Maskerade (28 page)

‘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 seein 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, t'anks,' 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. Homemade 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 opera-goers 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 scene-builders 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.'

‘Evenin', Mrs Plinge!' 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—'