Maskerade (3 page)

He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you.

He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.

The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door.

Jarge hesitated.

‘Come on in, Jarge Weaver,' said Granny Weatherwax, ‘and let me give you something for that back of yours.'

The shock made him try to stand upright, and
this
made something white-hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt.

Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. ‘Can you sit down?' she said.

‘No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.'

Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge's eyes widened.

‘You got that all ready for me?' he said.

‘Yes,' said Granny truthfully. She'd long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-coloured and sticky. It wasn't the medicine that did the trick, though. It was, in a way, the spoon.

‘This is a mixture of rare herbs and suchlike,' she said. ‘Including suckrose and akwa.'

‘My word,' said Jarge, impressed.

‘Take a swig now.'

He obeyed. It tasted faintly of liquorice.

‘You got to take another swig last thing at night,' Granny went on. ‘An' then walk three times round a chestnut tree.'

‘… three times round a chestnut tree …'

‘An' … an' put a pine board under your mattress. Got to be pine from a twenty-year-old tree, mind.'

‘… twenty-year-old tree …' said Jarge. He felt he should make a contribution. ‘So's the knots in me back end up in the pine?' he hazarded.

Granny was impressed. It was an outrageously ingenious bit of folk hokum worth remembering for another occasion.

‘You got it exactly right,' she said.

‘And that's it?'

‘You wanted more?'

‘I … thought there were dancin' and chantin' and stuff.'

‘Did that before you got here,' said Granny.

‘My word. Yes. Er … about payin' …'

‘Oh, I don't want payin',' said Granny. ‘'S bad luck, taking money.'

‘Oh. Right.' Jarge brightened up.

‘But maybe … if your wife's got any old clothes, p'raps, I'm a size 12, black for preference, or bakes the odd cake, no plums, they gives me wind, or got a bit of old mead put by, could be, or p'raps you'll be killing a hog about now, best back's my favourite, maybe some ham, a few pig knuckles … anything you can spare, really. No obligation. I wouldn't go around puttin' anyone under obligation, just 'cos I'm a witch. Everyone all right in your house, are they? Blessed with good health, I hope?'

She watched this sink in.

‘And now let me help you out of the door,' she added.

Weaver was never quite certain about what happened next. Granny, usually so sure on her feet, seemed to trip over one of his sticks as she went through the door, and fell backward, holding his shoulders, and somehow her knee came up and hit a spot on his backbone as she twisted sideways, and there was a
click
—

‘Aargh!'

‘Sorry!'

‘Me back! Me
back
!'

Still, Jarge reasoned later, she was an old woman. And she might be getting clumsy and she'd always been daft, but she made good potions. They worked damn' fast, too. He was carrying his sticks by the time he got home.

Granny watched him go, shaking her head.

People were so
blind
, she reflected. They preferred to believe in gibberish rather than chiropracty.

Of course, it was just as well this was so. She'd much rather they went ‘oo' when she seemed to know who was approaching her cottage than work out that it conveniently overlooked a bend in the track, and as for the door-latch and the trick with the length of black thread …
²

But what had she done? She'd just tricked a rather dim old man.

She'd faced wizards, monsters and elves … and now she was feeling pleased with herself because she'd fooled Jarge Weaver, a man who'd twice failed to become Village Idiot through being over-qualified.

It was the slippery slope. Next thing it'd be cackling and gibbering and luring children into the oven. And it wasn't as if she even
liked
children.

For years Granny Weatherwax had been contented enough with the challenge that village witchcraft could offer. And then she'd been forced to go travelling, and she'd seen a bit of the world, and it had made her itchy – especially at this time of the year, when the geese were flying overhead and the first frost had mugged innocent leaves in the deeper valleys.

She looked around at the kitchen. It needed
sweeping. The washing-up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn't bring herself to do any of it.

There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing.

They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about.

It was tempting.

The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera House's new owner. He'd been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master.

‘And so,' said Mr Bucket, ‘we come to … let's see … yes, Christine … Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too.' He winked at Dr Undershaft.

‘Yes. Very pretty,' said Dr Undershaft flatly. ‘Can't sing, though.'

‘What you artistic types don't realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Bucket. ‘Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.'

‘So you say. But …'

‘The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like.'

Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be
that
kind of owner …

‘Unfortunately,' said Salzella sourly, ‘the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a … sparkle. But she can't
sing
.'

‘You can train her, can't you?' said Bucket. ‘A few years in the chorus …'

‘Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,' said Undershaft.

‘Er, gentlemen,' said Mr Bucket. ‘Ahem. All right. Cards on the table, eh? I'm a simple man, me. No beating about the bush, speak as you find, call a spade a spade—'

‘Do give us your forthright views,' said Salzella.
Definitely
that kind of owner, he thought. Self-made man proud of his handiwork. Confuses bluffness and honesty with merely being rude. I wouldn't mind betting a dollar that he thinks he can tell a man's character by testing the firmness of his handshake and looking deeply into his eyes.

‘I've been through the mill, I have,' Bucket began, ‘and I made myself what I am today—'

Self-raising flour? thought Salzella.

‘—but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: “Don't make me have to break your legs.” I don't expect you
artistes
to understand. It's a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that's my motto.'

Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly.

‘I
see
,' said Undershaft. ‘Well, it's not the first time it's happened. Normally it's a ballerina, of course.'

‘Oh, it's nothing like
that
,' said Bucket hurriedly. ‘It's just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does
look
good.'

‘Oh, very well,' said Salzella. ‘It's your Opera House, I'm sure. And now … Perdita …?'

They smiled at one another.

‘Perdita!' said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again.

‘Perdita X,' Salzella corrected him.

‘What will these girls think of next?'

‘I think she will prove an asset,' said Undershaft.

‘Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants.'

‘But the range … what a range she's got …'

‘Quite. I saw you staring.'

‘I
meant
her
voice
, Salzella. She will add body to the chorus.'

‘She
is
a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?'

‘Good grief, no. We'd be a laughing-stock.'

‘Quite so. She seems quite … amenable, though.'

‘Wonderful personality, I thought. And good hair, of course.'

She'd never expected it to be this easy …

Agnes listened in a kind of trance while people talked at her about wages (very little), the need for training (a lot), and accommodation (members of the chorus lived in the Opera House itself, up near the roof).

And then, more or less, she was forgotten about. She stood and watched at the side of the stage while a group of ballet hopefuls were put through their delicate paces.

‘You do have an amazing voice,' said someone behind her.

She turned. As Nanny Ogg had once remarked, it was an education seeing Agnes turn around. She was light enough on her feet but the inertia of outlying parts meant that bits of Agnes were still trying to work out which way to face for some time afterwards.

The girl who had spoken to her was slightly built, even by ordinary standards, and had gone to some pains to make herself look even thinner. She had long blond hair and the happy smile of someone who is aware that she is thin and has long blond hair.

‘My name's Christine!' she said. ‘Isn't this exciting?!'

And she had the type of voice that can exclaim a question. It seemed to have an excited little squeak permanently screwed to it.

‘Er, yes,' said Agnes.

‘I've been waiting for this day for
years
!'

Agnes had been waiting for it for about twenty-four hours, ever since she'd seen the notice outside the Opera House. But she'd be danged if she'd say that.

‘Where did you train?!' said Christine. ‘I spent three years with Mme Venturi at the Quirm Conservatory!'

‘Um. I was …' Agnes hesitated, trying out the
upcoming sentence in her head. ‘… I trained with … Dame Ogg. But she hasn't got a conservatory, because it's hard to get the glass up the mountain.'

Christine didn't appear to want to question this. Anything she found too difficult to understand, she ignored.

‘The money in the chorus isn't very good, is it?!' she said.

‘No.' It was less than you'd get for scrubbing floors. The reason was that, when you advertised a dirty floor, hundreds of hopefuls didn't turn up.

‘But it's what I've always wanted to do! Besides, there's the status!'

‘Yes, I expect there is.'

‘I've been to look at the rooms we get! They're very poky! What room have you been given?!'

Agnes looked down blankly at the key she had been handed, along with many sharp instructions about
no men
and an unpleasant not-that-
you
-need-telling expression on the chorus mistress's face.

‘Oh … 17.'

Christine clapped her hands. ‘Oh, goody!!'

‘Pardon?'

‘I'm
so
glad!! You're next to me!!'

Agnes was taken aback. She'd always been resigned to being the last to be picked in the great team game of Life.

‘Well … yes, I suppose so …' she said.

‘You're so lucky!! You've got such a majestic figure for opera!! And such marvellous hair, the way you pile it up like that!! Black suits you, by the way!!'

Majestic, thought Agnes. It was a word that
would never, ever have occurred to her. And she'd always steered away from white because in white she looked like a washing-line on a windy day.

She followed Christine.

It occurred to Agnes, as she trudged after the girl en route to her new lodgings, that if you spent much time in the same room as Christine you'd need to open a window to stop from drowning in punctuation.

From somewhere at the back of the stage, quite unheeded, someone watched them go.

People were generally glad to see Nanny Ogg. She was good at making them feel at home in their own home.

But she
was
a witch, and therefore also expert at arriving just after cakes were baked or sausages were made. Nanny Ogg generally travelled with a string bag stuffed up one knee-length knicker leg – in case, as she put it, someone wants to give me something.

‘So, Mrs Nitt,' she observed, around about the third cake and fourth cup of tea, ‘how's that daughter of yours? Agnes it is to whom I refer.'

‘Oh, didn't you hear, Mrs Ogg? She's gone off to Ankh-Morpork to be a singer.'

Nanny Ogg's heart sank.

‘That's nice,' she said. ‘She has a good singing voice, I remember. Of course, I gave her a few tips. I used to hear her singing in the woods.'

‘It's the air here,' said Mrs Nitt. ‘She's always had such a good chest.'

‘Yes, indeed. Noted for it. So … er … she's not here, then?'

‘You know our Agnes. She never says much. I think she thought it was a bit dull.'

‘Dull? Lancre?' said Nanny Ogg.

‘That's what I said,' said Mrs Nitt. ‘I said we get some lovely sunsets up here. And there's the fair every Soul Cake Tuesday, regular.'

Nanny Ogg thought about Agnes. You needed quite large thoughts to fit all of Agnes in.