Maskerade d-18

by Terry David John Pratchett

  “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.