Maskerade d-18

by Terry David John Pratchett

  “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.