'd have done exactly the same thing, except a good deal harder. Agnes waited with the others for the curtain to go up. She was one of the crowd of fifty or so townspeople who would hear Enrico Basilica sing of his success as a master of disguise, it being a vital part of the entire process that, while the chorus would listen to expositions of the plot, and even sing along, they would suffer an instant lapse of memory afterwards so that later unmaskings would come as a surprise.

      For some reason, without any word being spoken, as many people as possible seemed to have acquired very broad-brimmed hats. Those who hadn't were taking every opportunity to glance upwards. Beyond the curtain, Herr Trubelmacher launched the overture. Enrico, who had been chewing a chicken leg, carefully put the bone on a plate and nodded. The waiting stage-hand dashed off. The opera had begun. Mrs Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting. The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either. She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back. 'Coo-ee, Mrs Plinge!' Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already travelling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve. . . . . .which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg's response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downwards and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman. Mrs Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue. 'You don't want to try and outrun me, Mrs Plinge,' Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs Plinge's mouth. 'You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don't go thinking I'm nice. I'm only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic'ly everyone. . .' 'Mmf!' With one hand tightly around Mrs Plinge's arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off: Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he'd taken fright. Perhaps Mrs Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he'd decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that. . . At this rate the first act would be over before- A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear. 'Y'see,' said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, 'the thing about Esme is, she's stupid. . .' 'Mmf?' '. . .so she thinks that the most obvious way, d'y'see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can't find a secret panel, she reckons, it's because it ain't there. A secret panel that ain't there is the best kind there is, the reason bein', no bugger can find it. That's where you people all think too operatic, see? You're all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don't make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can't find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e.g., me and Esme, we'd say: Maybe there ain't one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he's got keys. People don't notice Walter. They looks the other way.' She gently released her grip. 'Now, I don't blame you, Mrs Plinge, 'cos I'd do the same for one of mine, but you'd have done better to trust Esme right at the start. She'll help you if she can.'

      Nanny let Mrs Plinge go, but kept a grip on the champagne bottle, just in case. 'What if she can't?' said Mrs Plinge bitterly. 'You think Walter did those murders?' 'He's a good boy!' 'I'm sure that's the same as a “no”, isn't it?' 'They'll put him in prison!' 'If he done them murders, Esme won't let that happen,' said Nanny. Something sank into Mrs Plinge's not very alert mind. 'What do you mean, she won't let that happen?' she said. 'I mean,' said Nanny, 'that if you throw yourself on Esme's mercy, you better be damn' sure you deserve to bounce.' 'Oh, Mrs Ogg!' 'Now, don't you worry about anything,' said Nanny, perhaps a little late under the circumstances. It occurred to her that the immediate future might be a little bit easier on everyone if Mrs Plinge got some well- earned rest. She fumbled in her clothing and produced a bottle, half-full of some cloudy orange liquid. 'I'll just give you a sip of a little something to calm your nerves. . .' 'What is it?' 'It's a sort of tonic,' said Nanny. She flicked the cork out with her thumb; on the ceiling above her, the paint crinkled. 'It's made from apples. Well. . . mainly apples. . .' Walter Plinge stopped outside Box Eight and looked around. Then he removed his beret and pulled out the mask. The beret went into his pocket. He straightened up, and it looked very much as though Walter Plinge with the mask on was several inches taller. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the figure that stepped into the Box did not move like Walter Plinge. It moved as though every nerve and muscle were under full and athletic control. The sounds of the opera filled the Box. The walls had been lined with red velvet and were hung with curtains. The chairs were high and well padded. The Ghost slipped into one of them and settled down. A figure leaned forward out of the other chair and said, 'You carrn't havve my fisssh eggs!' The Ghost leapt up. The door clicked behind him. Granny stepped out from the curtains. 'Well, well, we meet again,' she said. He backed away to the edge of the Box. 'I shouldn't think you could jump,' said Granny. 'It's a long way down.' She focused her best stare on the white mask. 'And now, Mister Ghost-' He sprang back on to the edge of the Box, saluted Granny flamboyantly, and leapt upwards. Granny blinked. Up until now the Stare had always worked. . . 'Too damn' dark,' she muttered. 'Greebo!' The bowl of caviar flew out of his nervous fingers and caused a Fortean experience somewhere in the Stalls. 'Yess, Gran-ny!' 'Catch him! And there could be a kipper in it for you!' Greebo snarled happily. This was more like it. Opera had begun to pall for him the moment he realized that no one was going to pour a bucket of cold water over the singers. He understood chasing things. Besides, he liked to play with his friends.

      Agnes saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. A figure had jumped out of one of the Boxes and was climbing up to the balcony. Then another figure clambered after it, scrambling over the gilt cherubs. Singers faltered in mid-note. There was no mistaking the leading figure. It was the Ghost. The Librarian was aware that the orchestra had stopped playing. Somewhere on the other side of the backcloth the singers had stopped too. There was a buzz of excited conversation and one or two cries. The hairs all over his body began to prickle. Senses designed to protect his species in the depths of the rainforest had adjusted nicely to the conditions of a big city, which was merely drier and had more carnivores. He picked up the discarded bow-tie and, with great deliberation, tied it around his forehead so that he looked like a really formal Kamikaze warrior. Then he threw away the opera score and stared blankly into space for a moment. He knew instinctively that some situations required musical accompaniment. This organ lacked what he considered the most basic of facilities, such as the Thunder pedal, a 128-foot Earthquake pipe and a complete keyboard of animal noises, but he was certain there was something exciting that could be done in the bass register. He stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles. This took some time. And then he began to play. * * * The Ghost danced along the edge of the balcony, scattering hats and opera-glasses. The audience watched in astonishment, and then began to clap. They couldn't quite see how it fitted into the plot of the opera- but this was an opera, after all. He reached the centre of the balcony, trotted a little way up the aisle, and then turned and ran down again at speed. He reached the edge, jumped, jumped again, soared out into the auditorium. . . . . .and landed on the chandelier, which jingled and began to sway gently. The audience stood up and applauded as he climbed through the jangling tiers towards the central cable. Then another shape clambered over the edge of the balcony and loped along in pursuit. This was a stockier figure than the first man, one-eyed, broad in the shoulders and tapering at the waist; he looked evil in an interesting kind of way, like a pirate who really understood the words 'Jolly Roger'. He didn't even take a run but, when he reached the closest part to the chandelier, simply launched himself into space. It was clear that he wasn't going to make it. And then it wasn't clear how he did. Those watching through opera-glasses swore later that the man thrust out an arm which merely seemed to graze the chandelier and yet was then somehow able to swivel his entire body in mid-air: A couple of people swore even harder that, just as the man reached out, his fingernails appeared to grow by several inches. The huge glass mountain swung ponderously on its rope and, as it reached the end of the swing, Greebo swung out further, like a trapeze artist. There was an appreciative 'oo' from the audience. He twisted again. The chandelier hesitated for a moment at the extremity of its arc, and then swept back again. As it jangled and creaked over the Stalls the hanging figure swung upwards, let go and did a backward somersault that dropped him in the

      middle of the crystals. Candles and prisms were scattered over the seats below. And then, with the audience clapping and cheering, he scrambled up the rope after the fleeing Ghost. Henry Lawsy tried to move his arm, but a fallen crystal had stapled the sleeve of his coat to his armrest. It was a quandary. He was pretty sure this wasn't supposed to happen, but he wasn't certain. Around him he could hear people hissing questions. 'Was that part of the plot?' 'I'm sure it must have been.' 'Oh, yes. Yes. It certainly was,' said someone further down the row, authoritatively. 'Yes. Yes. The famous chase scene. Indeed. Oh, yes. They did it in Quirm, you know.' 'Oh. . .yes. Yes, of course. I'm sure I heard about it. . ., 'I thought it was bloody good,' said Mrs Lawsy. 'Mother!' 'About time something interesting happened. You should've told me. I'd've put my glasses on.' Nanny Ogg pounded up the back stairs towards the fly loft. 'Something's gone wrong!' she muttered under her breath as she took the stairs two at a time. 'She reckons she's only got to stare at 'em and they're toffee in her hands, and then who has to sort it out afterwards, eh? Go on, guess. . .' The ancient wooden door at the top of the stairs gave way to Nanny Ogg's boot with Nanny Ogg's momentum behind it, and cracked open on to a big, shadowy space. It was full of running figures. Legs flickered in the light of lanterns. People were shouting. A figure ran straight towards her. Nanny sprang into a crouch, both thumbs on the cork of the badly shaken champagne bottle she held cradled under one arm. 'This is a magnum,' she said, 'and I'm not afraid to drink it!' The figure stopped. 'Oh, it's you, Mrs Ogg. . .' Nanny's infallible memory for personal details threw up a card. 'Peter, isn't it?' she said, relaxing. 'The one with the bad feet?' 'That's right, Mrs Ogg.' 'The powder I give you is working, is it?' 'They're a lot better now, Mrs Ogg-' 'So what's been happening?' 'Mr Salzella caught the Ghost!' 'Really?' Now that Nanny's eyes had-managed to discern some order in the chaos, she could see a cluster of people in the middle of the floor, around the chandelier. Salzella was sitting on the planking. His collar was torn and a sleeve had been ripped off his jacket, but he had a triumphant look in his eyes. He waved something in the air. It was white. It looked like a piece of a skull. 'It was Plinge!' he said. 'I tell you, it was Walter Plinge! Why are you all standing around? Get after him!' 'Walter?' said one of the men, doubtfully. 'Yes, Walter!' Another man hurried up, waving his lantern. 'I saw the Ghost heading up to the roof! And there was some big one-eyed bastard going after him like a scalded cat!' That's wrong, thought Nanny. Something wrong here. 'To the roof!' shouted Salzella.

      'Hadn't we better get the flaming torches first?' 'Flaming torches are not compulsory!' 'Pitchforks and scythes?' 'That's only for vampires!' 'How about just one torch?' 'Get up there now! Understand?' * * * The curtains closed. There was a smattering of applause which was barely audible above the chatter from the audience. The chorus turned to one another. 'Was that supposed to happen?' Dust rained down. Stage-hands were scampering across the gantries far above. Shouts echoed among the ropes and dusty backdrops. A stage-hand ran across the stage, holding a flaming torch. 'Here, what's going on?' said a tenor. 'They've got the Ghost! He's heading for the roof! It's Walter Plinge!' 'What, Walter?' 'Our Walter Plinge?' 'Yes!' The stage-hand ran on in a trail of sparks, leaving the yeast of rumour to ferment in the ready dough that was the chorus. 'Walter? Surely not!' 'Weeelll. . . he's a bit odd, isn't he. . . ?' 'But only this morning he said to me, “It's a nice day Mr Sidney!” Just like that. Normal as anything. Well. . . normal for Walter. . .' 'As a matter of fact, it's always worried me, the way his eyes move as though they don't talk to each other-' 'And he's always around the place!' 'Yes, but he's the odd job man-' 'No argument about that!' 'It's not Walter,' said Agnes. They looked at her. 'That's who he said they're chasing, dear.' 'I don't know who they're chasing, but Walter's not the Ghost. Fancy anyone thinking Walter's the Ghost!' said Agnes, hotly. 'He wouldn't hurt a fly! Anyway, I've seen-' 'He's always struck me as a bit slimy, though.' 'And they say he goes down into the cellars a lot. What for, I ask myself? Let's face it. Fair's fair. He's crazy.' 'He doesn't act crazy!' said Agnes. 'Well, he always looks as though he's about to, you must admit. I'm going to see what's happening. Anyone coming?' Agnes gave up. It was a horrible thing to learn, but there are times when evidence gets trampled and the hunt is on. A hatch flew open. The Ghost clambered out, looked down, and slammed the hatch shut. There was a yowl from below. Then he danced across the leads until he reached the gargoyle-encrusted parapet, black and silver in the moonlight. The wind caught at his cloak as he ran along the very edge of the roof and dropped down again near another door. And a gargoyle was suddenly no longer a gargoyle, but a figure that reached down suddenly and twitched off his mask. It was like cutting strings. 'Good evening, Walter,' said Granny, as he sagged to his knees. 'Hello Missus Weatherwax!'

      'Mistress,' Granny corrected him. 'Now stand up.' There was a growl further along the roof, and then a thump. Bits of trapdoor rose for a moment against the moonlight. 'It's nice up here, ain't it?' said Granny. 'There's fresh air and stars. I thought: up or down? But there's only rats down below.' In another swift movement she grabbed Walter's chin and tilted it, just as Greebo pulled himself on to the roof with prolonged murder in his heart. 'How does your mind work, Walter Plinge? If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd try to take out? Greebo stalked along the rooftop, growling. He liked rooftops in general, and some of his fondest memories involved them, but a trapdoor had just been slammed on his head and he was looking for anything he could disembowel. Then he recognized the shape of Walter Plinge as someone who had given him food. And, standing right next to him, the much more unwelcome shape of Granny Weatherwax, who had once caught him digging in her garden and had kicked him in the cucumbers. Walter said something. Greebo didn't take much notice of it. Granny Weatherwax said: 'Well done. A good answer. Greebo!' Greebo nudged Walter heavily in the back. 'Want milluk right noaow! Purr, purr!' Granny thrust the mask at the cat. In the distance people were running up stairs and shouting. 'You put this on! And you stay down real low, Walter Plinge. One man in a mask is pretty much like another, after all. And when they chase you, Greebo. . . give them a run for their money. Do it right and there could be-' 'Yurr, I knoaow,' said Greebo despondently, taking the mask. It was turning out to be a long and busy evening for a kipper. Someone poked their head out of the stricken trapdoor. The light glinted off Greebo's mask. . . and it had to be said, even by Granny, that he made a good Ghost. For one thing, his morphogenic field was trying to reassert itself. His claws could no longer even remotely be thought of as fingernails. He spat at the pursuit as they poured up the steps, arched his back dramatically on the very edge of the roof, and stepped off. One storey down he thrust out an arm, caught a windowsill, and landed on the head of a gargoyle, which said 'Oh, fank oo ver' mush' in a reproachful voice. The pursuers looked down at him. Some of them had managed to get hold of flaming torches, because sometimes convention is too strong to be lightly denied. Greebo snarled defiance and dropped again, springing from sill to drainpipe to balcony and pausing every now and again for another dramatic pose and another snarl at the pursuers. 'We'd better get after him, Corporal de Nobbs,' said one of them, who was staggering along behind. 'We'd better get after him by carefully going back down the stairs, you mean. 'Cos somethin' I drank don't want to stay drunk. Much more runnin' and I'll be droppin' a custard, I'm tellin' you.' The other members of the posse also seemed to be reaching the conclusion that there was no extended future in chasing a man down the sheer wall of a building. As one mob they turned and, shouting and waving their torches in the air, headed back to the stairs. The parting crowd revealed Nanny Ogg, holding a pitchfork in one hand and a torch in the other and thrusting them both in the air while muttering, 'Rhubarb, rhubarb.'

      Granny walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. 'They've gone, Gytha.' 'Rhuba- Oh, hello, Esme,' said Nanny, lowering the implements of righteous retribution. 'I was just tagging along to see it didn't get out of hand. Was that Greebo I saw just then?' 'Yes.' 'Awww, bless him,' said Nanny. 'He looked a bit bothered, though. I hope he doesn't happen to anybody.' 'Where's your broomstick?' said Granny. 'It's in the cleaners' cupboard backstage.' 'Then I'll borrow it and keep an eye on things,' said Granny. 'Hey, he's my cat, I ought to be looking after him-' Nanny began. Granny stepped aside, revealing a huddled shape sitting hugging its knees. 'You look after Walter Plinge,' she said. 'It's something you'd be better at than me.' 'Hello Mrs Ogg!' said Walter, mournfully. Nanny looked at him for a moment. 'So he is the-?' 'Yes.' 'You mean he really did do the mur-?' 'What do you think?' said Granny. 'Well, if it comes to it, I think he didn't,' said Nanny. 'Can I have a word in your ear, Esme? I don't reckon I should say this in front of young Walter.' The witches bent their heads together. There was a brief whispered conversation. 'Everything is simple when you know the answer,' said Granny. 'I'll be back soon.' She hurried off. Nanny heard her shoes clattering on the stairs. Nanny looked down at Walter again, and held out her hand. 'Up you get, Walter.' 'Yes Mrs Ogg!' 'I expect we'd better find somewhere for you to lie low, eh?' 'I know a hidden place Mrs Ogg!' 'You do, do you?' Walter lurched across the roof towards another trapdoor, and pointed to it proudly. 'That?' said Nanny. 'That doesn't look very hidden to-me, Walter.' Walter gave it a puzzled look, and then grinned in the way a scientist might after he'd solved a particularly difficult equation. 'It's hidden where everyone can see it Mrs Ogg!' Nanny gave him a sharp look, but there was nothing but a slightly glazed innocence in Walter's eyes. He lifted up the trapdoor and pointed politely downwards. 'You go down the ladder first so I will not see your drawers!' 'Very. . . kind of you,' said Nanny. It was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to her. The man waited patiently until she had reached the bottom of the ladder, and then climbed laboriously down after her. 'This is just an old staircase, isn't it?' said Nanny, prodding at the darkness with her torch. 'Yes! It goes all the way down! Except at the bottom where it goes all the way up!' 'Anyone else know about it?' 'The Ghost Mrs Ogg!' said Walter, climbing down. 'Oh, yes,' said Nanny slowly. 'And where's the Ghost now, Walter?' 'He ran away!' She held up the torch. There was still nothing to be read in Walter's expression. 'What does the Ghost do here, Walter?'

      'He watches over the Opera!' 'That's very kind of him, I'm sure.' Nanny started downwards, and as the shadows danced around her she heard Walter say: 'You know she asked me a very silly question Mrs Ogg! It was a silly question any fool knows the answer!' 'Oh, yes,' said Nanny, peering at the walls. 'About houses on fire, I expect. . .' 'Yes! What would I take out of our house if it was on fire!' 'I expect you were a good boy and said you'd take your mum,' said Nanny. 'No! My mum would take herself!' Nanny ran her hands over the nearest wall. Doors had been nailed shut when the staircase had been abandoned. Someone walking up and down here, with a keen pair of ears, could hear a lot of things. . . 'What would you take out then, Walter?' she said. 'The fire!' Nanny stared unseeing at the wall, and then her face slowly broke into a grin. 'You're daft, Walter Plinge,' she said. 'Daft as a broom Mrs Ogg!' said Walter cheerfully. But you ain't insane, she thought. You're daft but you're sane. That's what Esme would say. And there's worser things. Greebo pounded along Broadway. He was suddenly not feeling very well. Muscles were twitching in odd ways. A tingling at the base of his spine indicated that his tail wanted to grow, and his ears definitely wanted to creep up the sides of his head, which is always embarrassing when it happens in company. In this case the company was about a hundred yards behind and apparently intent on moving his ears quite a long way from their current position, embarrassment or not. It was gaining, too. Greebo normally had a famous turn of speed, but not when his knees were trying to reverse direction every few seconds. His normal plan when pursued was to jump on to the water-butt behind Nanny Ogg's cottage and rake the pursuer across the nose with his claws when it came around the corner. Since this would now involve a fivehundred-mile dash, an alternative had to be sought. There was a coach waiting outside one of the houses. He lurched over to it, pulled himself up, grabbed the reins and briefly turned his attention to the driver. 'Get orffl.' Greebo's teeth shone in the moonlight. The coachman, with great presence of mind and urgent absence of body, somersaulted backwards into the night. The horses reared, and tried to break into a gallop from a standing start. Animals are less capable of being fooled than are humans; they knew that what they had behind them was a very large cat, and the fact that it was manshaped didn't make them any happier. The coach lumbered off. Greebo looked over his twitching shoulder at the torch lit crowd and waved a paw derisively. The effect pleased him so much that he clambered on to the roof of the swaying coach and continued to jeer. It is a cat-like attribute to spit defiance at the enemy from a place of safety. In the circumstances it would have been better if cat-like attributes had included the ability to steer. A wheel hit the parapet of the Brass Bridge and scraped along it, the iron rim kicking up sparks. The shock knocked Greebo from his perch in mid-gesture. He landed on his feet in the middle of the road, while the

      terrified horses continued on with the coach rocking dangerously from side to side. The pursuers stopped. 'What's he doing now?' 'He's just standing there.' 'There's only one of him and there's lots of us, right? We could easily overpower him.' 'Good idea. On the count of three, we'll all rush him, right? One. . . two. . . three. . .'Pause. 'You didn't run.' 'Well, nor did you.' 'Yes, but I was the one saying “one, two, three”.' 'Remember what he did to Mr Pounder!' 'Yes, well, I never liked the man all that much. . .' Greebo snarled. Ticklish things were happening to his body. He threw his head back and roared. 'Look, at worst he'd only be able to get one or two of us' 'Oh, that's good, is it?' 'Here, why's he twisting around like that?' 'Maybe he hurt himself falling off the coach-' 'Let's get .him!' The mob closed in. Greebo, struggling against a morphogenic field swinging wildly between species, punched the first man in the face with a hand and clawed the shirt off another man with something more like a giant paw. 'Oh, shiiiooooo-' Twenty hands grabbed him. And then, in the melee and the darkness, twenty hands were holding just cloth and emptiness. Vengeful boots connected with nothing more than air. Clubs that had been swung at a snarling face whirled through empty space and returned to hit their owner on the ear. '-ooooaaawwwwl!' Quite unnoticed in the scrum, a flat-eared bullet of grey fur shot out from between the scuffling legs. The kicking and punching stopped only when it became apparent that all the mob was attacking was itself. And, since the IQ of a mob is the IQ of its most stupid member divided by the number of mobsters, it was never very clear to anyone what had happened. Obviously they'd closed in on the Ghost, and he certainly couldn't have escaped. All that was left was a mask and some torn clothing. So, the mob reasoned, he must have ended up in the river. And good riddance, too. Happy in the knowledge of a job well done, they adjourned to the nearest pub. This left Sergeant Count de Tritus and Corporal the Count de Nobby Nobbs, who lurched to the middle of the bridge and regarded the few scraps of cloth. 'Commander Vimes isn't. . .isn't. . . isn't goin' to like dis,' said Detritus. 'You know he likes prisoners to be alive.' 'Yeah, but this one would've been hung anyway,' said Nobby, who was trying to stand upright. 'This way was just a bit more. . . democratic. A great saving in terms of rope, not to mention wear and tear on locks and keys.' Detritus scratched his head. 'Shouldn't there be some blood?' he ventured. Nobby gave him a sour look. 'He couldn't've got away,' he said. 'So don't go asking questions like that.' 'Only, if humans is hit hard enough, they leaks all over der place,' said Detritus. Nobby sighed. That was the calibre of people you got in the Watch these days. They had to make a mystery of things. In days gone by, when it had

      been just the old gang and an unofficial policy of lazy fair, they'd have said a heartfelt 'Well done, lads' to the vigilantes and turned in early. But now old Vimes had been promoted to Commander he seemed to be enrolling people who asked questions all the time. It was even affecting Detritus, considered by other trolls to be as dim as a dead glowworm. Detritus reached down and picked up an eye patch. 'What d'you think, then?' said Nobby scornfully. 'You think he turned into a bat and flew away?' 'Ha! I do not t'ink that 'cos it is in. . . consist. . . ent with modern policing,' said Detritus. 'Well, I think,' said Nobby, 'that when you have ruled out the impossible, what is left, however improbable, ain't worth hanging around on a cold night wonderin' about when you could be getting on the outside of a big drink. Come on. I want to try a leg of the elephant that bit me.' 'Was dat irony?' 'That was metaphor.' Detritus, uneasy in what was technically his mind, prodded at the torn pieces of clothing. Something brushed against his leg. It was a cat. It had tattered ears, one good eye, and a face like a fist with fur on it. 'Hello, little cat,' said Detritus. The cat stretched and grinned. 'Gerrt lorssst, coppuurrrr. . .' Detritus blinked. There are no such things as troll cats, and Detritus had never seen a cat before he'd arrived in AnkhMorpork and discovered that they were very, very hard to eat. And he'd never heard of them talking. On the other hand, he was very much aware of his reputation as the most stupid person in the city, and he wasn't going to draw attention to a talking cat if it were going to turn out that everybody except him knew that they talked all the time. In the gutter, a few feet away, there was something white. He picked it up carefully. It looked like the mask the Ghost had worn. This was probably a Clue. He waved it urgently. 'Hey, Nobby-' 'Thank you.' Something dipped through the darkness, snatched the mask from the troll's hand, and soared into the night. Corporal Nobbs turned around. 'Yes?' he said. 'Er. . . how big are birds? Normally?' 'Oh, blimey, I dunno. Some are small, some are big. Who cares?' Detritus sucked his finger. 'Oh, no reason,' he said. 'I am far too smart to be taken in by perfec'ly normal t'ings.' Something squelched underfoot. 'It's pretty damp down here, Walter,' said Nanny. And the air was stale and heavy and seemed to be squeezing the light from the torch. There was a dark edge to the flame. 'Not far now Mrs Ogg!' Keys jingled in the darkness, and some hinges creaked. 'I found this Mrs Ogg! It's the Ghost's secret cave!' 'Secret cave, eh?' 'You got to shut your eyes! You got to shut your eyes!' said Walter urgently. Nanny did so, but to her shame kept a grip on the torch, just in case. She said: 'And is the Ghost in there, Walter?' 'No!' There was the rattle of a matchbox and some scuffling, and then 'You can open them now Mrs Ogg!' Nanny did so.

      Colour and light blurred and then swam into focus, first in her eyes and then, eventually, in her brain. 'Oh, my,' she murmured. 'Oh, my, my. . .' There were candles, the big flat ones used to illuminate the stage, floating in shallow bowls. The light they gave was soft, and it rippled over the room like the soul of water. It glinted off the beak of a huge swan. It glittered in the eye of a vast, sagging dragon. Nanny Ogg turned slowly. Her experience of opera had not been a lengthy one but witches pick things up quickly, and there was the winged helmet worn by Hildabrun in The Ring of the Nibelungingung, and here was the striped pole from The Barber of Pseudopolis, and there was the pantomime horse with the humorous trapdoor from The Enchanted Piccolo, and here. . . . . .here was opera, all piled in a heap. Once the eye had taken it all in, it had time to notice the peeling paint and rotting plaster and the general air of gentle mouldering. The decrepit props and threadbare costumes had been dumped in here because people didn't want them anywhere else. But someone did want them here. After the eye had seen the ruin, then there was time for it to see the little patches of recent repair, the careful areas of fresh paint. There was something like a desk in the tiny area of floor not occupied by the props. And then Nanny realized that it had a keyboard and a stool, and there were neat piles of paper on top of it. Walter was watching her with a big, proud grin. Nanny ambled over to the thing. 'It's a harmonium, ain't it? A tiny organ?' 'That's right Mrs Ogg!' Nanny picked up one of the sheaves of paper. Her lips moved as she read the meticulous copperplate writing. 'An opera about cats?' she said. 'Never heard of an opera about cats. . .' She thought for a moment, and then added to herself But why not? It's a damn good idea. The lives of cats are just like operas, when you come to think about it. She leafed through the other piles. 'Guys and Trolls? Hubwards Side Story? Miserable Les? Who's he? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? What're all these, Walter?' She sat down on the stool and pressed a few of the cracked yellow keys, which moved with an audible creak. There were a couple of large pedals under the harmonium. You pedalled these and that worked the bellows and these spongy keys produced something which was to organ music what 'poot' was to cursing. So this was where Wal. . . where the Ghost sat, thought Nanny, down under the stage, among the discarded wreckage of old performances; down under the huge windowless room where, night after night, music and songs and rampant emotion echoed back and forth and never escaped or entirely died away. The Ghost worked down here, with a mind as open as a well, and it filled up with opera. Opera went in at the ears, and something else came out of the mind. Nanny pumped the pedals a few times. Air hissed from inefficient seams. She tried a few notes. They were reedy. But, she considered, sometimes the old lie was true, and size really did not matter. It really was what you did with it that counted. Walter watched her expectantly. She took down another wad of paper and peered at the first page. But Walter leaned over and snatched at the script. 'That one's not finished Mrs Ogg!'

      * * * The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed on stage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short-circuited. Agnes bounced frantically from rumour to rumour. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead. There were arguments breaking out everywhere. 'I still can't believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief. . . Walter?' 'What about the show? We can't just stop! You never stop the show, not even if someone dies!' 'Oh, we have stopped when people died. . .' 'Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body off-stage!' Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. 'Sorry,' she said automatically. 'It was only my foot,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'So. . . how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt?' Agnes turned. 'Oh. . . hello, Granny. . .' she mumbled. 'And I'm not Agnes here, thank you,' she added, a shade more defiantly. 'It's a good job, is it, bein' someone else's voice?' 'I'm doing what I want to do,' said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. 'And you can't stop me!' 'But you ain't part of it, are you?' said Granny conversationally. 'You try, but you always find yourself watchin' yourself watchin' people, eh? Never quite believin' anything? Thinkin' the wrong thoughts?' 'Shut up!' 'Ah. Thought so.' 'I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!' 'Now, don't go getting upset just because you know it's going to happen. A witch you're going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I don't know what's going to happen to Walter Plinge.' 'He's not dead?' No. Agnes hesitated. 'I knew he was the Ghost,' she began. 'But then I saw he couldn't be.' 'Ah,' said Granny. 'Believed the evidence of your own eyes, did you? In a place like this?' 'One of the stage-hands just told me they chased him up on to the roof and then down into the street and beat him to death!' 'Oh, well,' said Granny, 'you'll never get anywhere if you believe what you hear. What do you know?' 'What do you mean, what do I know?' 'Don't try cleverness on me, miss.' Agnes looked at Granny's expression, and knew when to fold. 'I know he's the Ghost,' she said. 'Right.' 'But I can see that he isn't.' 'Yes?' 'And I know. . . I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean any harm.'

      'Good. Well done. Walter might not know his right from his left, but he does know his right from his wrong.' Granny rubbed her hands together. 'Well, we're already home and looking for a clean towel, eh?' 'What? You haven't solved anything!' ' 'Course we have. We know that it wasn't Walter what done the murders, so now we just have to find out who it was. Easy.' 'Where's Walter now?' 'Nanny's got him somewhere.' 'She's all by herself?' 'I told you, she's got Walter.' 'I meant. . . well, he's a bit strange.' 'Only where it shows.' Agnes sighed, and started to say that it wasn't her problem. And realized it was useless even to try. The knowledge sat like a smug intruder in her mind. Whatever it was, it was her problem. 'All right,' she said. 'I'll help you if I can, because I'm here. But afterwards. . . that's it! Afterwards, you'll leave me alone. Promise?' 'Certainly.' 'Well. . . all right, then. . .' Agnes stopped. 'Oh, no,' she said. 'That was too easy. I don't trust you.' 'Don't trust me?' said Granny. 'You're saying you don't trust me?' 'Yes. I don't. You'll find a way to wriggle around it.' 'I never wriggle,' said Granny. 'It's Nanny Ogg who thinks we ought to have a third witch. I reckon life's difficult enough without some girl cluttering up the place just because she thinks she looks good in a pointy hat.' There was a pause. Then Agnes said, 'I'm not falling for that one, either. It's where you say I'm too stupid to be a witch and I say, oh no I'm not, and you end up winning again. I'd rather be someone else's voice than some old witch with no friends and having everyone frightened of me and being nothing more than just a bit cleverer than other people and not doing any real magic at all. . .' Granny put her head on one side. 'Seems to me you're so sharp you might cut yourself,' she said. 'All right. When it's all over, I'll let you go your own way. I won't stop you. Now show me the way to Mr Bucket's office. . .' Nanny smiled her jolly-wrinkled-old-apple smile. 'Now, you just hand it over, Walter,' she said. 'No harm in letting me see it, is there? Not old Nanny.' 'Can't see it till it's finished!' 'Well, now,' said Nanny, hating herself for dropping the atom bomb, 'I'm sure your main wouldn't want to hear that you've been a bad boy, would she?' Expressions floated over Walter's waxen features as he struggled with several ideas at once. Finally, without a word, he thrust the bundle at her, his arms trembling with tension. 'There's a good boy,' said Nanny. She glanced at the first few pages, and then moved them nearer to the light. 'Hmm.' She treadled the harmonium for a while and played a few notes with her left hand. They represented most of the musical notes she knew how to read. It was a very simple little theme, such as might be picked out on the keyboard with one finger. 'Hey. . .' Her lips moved as she read the narrative. 'Well now, Walter,' she said, 'isn't this a sort of opera about a ghost who lives in an opera house?' She turned a page. 'Very smart and debonair, he is. He's got a secret cave, I see. . .'

      She played another short riff. 'Catchy music, too.' She read on, occasionally saying things like 'Well, well' and 'Lawks'. Every now and again she'd give Walter an appraising look. 'I wonder why the Ghost wrote this, Walter?' she said, after a while. 'Quiet sort of chap, ain't he? Put it all into his music.' Walter stared at his feet. 'There's going to be a lot of trouble Mrs Ogg.' 'Oh, me and Granny will sort it all out,' said Nanny. 'It's wrong to tell lies,' said Walter. 'Probably,' said Nanny, who'd never let it worry her up to now. 'It wouldn't be right for our mum to lose her job Mrs Ogg.' 'It wouldn't be right, no.' The feeling drifted over Nanny that Walter was trying to put across some sort of message. 'Er. . . what sort of lies would it be wrong to tell, Walter?' Walter's eyes bulged. 'Lies. . . about things you see Mrs Ogg! Even if you did see them!' Nanny thought it was probably time to present the Oggish point of view. 'It's all right to tell lies if you don't think lies,' she said. 'He said our mum would lose her job and I'd be locked up if I said Mrs Ogg!' 'Did he? Which “he” was he?' 'The Ghost Mrs Ogg!' 'I reckon Granny ought to have a good look at you, Walter,' said Nanny. 'I reckon your mind's all tangled up like a ball of string what's been dropped.' She pedalled the harmonium thoughtfully. 'Was it the Ghost that wrote all this music, Walter?' 'It's wrong to tell lies about the room with the sacks in it Mrs Ogg!' Ah, thought Nanny. 'That'd be down here, would it?' 'He said I wasn't to tell anyone!' 'Who did?' 'The Ghost Mrs Ogg!' 'But you're-' Nanny began, and then tried another way. 'Ah, but I ain't anyone,' she said. 'Anyway, if you was to go to this room with the sacks and I was to follow you, that wouldn't be telling anyone, would it? It wouldn't be your fault if some ole woman followed you, would it?' Walter's face was an agony of indecision but, erratic though his thinking might have been, it was no match for Nanny Ogg's meretricious duplicity. He was up against a mind that regarded truth as a reference point but certainly not as a shackle. Nanny Ogg could think her way through a corkscrew in a tornado without touching the sides. 'Anyway, it's all right if it's me,' she added for good measure. 'In fact, he prob'ly meant to say “except for Mrs Ogg”, only he forgot.' Slowly, Walter reached out and picked up a candle. Without saying a word he walked out of the door and into the damp darkness of the cellars. Nanny Ogg followed him, her boots making squelching noises in the mud. It didn't seem like much of a distance. As far as Nanny could work out they were no longer under the Opera House, but it was hard to be sure. Their shadows danced around them and they walked through other rooms, even more dark and dripping than the ones they'd been in. Walter stopped in front of a pile of timber that glistened with rot, and pulled a few of the spongy planks aside. There were some sacks neatly piled. Nanny kicked one, and it broke. In the flickering candlelight all that she could really see were sparkles of light as the cascade poured out, but there was no mistaking the gentle metallic scraping of lots of money. Lots and lots of money. Enough money

      to suggest very clearly that it belonged to either a thief or a publisher, and there didn't seem to be any books around. 'What's this, Walter?' 'It's the Ghost's money Mrs Ogg!' There was a square hole in the opposite corner of the room. Water glinted a few inches below. Beside the hole were half a dozen containers of various sorts-old biscuit tins, broken bowls and the like. There was a stick, or possibly a dead shrub, in each one. 'And those, Walter? What are those?' 'Rose bushes Mrs Ogg!' 'Down here? But nothing could gr-' Nanny stopped. She squelched over to the pots. They'd been filled with muck scraped from the floor. The dead stems glistened with slime. Nothing could grow down here, of course. There was no light. Everything that grew needed something else to feed on. And. . .she moved the candle closer, and sniffed the fragrance. Yes. It was subtle, but it was there. Roses in darkness. 'Well, my word, Walter Plinge,' she said. 'Always one for the surprises, you are.' Books were piled on Mr Bucket's desk. 'What you're doing is wrong, Granny Weatherwax,' said Agnes from the doorway. Granny glanced up. 'Wrong as living other people's lives for them?' she said. 'S' matter of fact, there's something even worse than that, which is living other people's lives for yourself. That kind of wrong?' Agnes said nothing. Granny Weatherwax couldn't know. Granny turned back to the books. 'Anyway, this only looks wrong. Appearances is deceivin'. You just pay attention to watching the corridor, madam.' She riffled through the bits of torn envelope and scribbled notes that seemed to be the Opera House's equivalent of proper accounts. It was a mess. In fact, it was more than a mess. It was far too much of a mess to be. a real mess, because a real mess has occasional bits of coherence, bits of what might be called random order. Rather, it was the kind of erratic mess that suggested that someone had set out to be messy. Take the account books. They were full of tiny rows and columns, but someone hadn't thought it worthwhile to invest in lined paper and had handwriting that wandered a bit. There were forty rows on the left-hand side but only thirty-six by the time they reached the other side of the page. It was hard to spot because of the way your eyes watered. 'What are you doing?' said Agnes, tearing her gaze away from the corridor. 'Amazin',' said Granny. 'Some things is entered twice! And I reckon there's a page here where someone's added the month and taken away the time of day!' 'I thought you didn't like books,' said Agnes. 'I don't,' said Granny, turning a page. 'They can look you right in the face and still lie. How many fiddle players are there in the band?' 'I think there are nine violinists in the orchestra.' The correction appeared to pass unnoticed. 'Well, there's a thing,' said Granny, without moving her head. 'Seems that twelve of 'em are drawing wages, but three of 'em is over the page, so you mightn't notice.' She looked up and rubbed her hands happily. 'Unless you've got a good memory, that is.' She ran a skinny finger down another erratic column. 'What's a flying ratchet?'

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      'I don't know!' 'Says here “Repairs to flying ratchet, new springs for rotation cog assembly, and making good. Hundred and sixty dollars and sixty-three pence.” Hah!' She licked her finger and tried another page - 'Even Nanny ain't this bad at numbers,' she said. 'To be this bad at numbers you've got to be good. Hah! No wonder this place never makes any money. You might as well try to fill a sieve.' Agnes darted into the room. 'There's someone coming!' Granny got up and blew out the lamp. 'You get behind the curtains,' she commanded. 'What're you going to do?' 'Oh. . . I'll just have to make myself inconspicuous. . .' Agnes hurried across to the big window and turned to look at Granny, who was standing by the fireplace. The old witch faded. She didn't disappear. She merely slid into the background. An arm gradually became part of the mantelpiece. A fold of her dress was a piece of shadow. An elbow became the top of the chair behind her. Her face became one with a vase of faded flowers. She was still there, like the old woman in the puzzle picture they sometimes printed in the Almanack, where you could see the old woman or the young girl but not both at once, because one was made of the shadows of the other. Granny Weatherwax was standing by the fireplace, but you could see her only if you knew she was there. Agnes blinked. And there were just the shadows, the chair and the fire. The door opened. She ducked behind the curtains, feeling as conspicuous as a strawberry in a stew, certain that the sound of her heart would give her away. The door shut, carefully, with barely a click. Footsteps crossed the floor. A wooden scraping noise might have been a chair being moved slightly. A scratch and a hiss were the sound of a match, striking. A clink was the glass of the lamp, being lifted. . . All noise ceased. Agnes crouched, every muscle suddenly screaming with the strain. The lamp hadn't been lit-she'd have seen the light around the curtain. Someone out there was making no noise. Someone out there was suddenly suspicious. A floorboard squeaked verrrry slowwwly, as someone shifted their weight. She felt as if she was going to scream, or burst with the effort of silence. The handle of the window behind her, a mere point of pressure a moment ago, was trying seriously to become part of her life. Her mouth was so dry that she knew it'd creak like a hinge if she dared to swallow. It couldn't be anyone who had a right to be here. People who had a right to be in places walked around noisily. The handle was getting really personal. Try to think of something else. . . The curtain moved. Someone was standing on the other side of it. If her throat weren't so arid she might be able to scream. She could feel the presence through the cloth. Any moment now, someone was going to twitch the curtain aside. She leapt, or as close to a leap as was feasible-it was a kind of vertical lumber, billowing the curtain aside, colliding with a slim body behind it, and ending on the floor in a tangle of limbs and ripping velvet. She gulped air, and pressed down on the squirming bundle below her.

      'I'll scream!' she said. 'And if I do your eardrums will come down your nose!' The writhing stopped. 'Perdifa?' said a muffled voice. Above her, the curtain-rail sagged at one end and the brass rings, one at a time, spun towards the floor. Nanny went back to the sacks. Each one bulged with round hard shapes that clinked gently under her questing finger. 'This is a lot of money, Walter,' she said carefully. 'Yes Mrs Ogg!' Nanny lost track of money fairly easily although this didn't mean the subject didn't interest her: it was just that, beyond a certain point, it became dream-like. All she could be sure of was that the amount in front of her would make anyone's drawers drop. 'I suppose,' she said, 'that if I was to ask you how it'd got here, you'd say it was the Ghost, yes? Like the roses?' 'Yes Mrs Ogg!' She gave him a worried look. 'You'll be all right down here, will you?' she said. 'You'll sit quiet? I reckon I need to talk to some people.' 'Where's my mum Mrs Ogg?' 'She's having a nice sleep, Walter.' Walter seemed satisfied with this. 'You'll sit quiet in your. . . in that room, will you?' 'Yes Mrs Ogg!' 'There's a good boy.' She glanced at the money-bags again. Money was trouble. Agnes sat back. André raised himself on his elbows and pulled the curtain off his face. 'What the hell were you doing there?' he said. 'I was- What do you mean, what was I doing there? You were creeping around!' 'You were hiding behind the curtain!' said André, getting to his feet and fumbling for the matches again. 'Next time you blow out a lamp, remember it'll still be warm.' 'We were. . . on important business. . .' The lamp glowed. André turned. 'We?' he said. Agnes nodded, and looked across at Granny. The witch hadn't moved, although it took a deliberate effort of will to focus on her among the shapes and shadows. André picked up the lamp and stepped forward. The shadows shifted. 'Well?' he said. Agnes strode across the room and waved a hand in the air. There was the chair back, there was the vase, there was. . . nothing else. 'But she was there!' 'A ghost, eh?' said André sarcastically. Agnes backed away. There is something about the light of a lamp held lower than someone's face. The shadows are wrong. They fall into unfortunate places. Teeth seem more prominent. Agnes came to realize that she was alone in a room in suspicious circumstances with a man whose face suddenly looked a lot more unpleasant than it had before. 'I suggest,' he said, 'that you get back to the stage right now, yes? That would be the very best thing you could do. And don't meddle in things that don't concern you. You've done too much as it is.'

      The fear hadn't drained out of Agnes, but it had found a space in which to metamorphose into anger. 'I don't have to put up with that! For all I know, you might be the Ghost!' 'Really? I was told that Walter Plinge was the Ghost,' said André. 'How many people did you tell? And now it turns out that he's dead. . .' 'No, he's not!' It was out before she could stop it. She'd said it merely to wipe the sneer off his face. This happened. But the expression that replaced it was no improvement. A floorboard creaked. They both turned. There was a hat-stand in the corner, next to a bookcase. There were a few coats and scarves hanging from it. It was surely only the way that the shadows fell that made it look, from this angle, like an old woman. Or. . . 'Damn floors,' said Granny, fading into the foreground. She stepped away from the coats. As Agnes said, later: it wasn't as though she'd been invisible. She'd simply become part of the scenery until she put herself forward again; she was there, but not there. She didn't stand out at all. She was as unnoticeable as the very best of butlers. 'How did you get in?' said André. 'I looked all round the room!' 'Seein' is believin',' said Granny, calmly. 'Of course, the trouble is that believin' is also seein', and there's been too much of that round here lately. Now, I know you ain't the Ghost. . . so what are you, to be sneaking around in places where you shouldn't be?' 'I could ask you the same quest-' 'Me? I'm a witch, and I'm pretty good at it.' 'She's, er, from Lancre. Where I come from,' Agnes mumbled, trying to look at her feet. 'Oh? Not the one who wrote the book?' said André. 'I've heard people talking about-' 'No! I'm much worse than her, understand?' 'She is,' mumbled Agnes. André gave Granny a long look, like a man weighing up his chances. He must have decided that they were bobbing along the ceiling. 'I. . . hang around in dark places looking for trouble,' he said. 'Really? There's a nasty name for people like that, ' snapped Granny. 'Yes,' said André. 'It's “policeman”.' Nanny Ogg climbed out of the cellars, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Musicians and singers were still milling around, uncertain about what was going to happen next. The Ghost had had the decency to be chased and killed during the interval. In theory that meant there was no reason why there shouldn't be a third act, as soon as Herr Trubelmacher had scoured the nearby pubs and dragged the orchestra back. The show must go on. Yes, she thought, it has to go on. It's like the build-up to a thunderstorm. . . no. . . it's more like making love. Yes. That was a far more Oggish metaphor. You put everything you've got into it, so sooner or later there's a point where it's got to go on, because you can't imagine stopping. The stage manager could dock a couple of dollars from their wages and they'd still go on, and everyone knew it. And they would still go on. She reached a ladder and climbed slowly into the flies. She hadn't been certain. She needed to be certain now.

      The fly loft was empty. She walked carefully along the catwalk until she was over the auditorium. The buzz of the audience came through the ceiling beneath her, slightly muffled. Light shone up at the point where the thick cable for the chandelier disappeared into the hole. She stepped out over the creaking trapdoor and peered down. Terrific heat almost frizzled her hair. A few yards below her hundreds of candles were burning. 'Dreadful if that lot fell down,' she said quietly. 'I 'spect this place'd go up like a haystack. . .' She let her gaze travel up and up .the cable to the point, at just about waist-height, where it was halfcut through. You'd never see it, if you weren't expecting to find it. Then her gaze dropped again, and moved across the gloomy, dusty floor until it found something half-hidden in the dust: Behind her, a shadow among the shadows rose to its feet, balanced itself carefully, and started to run. 'I knows about policemen,' said Granny. 'They've got big helmets and big feet and you can see them a mile off. There's a couple lurching around backstage. Anyone can see they're policemen. You don't look like one.' She turned the badge over and over in her hands. 'I ain't happy with the idea of secret policemen,' she said. 'Why do you need secret policemen?' 'Because,' said André, 'sometimes you have secret criminals.' Granny almost smiled. 'That's a fact,' she said. She peered at the small engraving on the back of the badge. 'Says here “Cable Street Particulars”. . .' 'There aren't many of us,' said André. 'We've only just started. Commander Vimes said that, since we can't do anything about the Thieves' Guild and the Assassins' Guild, we'd better look for other crimes. Hidden crimes. That need Watchmen with. . . different skills. And I can play the piano quite well. . ., 'What kind of skills have that troll and that dwarf got?' said Granny. 'Seems to me the only thing they're really good at is standing around looking obvious and stupiHah! Yes. . .' 'Right. And they didn't even need much training,' said André. 'Commander Vimes says they're the most obvious policemen anyone could think of. Incidentally, Corporal Nobbs has got some papers to prove he's a human being.' 'Forged?' 'I don't think so.' Granny Weatherwax put her head on one side. 'If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd take out of it?' 'Oh, Granny-' Agnes began. 'Hmm. Who set fire to it?' said André. 'You're a policeman, right enough.' Granny handed him his badge. 'You come to arrest poor Walter?' she said. 'I know he didn't murder Dr Undershaft. I was watching him. He was trying to unblock the privies all afternoon-' 'I've had proof that Walter isn't the Ghost,' said Agnes. 'I was almost sure it was Salzella,' said André. 'I know he creeps off to the cellars sometimes and I'm sure he's stealing money. But the Ghost has been seen when Salzella is perfectly visible. So now I think-' 'Think? Think?' said Granny. 'Someone thinking around here at last? How'd you recognize the Ghost, Mister Policeman?' 'Well. . . he's got a mask on. . .' 'Really? Now say it again, and listen to what you say. Good grief! You can recognize him because he's got a mask on? You recognize him because

      you don't know who he is? Life isn't neat! Whoever said there's only one Ghost?' The figure ran through the shadows of the fly loft, cloak billowing around it. Nanny Ogg was outlined against the light, peering down. She said, without turning her head: 'Hello, Mr Ghost. Come back for your saw, have you?' Then she darted around behind the cable until she faced the shadow. 'Millions of people knows I'm up here! You wouldn't hurt a little old lady, would you? Oh, dear. . . me poor old heart!' She keeled over backwards, hitting the floor hard enough to make the cable swing. The figure hesitated. Then it took a length of thin rope from a pocket and advanced cautiously towards the fallen witch. It knelt down, wound an end of the rope around each hand, and leaned forward. , Nanny's knee came up sharply. 'Feels a lot -better now, mister,' she said, as he reared backwards. She scrambled up again and grabbed the saw. 'Come back to finish it, eh?' she said, waving the implement in the air. 'Wonder how you'd blame that on Walter! Make you happy, would it, the whole place burning down?' The figure, moving awkwardly, backed away as she advanced. Then it turned, lurched along the wobbling catwalk and disappeared into the gloom. Nanny pounded after him and saw the figure climbing down a ladder. She looked around quickly, grabbed a rope to slide after him, and heard a pulley somewhere above start to clatter. She descended, skirts billowing around her. When she was about halfway down, a bunch of sandbags went upwards past her in a hurry. As she rattled onwards she saw, between her boots, someone struggling with the trapdoor to the cellars. She landed a few feet away, still holding the rope. 'Mr Salzella?' Nanny stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that could have melted ear-wax. She let go of the rope. Salzella glanced up at her as he raised the trapdoor, and then saw the shape dropping out of the roof. One hundred and eighty pounds of sandbag hit the door, slamming it shut. 'Watch out!' said Nanny, cheerfully. Bucket waited nervously in the wings. Unnecessarily nervously, of course. The Ghost was dead. There couldn't be anything to worry about. People said they'd seen him killed, although they were, Bucket had to admit, a bit hazy on the actual details. Nothing to worry about. Not a thing. Nothing whatsoever in any way. Everything was absolutely nothing to worry about in any way. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It hadn't been such a bad life in wholesale cheese. The most you had to worry about was ogle of poor old Reg Plenty's trouser buttons in the Farmhouse Nutty and the time young Weevins minced his thumb in the stirring machine and it was only by luck they happened to be doing strawberry yoghurt at the time- A figure loomed up beside him. He clutched at a curtain for support and then turned to see, with relief, the majestic and reassuring stomach of Enrico Basilica. The tenor looked magnificent in a huge cockerel costume, complete with giant beak, wattles and comb.

      'Ah, senor,' Bucket burbled. 'Very impressive, may I say.' 'Si,' said a muffed voice from somewhere behind the beak, as other members of the company hurried past on to the stage. 'May I say how sorry I am about all that business earlier. I can assure you that it doesn't happen every night, ahahah. . .' 'Si?' 'Probably just high spirits, ahaha. . .' The beak turned towards him. Bucket backed away. 'Si!' '. . .yes. . . well, I'm glad you're so understanding. . .' Temperamental, he thought, as the tenor strode on to the stage and the overture to Act Three drifted to its close. They're like that, the real artistes. Nerves stretched like rubber bands, I expect. It's just like waiting for the cheese, really. You can get really edgy waiting to see whether you've got half a ton of best blue-vein or just a vat full of pig food. It's probably like that when you've got an aria working its way up- 'Where'd he go? Where'd he go?' 'What? Oh. . . Mrs Ogg. . .' The old woman waved a saw in front of his face. It was not, in Mr Bucket's current state of mental tension, a helpful gesture. He was suddenly surrounded by other figures, equally conducive to multiple exclamation marks. 'Perdita? Why aren't you on stage. . . oh, Lady Esmerelda, I didn't see you there, of course if you want to come backstage you only have to-' 'Where's Salzella?' said André. Bucket looked around vaguely. 'He was here a few minutes ago. . . That is,' he said, pulling himself together, 'Mr Salzella is probably attending to his duties somewhere which, young man, is more than I can say for-' 'I demand you stop the show now,' said André. 'Oh, you do, do you? And by what authority, may I ask?' 'He's been sawing through the rope!' said Nanny. André pulled out a badge. 'This!' Bucket looked closely. ' “Ankh-Morpork Guild of Musicians member z 244”?' André glared at him, then at the badge, and started to pat his pockets urgently. 'No! Blast, I know I had the other one a moment ago. . . Look, you've got to clear the theatre, we've got to search it, and that means-' 'Don't stop the show,' said Granny. 'I won't stop the show,' said Bucket. ' 'Cos I reckon he'd like to see the show stopped. The show must go on, eh? Isn't that what you believe? Could he have got out of the building?' 'I sent Corporal Nobbs to the stage-door and Sergeant Detritus is in the foyer,' said André. 'When it comes to standing in doorways, they're among the best.' 'Excuse me, what's happening?' said Bucket. 'He could be anywhere!' said Agnes. 'There're hundreds of hiding-places!' 'Who?' said Bucket. 'How about these cellars everyone talks about?' said Granny. 'Where?' 'There's only one entrance,' said André. 'He's not stupid.' 'He can't get into the cellars,' said Nanny. 'He ran off? Probably in a cupboard somewhere by now!' 'No, he'll stay where there's crowds,' said Granny. 'That's what I'd do.' 'What?' said Bucket. 'Could he have got into the audience from here?' said Nanny. 'Who?' said Bucket. Granny jerked a thumb towards the stage. 'He's somewhere on there. I can feel him.'

      'Then we'll wait until he comes off!' 'Eighty people coming off stage all at once?' said Agnes. 'Don't you know what it's like when the curtain goes down?' 'And we don't want to stop the show,' Granny mused. 'No, we don't want to stop the show,' said Bucket, grasping at a familiar idea as it swept by on a tide of incomprehensibility. 'Or give people their money back in any fashion whatsoever. What are we talking about, does anyone know?' 'The show must go on. . .' murmured Granny Weatherwax, still staring out of the wings. 'Things have to end right. This is an opera house. They should end. . . operatically. . .' Nanny Ogg hopped up and down excitedly. 'Oo, I know what you're thinking, Esme!' she squeaked. 'Oo, yes! Can we? Just so's I can say I done it! Eh? Can we? Go on! Let's!' * * * Henry Lawsy peered closely at his opera notes. He had not, of course, fully understood the events of the first two acts, but knew that this was perfectly OK because one would have to be quite naive to expect good sense as well as good songs. Anyway, it would all be explained in the last act, which was the Masked Ball in the Duke's Palace. It would almost certainly turn out that the woman one of the men had been rather daringly courting would be his own wife, but so cunningly disguised by a very small mask that her husband wouldn't have spotted that she wore the same clothes and had the same hairstyle. Someone's serving man would turn out to be someone else's daughter in disguise; someone would die of something that didn't prevent them from singing about it for several minutes; and the plot would be resolved by some coincidences which, in real life, would be as likely as a cardboard hammer. He didn't know any of this for a fact. He was making a calculated guess. In the meantime Act Three opened with the traditional ballet, this time apparently a country dance by the Maidens of the Court. Henry was aware of muffled laughter around him. This was because, if you ran an eye at head-height along the row of ballerinas as they tripped, arm in arm, on to the stage, there was an apparent gap. This was only filled if the gaze went downwards a foot or two, to a small fat ballerina in a huge grin, an overstretched tutu, long white drawers and. . . boots. Henry stared. They were big boots. They moved back and forth at an astonishing speed. The satin slippers of the other dancers twinkled as they drifted across the floor, but the boots flashed and clattered like a tap dancer afraid of falling into the sink. The pirouettes were novel, too. While the other dancers whirled like snowflakes, the little fat one spun like a top and moved across the floor like one too, bits of her anatomy trying to achieve local orbit. Around Henry members of the audience were whispering to one another. 'Oh yes,' he heard someone declare, 'they tried this in Pseudopolis. . .' His mother nudged him. 'This supposed to happen?' 'Er. . . I don't think so. . .' ' 'S bloody good, though! A good laugh!' As the fat ballerina collided with a donkey in evening dress she staggered and grabbed at his mask, which came off. . . Herr Trubelmacher, the conductor, froze in horror and astonishment. Around him the orchestra rattled to a standstill, except for the tuba player -oom-BAH-oom-BAH-oom-BAH-

      -who had memorized his score years ago and never took much interest in current affairs. Two figures rose up right in front of Trubelmacher. A hand grabbed his baton. 'Sorry, sir,' said André, 'but the show must go on, yes?' He handed the stick to the other figure. 'There you are,' he said. 'And don't let them stop.' 'Ook!' The Librarian carefully lifted Herr Trubelmacher aside with one hand, licked the baton thoughtfully, and then focused his gaze on the tuba player. -oom-BAH-oom-BAHhhh. . . oom. . . om. . . The tuba player tapped a trombonist on the shoulder. 'hey, Frank, there's a monkey where old troublemaker should be-' 'shutupshutupshutup!' Satisfied, the orang-utan raised his arms. The orchestra looked up. And then looked up a bit more. No conductor in musical history, not even the one who once fried and ate the piccolo- player's liver on a cymbal for one wrong note too many, not even the one who skewered three troublesome violinists on his baton, not even the one who made really hurtful sarcastic remarks in a loud voice, was ever the focus of such reverential attention. On stage, Nanny Ogg took advantage of the hush to pull the head off a frog. 'Madam!' 'Sorry, thought you might be someone else. . .' The long arms dropped. The orchestra, in one huge muddled chord, slammed back into life. The dancers, after a moment's confusion during which Nanny Ogg took the opportunity to decapitate a clown and a phoenix, tried to continue. The chorus watched in bemusement. Christine felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Agnes. 'Perdita! Where have you been!?' she hissed. 'It's nearly time for my duet with Enrico!' 'You've got to help!' hissed Agnes. But down in her soul Perdita said: Enrico, eh? It's Senor Basilica to everyone else. . . 'Help you what!?' said Christine. 'Take everyone's masks off!' Christine's forehead wrinkled beautifully. 'That's not supposed to happen until the end of the opera, is it?' 'Er. . . it's all been changed!' said Agnes urgently. She turned to a nobleman in a zebra mask and tugged it desperately. The singer underneath glared at her. 'Sorry!' she whispered. 'I thought you were someone else!' 'We're not supposed to take them off until the end!' 'It's been changed!' 'Has it? No one told me!' A short-necked giraffe next to him leaned sideways. 'What's that?' 'The big unmasking scene is now, apparently!' 'No one told me!' 'Yes, but when does anyone ever tell us anything? We're only the chorus. . . here, why is old Troublemaker wearing a monkey mask. . . ?' Nanny Ogg pirouetted past, cannoned into an elephant in evening dress and beheaded him by the trunk. She whispered: 'We're looking for the Ghost, see?' 'But. . . the Ghost is dead, isn't he?' 'Hard things to kill, ghosts,' said Nanny.

      The whisper spread outwards from that point. There is nothing like a chorus for rumour. People who would not believe a High Priest if he said the sky was blue, and was able to produce signed affidavits to this effect from his white-haired old mother and three Vestal virgins, would trust just about anything whispered darkly behind their hand by a complete stranger in a pub. A cockatoo spun around and pulled the mask off a parrot. . . Bucket sobbed. This was worse than the day the buttermilk exploded. This was worse than the flash heat wave that had led a whole warehouse full of Lancre Extra Strong to riot. The opera had turned into a pantomime. The audience was laughing. About the only character still with a mask on was Senor Basilica, who was watching the struggling chorus with as much aloof amazement as his own mask could convey -and this, amazingly enough, was quite a lot. 'Oh, no. . .' moaned Bucket. 'We'll never live it down! He'll never come back! It'll be all over the opera circuit and no one will ever want to come here ever again!' 'Ever again wha'?' mumbled a voice behind him. Bucket turned. 'Oh, Senor Basilica,' he said. 'Didn't see you there. . . I was just thinking, I do hope you don't think this is typical!' Senor Basilica stared through him, swaying slightly from side to side. He was wearing a torn shirt. 'Summon. . .' he said. 'I'm sorry?' 'Summon. . . summon hit me onna head,' said the tenor. 'Wanna glassa water pliss. . .' 'But you're. . . just about. . . to. . . sing. . . aren't you?' said Bucket. He grabbed the stunned man by the collar to pull him closer, but this simply meant that he dragged himself off the floor, bringing his shoes about level with Basilica's knees. 'Tell me. . . you're out there. . . on the stage. . . please!!!' Even in his stunned state, Enrico Basilica a.k.a. Henry Slugg recognized what might be called the essential dichotomy of the statement. He stuck to what he knew. 'Summon bashed me inna corridor. . .' he volunteered. 'That's not you out there?' Basilica blinked heavily. “M not me?' 'You're going to sing the famous duet in a moment!!!' Another thought staggered through Basilica's abused skull. ”M I?' he said. "S good. . . 'll look forwa' to that. Ne'er had a chance to hear me befo'. . .' He gave a happy little sigh and fell full-length backwards. Bucket leaned against a pillar for support. Then his brow furrowed and, in the best traditions of the extended double-take, he stared at the fallen tenor and counted to one on his fingers. Then he turned towards the stage and counted to two. He could feel a fourth exclamation mark coming on any time now. The Enrico Basilica on stage turned his mask this way and that. Stage right, Bucket was whispering to a group of stage-hands. Stage left, André the secret pianist was waiting. A large troll loomed next to him. The fat red singer walked to centre-stage as the prelude to the duet began. The audience settled down again. Fun and games among the chorus was all very well-it might even be in the plot-but this was what they'd paid for. This was what it was all about.

      Agnes stared at him as Christine walked towards him. Now she could see he wasn't right. Oh, he was fat, in a pillow-up-your-shirt sort of way, but he didn't move like Basilica. Basilica moved lightly on his feet, as fat men often do, giving the effect of a barely tethered balloon. She glanced at Nanny, who was also watching him carefully. She couldn't see Granny Weatherwax anywhere. That probably meant she was really close. The expectancy of the audience dragged at them all. Ears opened like petals. The fourth wall of the stage, the big black sucking darkness outside, was a well of silence begging to be filled up. Christine was walking towards him quite unconcerned. Christine would walk into a dragon's mouth if it had a sign on it saying 'Totally harmless, I promise you'. . . at least, if it was printed in large, easy-to- understand letters. No one seemed to want to do anything. It was a famous duet. And a beautiful one. Agnes ought to know. She'd been singing it all last night. Christine took the false Basilica's hand and, as the opening bars of the duet began, opened her mouth 'Stop right there!' Agnes put everything she could into it. The chandelier tinkled. The orchestra went silent in a skid of wheezes and twangs. In a fading of chords and a dying of echoes, the show stopped. Walter Plinge sat in the candlelit gloom under the stage, his hands resting on his lap. It was not often that Walter Plinge had nothing to do, but, when he did have nothing to do, he did nothing. He liked it down here. It was familiar. The sounds of the opera filtered through. They were muffled, but that didn't matter. Walter knew all the words, every note of music, every step of every dance. He needed the actual performances only in the same way that a clock needs its tiny little escapement mechanism; it kept him ticking nicely. Mrs Plinge had taught him to read using the old programmes. That's how he knew he was part of it all. But he knew that anyway. He'd cut what teeth he had on a helmet with horns on it. The first bed he could remember was the very same trampoline used by Dame Gigli in the infamous Bouncing Gigli incident. Walter Plinge lived opera. He breathed its songs, painted its scenery, lit its fires, washed its floors and shined its shoes. Opera filled up places in Walter Plinge that might otherwise have been empty. And now the show had stopped. But all the energy, all the raw pent-up emotion that is dammed up behind a show-all the screaming, the fears, the hopes, the desires-flew on, like a body hurled from the wreckage. The terrible momentum smashed into Walter Plinge like a tidal wave hitting a teacup. It propelled him out of his chair and flung him against the crumbling scenery. He slid down and rolled into a twitching heap on the floor, clapping his hands over his ears to shut out the sudden, unnatural silence. A shape stepped out of the shadows. Granny Weatherwax had never heard of psychiatry and would have had no truck with it even if she had. There are some arts too black even for a witch. She practised headology-practised, in fact, until she was very good at it. And though there may be some superficial similarities between a psychiatrist and a headologist, there is a huge practical difference. A psychiatrist, dealing with a man who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavour to convince him that monsters

      don't exist. Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on and a very heavy stick. 'Stand up, Walter Plinge,' she said. Walter stood up, staring straight ahead of him. 'It's stopped! It's stopped! It's bad luck to stop the show!' he said hoarsely. 'Someone better start it again,' said Granny. 'You can't stop the show! It's the show!' 'Yes. Someone better start it again, Walter Plinge.' Walter didn't appear to notice her. He pawed aimlessly through his stack of music and ran his hands through the drifts of old programmes. One hand touched the keyboard of the harmonium and played a few neurotic notes. 'Wrong to stop. Show must go on. . .' 'Mr Salzella is trying to stop the show, isn't he, Walter?' Walter's head shot up. He stared straight ahead of him. 'You haven't seen anything, Walter Plinge!' he said, in a voice so like Salzella's that even Granny raised an eyebrow. 'And if you tell lies, you will be locked up and I'll see to it that there's big trouble for your mother!' Granny nodded. 'He found out about the Ghost, didn't he?' she said. 'The Ghost who comes out when he has a mask on. . . doesn't he, Walter Plinge? And the man thought: I can use that. And when it's time for the Ghost to be caught. . . well, there is a Ghost that can be caught. And the best thing is that everyone will believe it. They'll feel bad about themselves, maybe, but they'll believe it. Even Walter Plinge won't be certain, 'cos his mind's all tangled up.' Granny took a deep breath. 'It's tangled, but it ain't twisted.' There was a sigh. 'Well, matters will have to resolve themselves. There's nothing else for it.' She removed her hat and fished around in the point. 'I don't mind tellin' you this, Walter,' she said, 'because you won't understand and you won't remember. There was a wicked ole witch once called Black Aliss. She was an unholy terror. There's never been one worse or more powerful. Until now. Because I could spit in her eye and steal her teeth, see. Because she didn't know Right from Wrong, so she got all twisted up and that was the end of her. 'The trouble is, you see, that if you do know Right from Wrong you can't choose Wrong. You just can't do it and live. So. . . if I was a bad witch I could make Mister Salzella's muscles turn against his bones and break them where he stood. . . if I was bad. I could do things inside his head, change the shape he thinks he is, and he'd be down on what'd been his knees and begging to be turned into a frog. . . if I was bad. I could leave him with a mind like a scrambled egg, listening to colours and hearing smells. . . if I was bad. Oh, yes.' There was another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt. 'But I can't do none of that stuff: That wouldn't be Right.' She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no sidesplitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what's best. From the point of her hat Granny withdrew a paper-thin mask. It was a simple face-smooth, white, basic. There were semi-circular holes for the eyes. It was neither happy nor sad. She turned it over in her hands. Walter seemed to stop breathing.

      'Simple thing, ain't it?' said Granny. 'Looks beautiful, but it's really just a simple bit of stuff, just like any other mask. Wizards could poke at this for a year and still say there was nothing magic about it, eh? Which just shows how much they know, Walter Plinge. ' She tossed it to him. He caught it hungrily and pulled it over his face. Then he stood up in one flowing movement, moving like a dancer. 'I don't know what you are when you're behind the mask,' said Granny, 'but “ghost” is just another word for “spirit” and “spirit” is just another word for “soul”. Off you go, Walter Plinge.' The masked figure did not move. 'I meant. . . off you go, Ghost. The show must go on.' The mask nodded, and darted away. Granny slapped her hands together like the crack of doom. 'Right! Let's do some good!' she said, to the universe at large. Everyone was looking at her. This was a moment in time, a little point between the past and future, when a second could stretch out and out. . . Agnes felt the blush begin. It was heading for her face like the revenge of the volcano god. When it got there, she knew, it would be all over for her. You'll apologize, Perdita jeered. 'Shut up!' shouted Agnes. She strode forward before the echo had had time to come back from the further ends of the auditorium, and wrenched at the red mask. The entire chorus came in on cue. This was opera, after all. The show had stopped, but opera continued. . . 'Salzella!' He grabbed Agnes, clamping his hand over her mouth. His other hand flew to his belt and drew his sword. It wasn't a stage prop. The blade hissed through the air as he spun to face the chorus. 'Oh dear oh dear oh dear,' he said. 'How extremely operatic of me. And now, I fear, I shall have to take this poor girl hostage. It's the appropriate thing to do, isn't it?' He looked around triumphantly. The audience watched in fascinated silence. 'Isn't anyone going to say “You won't get away with this”?' he said. 'You won't get away with this,' said André, from the wings. 'You have the place surrounded, I have no doubt?' said Salzella brightly. 'Yes, we have the place surrounded.' Christine screamed and fainted. Salzella smiled even more brightly. 'Ah, now there's someone operatic!' he said. 'But, you see, I am going to get away with it, because I don't think operatically. Myself and this young lady here are going to go down to the cellars where I may, possibly, leave her unharmed. I doubt very much that you have the cellars surrounded. Even I don't know everywhere they go, and believe me my knowledge is really rather extensive' He paused. Agnes tried to break free, but his grip tightened around her neck. 'By now,' he said, 'someone should have said: “But why, Salzella?” Honestly, do I have to do everything around here?' Bucket realized he had his mouth open. 'That's what I was going to say!' he said. 'Ah, good. Well, in that case, I should say something like: Because I wanted to. Because I rather like money, you see. But more than that'- he took a deep breath-'I really hate opera. I don't want to get needlessly

      excited about this, but opera, I am afraid, really is dreadful. And I have had enough. So, while I have the stage, let me tell you what a wretched, selfadoring, totally unrealistic, worthless artform it is, what a terrible waste of fine music, what a-' There was a whirr off on one side of the stage. The skirts of costumes began to flap. Dust flew up. André looked around. Beside him, the wind machine had started up. The handle was turning by itself. Salzella turned to see what everyone was staring at. The Ghost had dropped lightly on to the stage. His opera cloak billowed around him. . . operatically. He bowed slightly, and drew his sword. 'But you're dea-' Salzella began. 'Oh, yes! A ghost of a Ghost! Totally unbelievable and an offence against common sense, in the best operatic tradition! This was really too much to hope for!' He thrust Agnes away, and nodded happily. 'That's what opera does to a man,' he said. 'It rots the brain, you see, and I doubt whether he had too much of that to begin with. It drives people mad. Mad, d'you hear me, mad!! Ahem. They act irrationally. Don't you think I've watched you, over the years? It's like a hothouse for insanity!! D'you hear me? Insanity!!' He and the Ghost began to circle one another. 'You don't know what it has been like, I assure you, being the only sane man in this madhouse!! You believe anything!! You'd prefer to believe a ghost can be in two places at once than that there might simply be two people!! Even Pounder thought he could blackmail me!! Poking around in places that he shouldn't!! Well, of course, I had to kill him for his own good. This place sends even rat catchers mad!! And Undershaft. . . well, why couldn't he have forgotten his glasses like he usually did, eh?' He lashed out with his sword. The Ghost parried. 'And now I'll fight your Ghost,' he said, moving forward in a flurry of strokes, 'and you'll notice that our Ghost here doesn't actually know how to fence. . . because he only knows stage-fencing, you see. . . where the whole point, of course, is simply to hit the other fellow's sword with a suitably impressive metallic noise. . . so that you can die very dramatically merely because he's carefully thrust his sword under your armpit. . .' The Ghost was forced to retreat under the onslaught, until he fell backwards over the unconscious body of Christine. 'See?' said Salzella. 'That's what comes of believing in opera!!!' He reached down quickly and tugged the mask off Walter Plinge's face. 'Really, Walter!!! You are a bad boy!!!!' 'Sorry Mr Salzella!' 'Look how everyone's staring!!!!' 'Sorry Mr Salzella!' The mask crumpled in Salzella's fingers. He let the fragments tumble to the floor. Then he pulled Walter to his feet. 'See, company? This is your luck!!! This is your Ghost!!! Without his mask he's just an idiot who can hardly tie his shoelaces!!! Ahahaha!!!! Ahem. It's all your fault, Walter Plinge. . .' 'Yes Mr Salzella!' 'No.' Salzella looked around. 'No one would believe Walter Plinge. Even Walter Plinge gets confused about the things Walter Plinge sees. Even his mother was afraid he might have murdered people. People could accept just about anything of a Walter Plinge.' There was a steady tapping noise.

      The trapdoor opened beside Salzella. A pointy hat appeared slowly, followed by the rest of Granny Weatherwax, with her arms folded. She glared at Salzella as the floor clicked into place. Her foot stopped tapping on the boards. 'Well, well,' he said. 'Lady Esmerelda, eh?' 'I'm stoppin' bein' a lady, Mr Salzella.' He glanced up at the pointy hat. 'So you are a witch instead?' 'Yes, indeed.' 'A bad witch, no doubt?' 'Worse.' 'But this,' said Salzella, 'is a sword. Everyone knows witches can't magic iron and steel. Get out of my way!!!' The sword hissed down. Granny thrust out her hand. There was a blur of flesh and steel and. . . . . .she held the sword, by the blade. 'Tell you what, Mr Salzella,' she said, levelly, 'it ought to be Walter Plinge who finishes this, eh? It's him you harmed, apart from the ones you murdered, o' course. You didn't need to do that. But you wore a mask, didn't you? There's a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes out in darkness. I bet you could do just what you liked, behind a mask. . . ?' Salzella blinked at her. He pulled on his sword, tugged hard on a sharp blade held in an unprotected hand. There was a groan from several members of the chorus. Granny grinned. Her knuckles whitened as she redoubled her grip. She turned her head towards Walter Plinge. 'Put your mask on, Walter.' Everyone looked down at the crumpled cardboard on the stage. 'Don't have one any more Mistress Weatherwax!' Granny followed his gaze. 'Oh deary, deary me,' she said. 'Well, I can see we shall have to do something about that. Look at me, Walter.' He did as he was told. Granny's eyes half-closed. 'You. . . trust Perdita, don't you, Walter?' 'Yes Mistress Weatherwax!' 'That's good, because she's got a new mask for you, Walter Plinge. A magic one. It's just like your old one, d'you see, only you wear it under your skin and you don't have to take it off and no one but you will ever need to know it's there. Got it, Perdita?' 'But I-' Agnes began. 'Got it?' 'Er. . . oh, yes. Here it is. Yes. I've got it in my hand.' She waved an empty hand vaguely. 'You're holding it the wrong way up, my girl!' 'Oh. Sorry.' 'Well? Give it to him, then.' 'Er. Yes.' Agnes advanced on Walter. 'Now you take it, Walter,' said Granny, still gripping the sword. 'Yes Mistress Weatherwax. . .' He reached out towards Agnes. As he did so, she was sure that, just for a moment, there was a faint pressure on her fingertips. 'Well? Put it on!' Walter looked uncertain. 'You do believe there's a mask there, don't you, Walter?' Granny demanded. 'Perdita's sensible and she knows an invisible mask when she sees one.' He nodded, slowly, and raised his hands to his face. And Agnes was sure that he'd somehow come into focus. Almost certainly nothing had happened that could be measured with any kind of instrument,

      any more than you could weigh an idea or sell good fortune by the yard. But Walter stood up, smiling faintly. 'Good,' said Granny. She stared at Salzella. 'I reckon you two should fight again,' she said. 'But it can't be said I'm unfair. I expect you've got a Ghost mask somewhere? Mrs Ogg saw you waving it, see. And she's not as gormless as she looks-' 'Thank you,' said a fat ballerina. '-so she thought, how could people still say afterwards that they'd seen the Ghost? 'Cos that's how you recognize the Ghost, by his mask. So there's two masks.' Under her gaze, telling himself that he could resist any time he wanted to, Salzella reached into his jacket and produced his own mask. 'Put it on, then.' She let go of the sword. 'Then who you are can fight who he is.' Down in the pit, the percussionist stared as his sticks rose and began a drum roll. 'Are you doing that, Gytha?' said Granny Weatherwax. 'I thought you were.' 'It's opera, then. The show must go on.' Walter Plinge raised his sword. The masked Salzella glanced from him to Granny, and then lunged. The swords met. It was, Agnes realized, stage-fighting. The swords clashed and rattled as the fighters danced back and forth across the stage. Walter wasn't trying to hit Salzella. Every thrust was parried. Every opportunity to strike back, as the director of music grew more angry, was ignored. 'This isn't fighting!' Salzella shouted, standing back. 'This is' Walter thrust. Salzella staggered away, until he cannoned into Nanny Ogg. He lurched sideways. Then he staggered forward, dropped on to one knee, got unsteadily to his feet again, and staggered into the centre of the stage. 'Whatever happens,' he gasped, wrenching off his mask, 'it can't be worse than a season of opera!!!! I don't mind where I'm going so long as there are no fat men pretending to be thin boys, and no huge long songs which everyone says are so beautiful just because they don't understand what the hell they're actually about!!!! Ah- Ahargh. . .' He slumped to the floor. 'But Walter didn't-' Agnes began. 'Shut up,' said Nanny Ogg, out of the corner of her mouth. 'But he hasn't-' Bucket began. 'Incidentally, another thing I can't stand about opera,' said Salzella, rising to his feet and reeling crabwise towards the curtains, 'are the plots. They make no sense!! And no one ever says so!!! And the quality of the acting? It's nonexistent!! Everyone stands around watching the person who's singing. Ye gods, it's going to be a relief to put that behind. . . ah. . . argh. . .' He slumped to the floor. 'Is that it?' said Nanny. 'Shouldn't think so,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'As for the people who attend opera,' said Salzella, struggling upright again and staggering sideways, 'I think I just possibly hate them even worse!!! They're so ignorant!!! There's hardly a one of them out there who knows the first thing about music!!! They go on about tunes!!! They spend all day endeavouring to be sensible human beings, and then they walk in here and they leave their intelligence on a nail by the door-' 'Then why didn't you just leave?' snapped Agnes. 'If you'd stolen all this money why didn't you just go away somewhere, if you hated it so much?'

      Salzella stared at her while swaying back and forth. His mouth opened and shut once or twice, as if he were trying out unfamiliar words. 'Leave?' he managed. 'Leave? Leave the opera?. . . Argh argh argh. . .' He hit the floor again. André prodded the fallen director. 'Is he dead yet?' he said. 'How can he be dead?' said Agnes. 'Good grief, can't anyone see that ?' 'You know what really gets me down,' said Salzella, rising to his knees, 'is the way that in opera everyone takes such a long!!!!!. . . time!!!!!. . . to!!!!!. . . argh. . . argh. . . argh. . .' He keeled over. The company waited for a while. The audience held its collective breath. Nanny Ogg poked him with a boot. 'Yep, that's about it. Looks like he's gone down for the last curtain call,' she said. 'But Walter didn't stab him!' said Agnes. 'Why won't anyone listen? Look, the sword isn't even sticking in him! It's just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven's sake!' 'Yes,' said Nanny. 'I s'pose, really, it's a shame he dint notice that.' She scratched at her shoulder. 'Here, these ballet dresses really tickle. . .' 'But he's dead!' 'Got a bit overexcited, perhaps,' said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap. 'Overexcited?' 'Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course.' 'He's really dead?' said Bucket. 'Seems to be,' said Granny. 'One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn't mind betting.' 'That's terrible!!' Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. 'Where's my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you've done with my money!!! I don't hear you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!' 'That's on account of being dead,' said Granny. 'Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule.' 'Well, you're a witch!!! Can't you do that thing with the cards and the glasses?' 'Well, yes. . . we could have a poker game,' said Nanny. 'Good idea.' 'The money is in the cellars,' said Granny. 'Walter'll show you.' Walter Plinge clicked his heels. 'Certainly,' he said. 'I would be glad to.' Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge's voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge's face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face. 'Good grief,' Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella's coat. There was a thump. 'And since you're going to be needing a new director of music,' said Granny, 'you could do worse than look to Walter here.' 'Walter?' 'He knows everything there is to know about opera,' said Granny. 'And everything about the Opera House, too.' 'You should see the music he's written-' said Nanny. 'Walter? Musical director?' said Bucket. '-stuff you can really hum-' 'Yes, I think you might be surprised,' said Granny. '-there's one with lots of sailors dancin' around singin' about how there's no women-' 'This is Walter, isn't it?' '-and then some bloke called Les who's miserable all the time-' 'Oh, this is Walter,' said Granny. 'The same person.

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

Discworld 18 - Maskerade

      '-and there's one, hah, with all cats all leapin' around all singin', that was fun,' Nanny burbled. 'Can't imagine how he thought up that one-' Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling light headed enough as it was. 'And he's trustworthy,' said Granny. 'And he's honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And. . . where everything is. . .' That was enough for Mr Bucket. 'Want to be director of music, Walter?' he said. 'Thank you, Mr Bucket,' said Walter Plinge. 'I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?' 'Sorry?' 'I won't have to stop doing them, will I? I've just got them working right.' 'Oh? Right. Really?' Mr Bucket's eyes crossed for a moment. 'Well, fine. You can sing while you're doing it, if you like,' he added generously. 'And I won't even cut your pay! I'll. . . I'll raise it! Six. . . no, seven shiny dollars!' Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. 'Mr Bucket. . .' 'Yes, Walter?' 'I think. . . you paid Mr Salzella forty shiny dollars. . .' Bucket turned to Granny. 'Is he some kind of monster?' 'You just listen to the stuff he's been writin',' said Nanny. 'Amazin' songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff. . .'scuse me. . .' She turned her back on the audience- -twingtwangtwong- -and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands. 'I know good music when I sees it,' she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. 'It's got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?' 'You have been writing this music?' said Bucket to Walter. 'Which is unaccountably warm?' 'Indeed, Mr Bucket.' 'In my time?' 'There's a lovely song here,' said Nanny, ' “Don't cry for me, Genua”. It's very sad. That reminds me, I'd better go and see if Mrs Plinge has come rou. . . has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the stumble.' She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. 'This balleting doesn't half make you sweat, don't you find?' 'Excuse me, there's something I didn't quite believe,' said André. He took Salzella's sword and tested the blade carefully. 'Ow!' he shouted. 'Sharp, is it?' said Agnes. 'Yes!' André sucked his thumb. 'She caught it in her hand.' 'She's a witch,' said Agnes. 'But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows that.' 'I wouldn't be too impressed if I was you,' said Agnes sourly. 'It was probably just some kind of trick. . .' André turned to Granny. 'Your hand isn't even scratched! How did. . . you. . .' Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can't remember where he's just put something down. 'I hope he didn't hurt Christine,' he mumbled. 'Why isn't anyone seeing to her?' 'Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,' said Perdita, through Agnes.

      André set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine. 'It'd be terrible if anything happened to her,' said André. 'Oh. . . yes.' 'Everyone says she's showing such promise. . .' Walter stepped up beside him. 'Yes. We should get her somewhere,' he said. His voice was clipped and precise. Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. 'Yes, but. . . you know it was me doing the singing.' 'Oh, yes. . . yes, of course. . .' said André, awkwardly. 'But. . .well. . . this is opera. . . you know. . .' Walter took her hand. 'But it was me you taught!' she said desperately. 'Then you were very good,' said Walter. 'I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words “star quality”?' 'Is it the same as talent?' snapped Agnes. 'It is rarer.' She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights. She pulled her hand free. 'I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge,' she said. Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax's gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze. 'Er. . . we ought to get Christine into Mr Bucket's office,' André said. This seemed to break some sort of spell. 'Yes, indeed!!!' said Bucket. 'And we can't leave Mr Salzella corpsing on stage, either. You two, you'd better take him backstage. The rest of you. . . well, it was nearly over anyway. . . er. . . that's it. The. . . opera is over. . .' 'Walter Plinge!' Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs Plinge. Walter's mother fixed him with a beady gaze. 'Have you been a bad boy?' Mr Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. 'I think you'd better come along to my office, too,' he said. He handed the sheaf of music to André, who opened it at random. André gave it a glance, and then stared. 'Hey. . . this is good,' he said. 'Is it?' André looked at another page. 'Good heavens!' 'What? What?' said Bucket. 'I've just never. . . I mean, even I can see. . . tum-ti TUM tum-tum. . .yes. . . Mr Bucket, you do know this isn't opera? There's music and. . . yes. . . dancing and singing all right, but it's not opera. Not opera at all. A long way from opera.' 'How far? You don't mean. . .' Bucket hesitated, savouring the idea, 'you don't mean that it's just possible that you put music in and you get money out?' André hummed a few bars. 'This could very well be the case, Mr Bucket.' Bucket beamed. He put one arm around André and the other around Walter. 'Good!!!!!' he said. 'This calls for a very lar. . . for a medium-sized mm drink . . . . . One by one, or in groups, the singers and dancers left the stage. And the witches and Agnes were left alone. 'Is that it?' said Agnes. 'Not quite yet,' said Granny. Someone staggered on to the stage. A kindly hand had bandaged Enrico Basilica's head, and presumably another kindly hand had given him the

      plate of spaghetti he was holding. Mild concussion still seemed to have him in its grip. He blinked at the witches and then spoke like a man who'd lost his hold on immediate events and so was clinging hard to more ancient considerations. 'Summon give me some 'ghetti,' he said. 'That's nice,' said Nanny. 'Hah! 'Ghetti is fine for them as likes it. . . but not me! Hah! Yes!' He turned and peered muzzily at the darkness of the audience. 'You know what I'm goin' to do? You know what I'm goin' to do now? I'm sayin' goodbye to Enrico Basilica! Oh yes! He's chewed his last tentacle! I'm goin' to go right out now and have eight pints of Turbot's Really Odd. Yes! And probably a sausage in a bun! And then I'm goin' down to the music hall to hear Nellie Stamp sing “A Winkles No Use if You Don't Have a Pin”-and if I sing again here it's goin' to be under the proud old name of Henry Slugg, do you hear-?' There was a shriek from somewhere in the audience. 'Henry Slugg?' 'Er. . . yes?' 'I thought it was you! You've grown a beard and stuffed a haystack down your trousers but, I thought, under that little mask, that's my Henry, that was!' Henry Slugg shaded his eyes from the footlights' glare. '. . .Angeline?' 'Oh, no!' said Agnes, wearily. 'This sort of thing does not happen.' 'Happens in the theatre all the time,' said Nanny Ogg. 'It certainly does,' said Granny. 'It's only a mercy he doesn't have a long-lost twin brother.' There was the sound of much scuffling in the audience. Someone was climbing along a row, dragging someone else. 'Mother!' came a voice from the gloom. 'What do you think you are doing?' 'You just come with me, young Henry!' 'Mother, we can't go up on the stage. . . !' Henry Slugg frisbeed the plate into the wings, clambered down from the stage and heaved himself over the edge of the orchestra pit, assisted by a couple of violinists. They met at the first row of seats. Agnes could just hear their voices. 'I meant to come back. You know that!' 'I wanted to wait but, what with one thing and another. . . especially one thing. Come here, young Henry. . .' 'Mother, what is happening?' 'Son. . . you know I always said your father was Mr Lawsy the eel juggler?' 'Yes, of-' 'Please, both of you, come back to my dressing room! I can see we've got such a lot to talk about.' 'Oh, yes. A lot. . .' Agnes watched them go. The audience, who could spot opera even if it wasn't being sung, applauded. 'All right,' she said. 'And now is it the end?' 'Nearly,' said Granny. 'Did you do something to everyone's heads?' 'No, but I felt like smacking a few,' said Nanny. 'But no one said “thank you” or anything!' 'Often the case,' said Granny. 'Too busy thinking about the next performance,' said Nanny. 'The show must go on,' she added. 'That's. . . that's madness!'

      'It's opera. I noticed that even Mr Bucket's caught it, too,' said Nanny. 'And that young André has been rescued from being a policeman, if I'm any judge.' 'But what about me?' 'Oh, them as makes the endings don't get them,' said Granny. She brushed an invisible speck of dust off her shoulder. 'I expect we'd better be gettin' along, Gytha,' she said, turning her back on Agnes. 'Early start tomorrow.' Nanny walked forward, shading her eyes as she stared out into the dark maw of the auditorium. 'The audience haven't gone, you know,' she said. 'They're still sitting out there.' Granny joined her, and peered into the gloom. 'I can't imagine why,' she said. 'He did say the opera's over. . . They turned and looked at Agnes, who was standing in the centre of the stage and glowering at nothing. 'Feeling a bit angry?' said Nanny. 'Only to be expected.' 'Yes!' 'Feeling that everything's happened for other people and not for you?' 'Yes!' 'But,' said Granny Weatherwax, 'look at it like this: what's Christine got to look forward to? She'll just become a singer. Stuck in a little world. Oh, maybe she'll be good enough to get a little fame, but one day the voice'll crack and that's the end of her life. You have got a choice. You can either be on the stage, just a performer, just going through the lines. . . or you can be outside it, and know how the script works, where the scenery hangs, and where the trapdoors are. Isn't that better?' 'No!' The infuriating thing about Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax, Agnes thought later, was the way they sometimes acted in tandem, without exchanging a word. Of course, there were plenty of other things-the way they never thought that meddling was meddling if they did it; the way they automatically assumed that everyone else's business was their own; the way they went through life in a straight line; the way, in fact, that they arrived in any situation and immediately started to change it. Compared to that, acting on unspoken agreement was a mere minor annoyance, but it was here and up close. They walked towards her, and each laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Feeling angry?' said Granny. 'Yes!' 'I should let it out then, if I was you,' said Nanny. Agnes shut her eyes, clenched her fists, opened her mouth and screamed. It started low. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling. The prisms on the chandelier chimed gently as they shook. It rose, passing quickly through the mysterious pitch at fourteen cycles per second where the human spirit begins to feel distinctly uncomfortable about the universe and the place in it of the bowels. Small items around the Opera House vibrated off shelves and smashed on the floor. The note climbed, rang like a bell, climbed again. In the Pit, all the violin strings snapped, one by one. As the tone rose, the crystal prisms shook in the chandelier. In the bar, champagne corks fired a salvo. Ice jingled and shattered in its bucket. A line of wine-glasses joined in the chorus, blurred around the rims, and then exploded like hazardous thistledown with attitude. There were harmonics and echoes that caused strange effects. In the dressing-rooms the No. 3 greasepaint melted. Mirrors cracked, filling the ballet school with a million fractured images.

      Dust rose, insects fell. In the stones of the Opera House tiny particles of quartz danced briefly. . . Then there was silence, broken by the occasional thud and tinkle. Nanny grinned. 'Ah,' she said, 'now the opera's over.' Salzella opened his eyes. The stage was empty, and dark, and nevertheless brilliantly lit. That is, a huge shadowless light was streaming from some unseen source and yet, apart from Salzella himself, there was nothing for it to illuminate. Footsteps sounded in the distance. Their owner took some time to arrive, but when he stepped into the liquid air around Salzella he seemed to burst into flame. He wore red: a red suit with red lace, a red cloak, red shoes with ruby buckles, and a broad-brimmed red hat with a huge red feather. He even walked with a long red stick, bedecked with red ribbons. But for someone who had taken such meticulous trouble with his costume, he'd been remiss in the matter of his mask. It was a crude one of a skull, such as might be bought in any theatrical shop-Salzella. could even see the string. 'Where did everyone go?' Salzella demanded. Unpleasant recent memories were beginning to bubble up in his mind. He couldn't quite recall them clearly at the moment, but the taste of them was bad. The figure said nothing. 'Where's the orchestra? What happened to the audience?' There was a barely perceptible shrug from the tall red figure. Salzella began to notice other details. What he had thought was the stage seemed slightly gritty underfoot. The ceiling above him was a long way away, perhaps as far away as anything could be, and was filled with cold, hard points of light. 'I asked you a question!' THREE QUESTIONS, IN FACT. The words turned up on the inside of Salzella's ears with no suggestion that they had had to travel like normal sound. 'You didn't answer me!' SOME THINGS YOU HAVE TO WORK OUT FOR YOURSELF, AND THIS IS ONE OF THEM, BELIEVE ME. 'Who are you? You're not a member of the cast, I know that! Take off that mask!' AS YOU WISH. I DO LIKE TO GET INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE THING. The figure removed its mask. 'And now take off that other mask!' said Salzella, as the frozen fingers of dread rose through him. Death touched a secret spring on the stick. A blade shot out, so thin that it was transparent, its edge glittering blue as air molecules were sliced into their component atoms. AH, he said, raising the scythe. THERE I THINK YOU HAVE ME. It was dark in the cellars, but Nanny Ogg had walked alone in the strange caverns under Lancre and through the night-time forests with Granny Weatherwax. Darkness held no fears for an Ogg. She struck a match. 'Greebo?' People had been tramping to and fro for hours. The darkness wasn't private any more. It had taken quite a lot of people to carry all the money, for a start. Up until the end of the opera, there had been something mysterious about these cellars. Now they were just. . . well. . . damp underground rooms. Something that had lived here had moved on. Her foot rattled a piece of pottery.

      She grunted as she went down on one knee. Spilt mud and shards of broken pot littered the floor. Here and there, unrooted and snapped, were some unheeded pieces of dead twig. Only some kind of fool would have stuck bits of wood in pots of mud far underground and expected anything to happen. Nanny picked one up and sniffed it tentatively. It smelled of mud. And nothing else. She'd have liked to have-known how it had been done. Just professional interest, of course. And she knew she never would, now. Walter was a busy man now, up in the light. And, for something to begin, other things had to end. 'We all wears a mask of one sort or another,' she said to the damp air. 'No sense in upsetting things now, eh. . .' The coach didn't leave until seven o'clock in the morning. By Lancre standards that was practically midday. The witches got there early. 'I was hoping to shop for a few souvenirs,' said Nanny, stamping her feet on the cobbles to keep warm. 'For the kiddies.' 'No time,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Not that it would have made any difference on account of me not having any money to buy 'em with,' Nanny went on. 'Not my fault if you fritter your money away,' said Granny. 'I don't recall having a single chance to frit.' 'Money's only useful for the things it can do.' 'Well, yes. I could've done with having some new boots, for a start.' Nanny jiggled up and down a bit, and whistled around her tooth. 'Nice of Mrs Palm to let us stay there gratis,' she said. 'Yes.' 'O' course, I helped out playin' the piano and tellin' jokes.' 'An added bonus,' said Granny, nodding. 'An' of course there was all those little nibbles I prepared. With the Special Party Dip.' 'Yes indeed,' said Granny, poker-faced. 'Mrs Palm was saying only this morning that she's thinking of retiring next year.' Nanny looked up and down the street again. 'I 'spect young Agnes'll be turning up any minute now,' she said. 'I really couldn't say,' said Granny haughtily. 'Not as though there's much for her here, after all.' Granny sniffed. 'That's up to her, I'm sure.' 'Everyone was very impressed, I reckon, when you caught that sword in your hand. . .' Granny sighed. 'Hah! Yes, I expect they were. They didn't think clearly, did they? People're just lazy. They never think: maybe she had something in her hand, a bit of metal or something. They don't think for a minute it was just a trick. They don't think there's always a perfectly good explanation if you look for it. They probably think it was some kind of magic.' 'Yeah, but. . . you didn't have anything in your hand, did you?' 'That's not the point. I might have done.' Granny looked up and down the square. 'Besides, you can't magic iron. 'That's very true. Not iron. Now, someone like ole Black Aliss, they could make their skin tougher than steel. . . but that's just an ole legend, I expect. . .' 'She could do it all right,' said Granny. 'But you can't go round messin' with cause and effect. That's what sent her mad, come the finish. She thought she could put herself outside of things like cause and effect. Well, you can't. You grab a sharp sword by the blade, you get hurt. World'd be a terrible place if people forgot that.'

      'You weren't hurt.' 'Not my fault. I didn't have time.' Nanny blew on her hands. 'One good thing, though,' she said. 'It's a blessing the chandelier never came down. I was worried about that soon as I saw it. Looks too dramatic for its own good, I thought. First thing I'd smash, if I was a loony.' 'Yes.' 'Haven't been able to find Greebo since last night.' 'Good.' 'He always turns up, though.' 'Unfortunately.' There was a clatter as the coach swung around the corner. It stopped. Then the coachman tugged on the reins and it did a Uturn and disappeared again. 'Esme?' said Nanny, after a while. 'Yes?' 'There's a man and two horses peering at us around the corner.' She raised her voice. 'Come on, I know you're there! Seven o'clock, this coach is supposed to leave! Did you get the tickets, Esme?' 'Me?' 'Ah,' said Nanny uncertainly. 'So. . . we haven't got eighty dollars for the tickets, then?' 'What've you got stuffed up your elastic?' said Granny as the coach advanced cautiously. 'Nothin' that is legal tender for travellin' purposes, I fear.' 'Then. . . no, we can't afford tickets.' Nanny sighed. 'Oh, well, I'll just have to use charm.' 'It's going to be a long walk,' said Granny. The coach pulled up. Nanny looked up at the driver, and smiled innocently. 'Good morning, my good sir!' He gave her a slightly frightened but mainly suspicious look. 'Is it?' 'We are desirous of travelling to Lancre but unfortunately we find ourselves a bit embarrassed in the knicker department.' 'You are?? 'But we are witches and could prob'ly pay for our travel by, e.g., curing any embarrassing little ailments you may have.' The coachman frowned. 'I ain't carrying you for nothing, old crone. And I haven't got any embarrassing little ailments!' Granny stepped forward. 'How many would you like?' she said. Rain rolled over the plains. It wasn't an impressive Ramtops thunderstorm but a lazy, persistent, low-cloud rain, like a fat fog. It had been following them all day. The witches had the coach to themselves. Several people had opened the door while it had been waiting to leave, but for some reason had suddenly decided that today's travel plans didn't include a coach ride. 'Making good time,' said Nanny, opening the curtains and peering out of the window. 'I expect the driver's in a hurry.' 'Yes, I 'spect he is.' 'Shut the window, though. It's getting wet in here.' 'Righty-ho.' Nanny grabbed the strap and then suddenly poked her head out into the rain. 'Stop! Stop! Tell the man to stop!' The coach dewed to a halt in a sheet of mud.

      Nanny threw open the door. 'I don't know, trying to walk home, and in this weather too! You'll catch your death!' Rain and fog rolled in through the open doorway. Then a bedraggled shape pulled itself over the sill and slunk under the seats, leaving small puddles behind it. 'Tryin' to be independent,' said Nanny. 'Bless 'im.' The coach got under way again. Granny stared out at the endless darkening fields and the relentless drizzle, and saw another figure toiling along in the mud by the road that would, eventually, reach Lancre. As the coach swept past, it drenched the walker in thin slurry. 'Yes, indeed. Being independent's a fine ambition,' she said, drawing the curtains. The trees were bare when Granny Weatherwax got back to her cottage. Twigs and seeds had blown in under the door. Soot had fallen down the chimney. Her home, always somewhat organic, had grown a little closer to its roots in the clay. There were things to do, so she did them. There were leaves to be swept, and the woodpile to be built up under the eaves. The windsock behind the beehives, tattered by autumn storms, needed to be darned. Hay had to be got in for the goats. Apples had to be stored in the loft. The walls could do with another coat of whitewash. But there was something that had to be done first. It'd make the other jobs a bit more difficult, but there was no help for that. You couldn't magic iron. And you couldn't grab a sword without being hurt. If that wasn't true, the world'd be all over the place. Granny made herself some tea, and then boiled up the kettle again. She took a handful of herbs out of a box on the dresser, and dropped them in a bowl with the steaming water. She took a length of clean bandage out of a drawer and set it carefully on the table beside the bowl. She threaded an extremely sharp needle and laid needle and thread beside the bandage. She scooped a fingerful of greenish ointment out of a small tin, and smeared it on a square of lint. That seemed to be it. She sat down, and rested her arm on the table, palm-up. 'Well,' she said, to no one in particular, 'I reckon I've got time now.' The privy had to be moved. It was a job Granny preferred to do for herself. There was something incredibly satisfying in digging a very deep hole. It was uncomplicated. You knew where you were with a hole in the ground. Dirt didn't get strange ideas, or believe that people were honest because they had a steady gaze and a firm handshake. It just lay there, waiting for you to move it. And, after you'd done it, you could sit there in the lovely warm knowledge that it'd be months before you had to do it again. It was while she was at the bottom of the hole that a shadow fell across it. 'Afternoon, Perdita,' she said without looking up. She lifted another shovelful to head-height and flung it over the edge. 'Come home for a visit, have you?' she said. She rammed the shovel into the clay at the bottom of the hole again, winced, and forced it down with her foot. 'Thought you were doing very well in the opera,' she went on. "Course, I'm not an expert in these things. Good to see young people seeking their fortune in the big city, though.' She looked up with a bright, friendly smile. 'I see you've lost a bit of weight, too.' Innocence hung from her words like loops of toffee.

      'I've been. . . taking exercise,' said Agnes. 'Exercise is a fine thing, certainly,' said Granny, getting back to her digging. 'Though they do say you can have too much of it. When are you going back?' 'I. . . haven't decided.' 'Weeelll, it doesn't pay to be always planning. Don't tie yourself down the whole time, I've always said that. Staying with your ma, are you?' 'Yes,' said Agnes. 'Ah? Only Magrat's old cottage is still empty. You'd be doing everyone a favour if you aired it out a bit. You know. . . as long as you're here.' Agnes said nothing. She couldn't think of anything to say. 'Funny ole thing,' said Granny, hacking around a particularly troublesome tree root. 'I wouldn't tell everyone, but I was only thinking the other day, about when I was younger and called myself Endemonidia. . .' 'You did? When?' Granny rubbed her forehead with her bandaged hand, leaving a clay-red smudge. 'Oh, for about three, four hours,' she said. 'Some names don't have the stayin' power. Never pick yourself a name you can't scrub the floor in.' She threw her shovel out of the hole. 'Give me a hand up, will you?' Agnes did so. Granny brushed the dirt and leafmould off her apron and tried to stamp the clay off her boots. 'Time for a cup of tea, eh?' she said. 'My, you are looking well. It's the fresh air. Too much stuffy air in that Opera House, I thought.' Agnes tried in vain to detect anything in Granny Weatherwax's eyes other than transparent honesty and goodwill. 'Yes. I thought so, too,' she said. 'Er. . . you've hurt your hand?' 'It'll heal. A lot of things do.' She shouldered her shovel and headed towards the cottage; and then, halfway up the path, turned and looked back. 'This is just me askin', you understand, in a kind neighbourly way, takin' an interest sort of thing, wouldn't be human if I didn't-' Agnes sighed. 'Yes?' '. . .you got much to do with your evenin's these days?' There was just enough rebellion left in Agnes to put a sarcastic edge on her voice. 'Oh? Are you offering to teach me something?' 'Teach? No,' said Granny. 'Ain't got the patience for teaching. But I might let you learn.' 'When shall we three meet again?' 'We haven't met once, yet.' 'O' course we have. I've person'ly known you for at least' 'I mean we Three haven't Met. You know. . . officially. . .' 'All right. . . When shall we three meet?' 'We're already here.' 'All right. When shall-?' Just shut up and get out the marshmallows. Agnes, give Nanny the marshmallows.' 'Yes, Granny.' 'And mind you don't burn mine.' Granny sat back. It was a clear night, although clouds mounting towards the hub promised snow soon. A few sparks flew up towards the stars. She looked around proudly. 'Isn't this nice,' she said. THE END

      [1] The people of Lancre thought that marriage was a very serious step that ought to be done properly, so they practised quite a lot. [BACK] [2] Not that she sat looking out of the window. She'd been watching the fire when she picked up the approach of Jarge Weaver. But that wasn't the point. [BACK] [3] Or, at least, dying for a chocolate. [BACK] [4] Er. That is to say, they went to bed at the same time as the chickens went to bed, and got up at the same time as the cows got up. Loosely worded sayings can really cause misunderstandings. [BACK] [5] Distillation of alcohol was illegal in Lancre. On the other hand, King Verence had long ago given up any idea of stopping a witch doing something she wanted to do, so merely required Nanny Ogg to keep her still somewhere it wasn't obvious. She thoroughly approved of the prohibition, since this gave her an unchallenged market for her own product, known wherever men fell backwards into a ditch as 'suicider'. [BACK] [6] Strictly speaking, this means being chased by photographers anxious to get a picture of you with your vest off. [BACK] [7] Without regret, since she hadn't found any use for it. [BACK] [8] Bergholt Stuttley ('Bloody Stupid') Johnson was Ankh-Morpork's most famous, or rather most notorious, inventor. He was renowned for never letting his number-blindness, his lack of any skill whatsoever or his complete failure to grasp the essence of a problem stand in the way of his cheerful progress as the first Counter-Renaissance man. Shortly after building the famous Collapsed Tower of Quirm he turned his attention to the world of music, particularly large organs and mechanical orchestras. Examples of his handiwork still occasionally come to light in sales, auctions and, quite frequently, wreckage. [BACK] [9] It was central to Nanny Ogg's soul that she never considered herself an old woman, while of course availing herself of every advantage that other people's perceptions of her as such would bring. [BACK]