Maskerade d-18

by Terry David John Pratchett

  He said, OW.

  “Ah, yes. I couldn't help noticing,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the tension drained out of the atmosphere, “that you seem to be sparing that arm.”

  OH, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. REPETITIVE ACTIONS AND SO ON…

  “It could get serious if you left it.”

  HOW SERIOUS?

  “Want me to have a look?”

  WOULD YOU MIND? IT CERTAINLY ACHES ON COLD NIGHTS.

  Granny stood up and reached out, but her hands went straight through.

  “Look, you're going to have to make yourself a bit more solid if I'm to do anything—”

  POSSIBLY A BOTTLE OF SUCKROSE AND AKWA?

  “Sugar and water? I expect you know that's only for the hard of thinking. Come on, roll up that sleeve. Don't be a big baby. What's the worst I can do to you?

  Granny's hands touched smooth bone. She'd felt worse. At least these had never had flesh on them.

  She felt, thought, gripped, twisted…

  There was a click.

  OW.

  “Now try it above the shoulder.”

  ER. HMM. YES. IT DOES SEEM CONSIDERABLY MORE FREE. YES, INDEED. MY WORD, YES. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

  “If it gives you trouble again, you know where I live.”

  THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

  “You know where everyone lives. Tuesday mornings is a good time. I'm generally in.”

  I SHALL REMEMBER. THANK YOU.

  “By appointment, in your case. No offence meant..”

  THANK YOU.

  Death walked away. A moment later there was a faint gasp from the cow. That and a slight sagging of the skin were all that apparently marked the transition from living animal to cooling meat.

  Granny picked up the baby and laid a hand on its forehead.

  “Fever's gone,” she said.

  MISTRESS WEATHERWAX? said Death from the doorway.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  I HAVE TO KNOW. WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I HAD NOT… LOST?

  “At the cards, you mean?”

  YES. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

  Granny laid the baby down carefully on the straw, and smiled.

  “Well,” she said, “for a start… I'd have broken your bloody arm.”

  Agnes stayed up late, simply because of the novelty. Most people in Lancre, as the saying goes, went to bed with the chickens and got up with the cows.[4] But she watched the evening's performance, and watched the set being struck afterwards, and watched the actors leave or, in the case of younger chorus members, head off for their lodgings in odd corners of the building. And then there was no one else, except Walter Plinge and his mother sweeping up.

  She headed for the staircase. There didn't seem to be a candle anywhere back here, but the few left burning in the auditorium were just enough to give the darkness a few shades.

  The stairs went up the wall at the rear of the stage, with nothing but a rickety handrail between them and the drop. Besides leading to the attics and storeroom on the upper floors, they were also one route to the fly loft and the other secret platforms where men in flat hats and grey overalls worked the magic of the theatre, usually by means of pulleys–

  There was a figure on one of the gantries over the stage. Agnes saw it only because it moved slightly. It was kneeling down, looking at something. In the darkness.

  She stepped back. The stair creaked.

  The figure jerked around. A square of yellow light opened in the darkness, its beam pinning her against the brickwork.

  “Who's there?” she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes.

  “Who's that?” said a voice. And then, after a moment, “Oh. It's… Perdita, isn't it?”

  The square of light swung towards her as the figure made its way over the stage.

  “André?” she said. She felt inclined to back away, if only the brickwork would let her.

  And suddenly he was on the stairs, quite an ordinary person, no shadow at all, holding a very large lantern.

  “What are you doing here?” said the organist.

  “I… was just going to bed.”

  “Oh, Yes.” He relaxed a little. “Some of you girls have got rooms here. The management thought it was safer than having you going home alone late at night.”

  “What are you doing up here?” said Agnes, suddenly aware that there was just the two of them.

  “I was… looking at the place where the Ghost tried to strangle Mr Cripps,” said André.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to make certain everything was safe now, of course.”

  “Didn't the stage‑hands do that?”

  “Oh, you know them. I just thought I'd better make certain.”

  Agnes looked down at the lantern.

  “I've never seen one like that before. How did you make it light up so quickly?”

  “Er. It's a dark lantern. There's this flap, you see,” he demonstrated, “so you can shut it right down and open it up again…”

  “That must be very useful when you're looking for the black notes.”

  “Don't be sarcastic. I just don't want there to be any more trouble. You'll find that you start looking around when—”

  “Goodnight, André.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  She hurried up the rest of the flights and ducked into her bedroom. No one followed her.

  When she'd calmed down, which took some time, she undressed in the voluminous tent of her red flannel nightdress and got into bed, resisting any temptation to pull the covers over her head.

  She stared at the dark ceiling.

  “That's stupid,” she thought, eventually. “He was on the stage this morning. No one could move that fast…”

  She never knew whether she actually got some sleep or whether it happened just as she was dozing off, but there was a very faint knock at the door.

  “Perdita!?”

  Only one person she knew could exclaim a whisper.

  Agnes got up and padded over to the door. She opened the door a fraction, just to check, and Christine half‑fell into the room.

  “What's the matter?”

  “I'm frightened!!”

  “What of?”

  “The mirror!! It's talking to me!! Can I sleep in your room?!”

  Agnes looked around. It was crowded enough with the two of them standing up in it.

  “The mirror's talking?”

  “Yes!!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Christine dived into Agnes's bed and pulled the covers over her. “Yes!!” she said, indistinctly.

  Agnes stood alone in the darkness.

  People always tended to assume that she could cope, as if capability went with mass, like gravity. And merely saying briskly, ‘Nonsense, mirrors don't talk’, would probably not be any help, especially with one half of the dialogue buried beneath the bedclothes.

  She felt her way into the next room, stubbing her foot on the bed in the darkness.

  There must be a candle in here, somewhere. She felt for the tiny bedside table, hoping to start the reassuring rattle of a matchbox.

  A faint glimmer from the midnight city filtered through the window. The mirror seemed to glow.

  She sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously under her.

  Oh well… one bed was as good as another…

  She was about to lie back when something in the darkness went:… ting.

  It was a tuning fork.

  And a voice said: “Christine… please attend.”

  She sat upright, staring at the darkness.

  And then realization dawned. No men, they'd said. They'd been very strict about that, as if opera were some kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes's case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine… They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities.

  Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that?

  Agnes's life unrolled in fr
ont of her. It didn't look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange.

  She felt the same feeling she'd felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do.

  It doesn't matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go.

  She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords.

  “Yes?! Who's there?!”

  “A friend.”

  Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. “In the middle of the night?!”

  “Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.” It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror.

  “Help me to do what?!”

  “Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?”

  “Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!”

  There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: “But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.”

  Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.

  “Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly…”

  Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well‑dressed, thin little man.

  “Well, here we are again, then,” said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously.

  “That was some good singing last night,” Nanny went on.

  Henry's face set in a good‑natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag.

  “I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn't speak Morporkian, ma'am,” said the thin man. “But I will translate for you, if you like.”

  “What?” said Nanny. “Then how come— Ow!”

  “Sorry,” said Granny Weatherwax. “My elbow must have slipped.”

  Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. “I was saying,” she said, “that he was— Ow!”

  “Dear me, I seem to have done it again,” said Granny. “This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn't speak our language, Gytha.”

  “Eh? But — What? Oh. But‑ Ah. Really? Oh. All right,” said Nanny. “Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when— Ow!”

  “Excuse my friend, it's her time of life. She gets confused,” said Granny. “We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.”

  “You were very fortunate,” said the thin man primly. “Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica—”

  “‑probably waiting for him to finish his dinner—” a voice muttered.

  “‑in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.”

  “‑hah, I can do that, I don't see there's anything special about that—”

  Granny's eyes hadn't left Henry 'Senor Basilica' Slugg's face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn't last very long.

  “Senor Basilica's fame has spread far and wide,” said the manager primly.

  “—just like Senior Basilica,” muttered Nanny. “On other people's pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he's the only man you could find on an atlas—Ow!”

  “Well, well,” said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. “It's nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?”

  “I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma'am.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Granny nodded.

  “We have some good singers where we come from too,” said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously.

  “Really?” said the manager. “And where do you ladies come from?”

  “Lancre.”

  The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. “Do you have a conservatory there?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, “You should see the size of my tomatoes.”

  Granny rolled her eyes. “Gytha, you haven't got a conservatory. It's just a big windowsill.”

  “Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day — Ow…”

  “I expect Senor Basilica is going to Ankh‑Morpork?” said Granny.

  “We,” said the manager, primly, “have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season—”

  His voice faltered. He'd looked up at the luggage rack. “What's that?”

  Granny glanced up. “Oh, that's Greebo,” she said.

  “And Mister Basilica's not to eat him,” said Nanny.

  “What is it?”

  “He's a cat.”

  “It's grinning at me.” The manager shifted uneasily. “And I can smell something,” he said.

  “ 'S funny,” said Nanny. “I can't smell a thing.”

  There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed.

  “Ah,” said the manager awkwardly, “I… er…I see we're stopping to change horses. It's a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there's room on the seats outside.”

  He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn't come back.

  “Well, well,” said Granny, as they lurched away again, “it seems there's just you and me, Gytha. And Senor Basilica, who doesn't speak our language. Does he, Mr Henry Slugg?”

  Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity's sake…”

  “Have you done anything bad, Mr Slugg?” said Nanny. “Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn't miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?”

  “No.!”

  “He tellin' the truth, Esme?”

  Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax's stare.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, well, that's all right, then,” said Nanny. “I understand. I don't have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin' to.”

  “Oh, it's not that, I assure you,” said Henry. “I have people to pay my taxes for me…”

  “That's a good trick,” said Nanny.

  “Mr Slugg's got a different trick,” said Granny. “I reckon I know the trick. It's like sugar and water.”

  Henry waved his hands uncertainly. “It's just that if they knew…” he began.

  “Everything's better if it comes from a long way away. That's the secret,” said Granny.

  “It's… yes, that's part of it,” said Henry. “I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.”

  “Where're you from, Henry?” said Nanny.

  “Really from,” said Granny.

  “I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They're in Ankh‑Morpork,” said Henry. “It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.”

  “What was the third way?” said Nanny.

  “Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,” said Henry. “But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way.”

  He sighed. “I made a few coppers singing in taverns and suchlike,” he said, “but when I tried for anything better they said "What is your name?" and I said "Henry Slugg" and they'd laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh‑Morpork knew who I was. And
no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg.”

  Nanny nodded. “It's like with conjurers,” she said. “They're never called Fred Wossname. It's always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys.”

  “And everyone takes notice,” said Granny, “and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he's come from the King of Klatch, why's he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven.”

  “The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,” said Henry. “And then I was famous, but…”

  “You'd got stuck as Enrico,” said Granny.

  He nodded. “I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline—”

  “Who was she?” said Granny.

  “Oh, a girl I grew up with,” said Henry, vaguely.

  “Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?” said Nanny, in an understanding voice.

  “Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,” said Henry. “We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels.”

  He sighed. “But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi… and… and…”

  He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket.

  “I don't mind the pasta and the squid,” he said. “Well, not much… But you can't get a decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn't what I'd call a good hard cheese in the whole country.”

  He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.

  “And people are so kind,” he said. “I thought I'd get a few beefsteaks when I travelled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid…” He shuddered. “Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings…”

  “Why don't you say?” said Nanny.

  He shrugged. “Enrico Basilica eats pasta,” he said. “There's not much I can do about it now.”

  He sat back. “You're interested in music, Mrs Ogg?”