Maskerade (6 page)

‘A man with his face covered by a white mask,' said Agnes.

‘Oh?! You've heard about him, then?!'

‘What? Who?'

‘The Ghost!!'

Blast, thought Agnes. It was always ready to catch her out. Just when she thought she'd put all that behind her. She'd know things without quite knowing why. It upset people. It certainly upset her.

‘Oh, I … suppose someone must have told me …' she mumbled.

‘He moves around the Opera House invisibly, they say!! One moment he'll be in the Gods, next moment he'll be backstage somewhere!! No one knows how he does it!!'

‘Really?'

‘They say he watches every performance!! That's why they never sell tickets for Box Eight, didn't you know?!'

‘Box Eight?' said Agnes. ‘What's a Box?'

‘Boxes! You know? That's where you get the best people?! Look, I shall show you!'

Christine marched to the front of the stage and waved a hand grandly at the empty auditorium.

‘The Boxes!' she said. ‘Over there! And right up there, the Gods!'

Her voice bounced back from the distant wall.

‘Aren't the best people in the Gods? It sounds—'

‘Oh, no! The best people will be in Boxes! Or possibly in the Stalls!'

Agnes pointed.

‘Who's down there? They must get a good view—'

‘Don't be silly!! That's the Pit!! That's for the musicians!!'

‘Well, that makes sense, anyway. Er. Which one's Box Eight?'

‘I don't know! But they say if ever they sell seats in Box Eight there'll be a dreadful tragedy!! Isn't that romantic?!'

For some reason Agnes's practical eye was drawn to the huge chandelier that hung over the auditorium like a fantastic sea monster. Its thick rope disappeared into the darkness near the ceiling.

The glass chimes tinkled.

Another flare of that certain power which Agnes did her best to suppress at every turn flashed a treacherous image across her mind.

‘That looks like an accident waiting to happen if ever I saw one,' she mumbled.

‘I'm sure it's
perfectly
safe!!' trilled Christine. ‘I'm
sure
they wouldn't allow—'

A chord rolled out, shaking the stage. The chandelier tinkled, and more dust came down.

‘What was that?' said Agnes.

‘It was the organ!! It's so big it's behind the stage!! Come on, let's go and see!!'

Other members of the staff were hurrying towards the organ. There was an overturned bucket nearby, and a spreading pool of green paint.

A carpenter reached past Agnes and picked up an envelope that was lying on the organ seat.

‘It's for the boss,' he said.

‘When it's
my
mail, the postman usually just knocks,' said a ballerina, and giggled.

Agnes looked up. Ropes swung lazily in the musty darkness. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of white, and then it was gone.

There was a shape, just visible, tangled in the ropes.

Something wet and sticky dripped down and splashed on the keyboard.

People were already screaming when Agnes reached past, dipped her finger in the growing puddle, and sniffed.

‘It's blood!' said the carpenter.

‘It's blood, isn't it?' said a musician.

‘Blood!!' screamed Christine. ‘Blood!!'

It was Agnes's terrible fate to keep her head in a crisis. She sniffed her finger again.

‘It's turpentine,' said Agnes. ‘Er. Sorry. Is that wrong?'

Up in the tangle of ropes, the figure moaned.

‘Shouldn't we get him down?' she added.

*    *    *

Cando Cutoff was a humble woodcutter. He wasn't humble
because
he was a woodcutter. He would still have been quite humble if he'd owned five logging mills. He was just naturally humble.

And he was unpretentiously stacking some logs at the point where the Lancre road met the main mountain road when he saw a farm cart rumble to a halt and unload two elderly ladies in black. Both carried a broomstick in one hand and a sack in the other.

They were arguing. It was not a raised-voice argument, but a chronic wrangle that had clearly been going on for some time and was set in for the rest of the decade.

‘It's all very well for you, but it's
my
three dollars so I don't see why I can't say how we go.'

‘I likes flying.'

‘And I'm telling you it's too draughty on broomsticks this time of year, Esme. The breeze gets into places I wouldn't dream of talking about.'

‘Really? Can't imagine where those'd be, then.'

‘Oh, Esme!'

‘Don't “Oh, Esme” me. It weren't
me
that come up with the Amusing Wedding Trifle with the Special Sponge Fingers.'

‘Anyway, Greebo don't like it on the broomstick. He's got a delicate stomach.'

Cutoff noticed that one of the sacks was moving in a lazy way.

‘Gytha, I've seen him eat half a skunk, so don't tell me about his delicate stomach,' said Granny,
who disliked cats on principle. ‘Anyway … he's been doing It again.'

Nanny Ogg waved her hands airily. ‘Oh, he only does It sometimes, when he's really in a corner,' she said.

‘He did It in ole Mrs Grope's henhouse last week. She went in to see what all the ruckus was, and he did It right in front of her. She had to have a lie-down.'

‘He was probably more frightened than she was,' said Nanny defensively.

‘That's what comes of getting strange ideas in foreign parts,' said Granny. ‘Now you've got a cat who— Yes, what is it?'

Cutoff had meekly approached them and was hovering in the kind of half-crouch of someone trying to be noticed while also not wanting to intrude.

‘Are you ladies waiting for the stagecoach?'

‘Yes,' said the taller of the ladies.

‘Um, I'm afraid the next coach doesn't stop here. It doesn't stop until Creel Springs.'

They gave him a couple of polite stares.

‘Thank you,' said the tall one. She turned to her companion.

‘It gave her a nasty shock, anyway. I dread to think what he'll learn
this
time.'

‘He pines when I'm gone. He won't take food from anyone else.'

‘Only 'cos they try to poison him, and no wonder.'

Cutoff shook his head sadly and wandered back to his log pile.

The coach turned up five minutes later, coming
around the corner at speed. It drew level with the women—

—and stopped. That is, the horses tried to stand still and the wheels locked.

It wasn't so much a skid as a spin, and the whole thing gradually came to rest about fifty yards down the road, with the driver in a tree.

The women strolled towards it, still arguing.

One of them poked the driver with her broomstick. ‘Two tickets to Ankh-Morpork, please.'

He landed in the road.

‘What do you mean, two tickets to Ankh-Morpork? The coach doesn't stop here!'

‘Looks stopped to
me
.'

‘Did you
do
something?'

‘What, us?'

‘Listen, lady, even if I
was
stopping here the tickets are forty damn' dollars each!'

‘Oh.'

‘Why've you got broomsticks?' shouted the driver. ‘Are you witches?'

‘Yes. Have you got any special low terms for witches?'

‘Yeah, how about “meddling, interfering old baggages”?'

Cutoff felt that he must have missed part of the conversation, because the next exchange went like this:

‘What was that again, young man?'

‘Two complimentary tickets to Ankh-Morpork, ma'am. No problem.'

‘Inside seats, mind. No travelling on the top.'

‘Certainly, ma'am. Excuse me while I just kneel in the dirt so's you can step up, ma'am.'

Cutoff nodded happily to himself as the coach pulled away again. It was nice to see that good manners and courtesy were still alive.

With great difficulty and much shouting and untangling of ropes far above, the figure was lowered to the stage.

He was soaked in paint and turpentine. The swelling audience of off-duty staff and rehearsal truants crowded in around him.

Agnes knelt down, loosened his collar and tried to unwind the rope that had caught around arm and neck.

‘Does anyone know him?' she said.

‘It's Tommy Cripps,' said a musician. ‘He paints scenery.'

Tommy moaned, and opened his eyes.

‘I saw him!' he muttered. ‘It was horrible!'

‘Saw what?' said Agnes. And then she had a sudden feeling that she'd intruded on some private conversation. Around her there was a babble of voices.

‘Giselle said she saw him last week!'

‘He's here!'

‘It's happening again!'

‘Are we all
doomed
?!' squeaked Christine.

Tommy Cripps gripped Agnes's arm.

‘He's got a face like death!'

‘Who?'

‘The Ghost!'

‘What gho—?'

‘It's white bone! He has no nose!'

A couple of ballet dancers fainted, but carefully, so as not to get their clothes dirty.

‘Then how does he—' Agnes began.

‘
I saw him too!
'

On cue, the company turned.

An elderly man advanced across the stage. He wore an ancient opera hat and carried a sack over one shoulder, while his spare hand made the needlessly expansive gestures of someone who has got hold of some direful information and can't wait to freeze all nearby spines. The sack must have contained something alive, because it was bouncing around.

‘I saw him! Ooooooh yes! Wi' his great black cloak and his white face with no eyes but only two holes where eyes should be! Ooohhhh! And—'

‘He had a mask on?' said Agnes.

The old man paused and shot her the dark look reserved for all those who insist on injecting a note of sanity when things are getting interestingly ghastly.

‘And he had no nose!' he went on, ignoring her.

‘I just
said
that,' muttered Tommy Cripps, in a rather annoyed voice. ‘I told them that. They already know that.'

‘If he had no nose, how did he sme—' Agnes began, but no one was listening to her.

‘Did you mention about the eyes?' said the old man.

‘I was just getting round to the eyes,' snapped Tommy. ‘Yes, he had eyes like—'

‘
Are
we talking about some kind of mask here?' said Agnes.

Now everyone was giving her that kind of look UFOlogists get when they suddenly say, ‘Hey, if you shade your eyes you can see it
is
just a flock of geese after all.'

The man with the sack coughed and regrouped. ‘Like great holes, they were—' he began, but it was clear that it had all been spoiled for him. ‘Great holes,' he said sourly. ‘That's what I saw. And no nose, I might add, thank you so very much.'

‘It's the Ghost again!' said a scene-shifter.

‘He jumped out from behind the organ,' said Tommy Cripps. ‘Next thing I knew, there was a rope around my neck and I was upside-down!'

The company looked at the man with the sack, in case he could trump this.

‘Great big black holes,' he managed, sticking to what he knew.

‘All right, everyone, what's going on here?'

An imposing figure strode out of the wings. He had flowing black hair, carefully brushed to give it a carefree alfresco look, but the face underneath was the face of an organizer. He nodded at the old man with the sack.

‘What are you staring at, Mr Pounder?' he said.

The old man looked down. ‘I knows what I saw, Mr Salzella,' he said. ‘I see
lots
o' things, I do.'

‘As much as is visible through the bottom of a bottle, I have no doubt, you old reprobate. What happened to Tommy?'

‘It was the Ghost!' said Tommy, delighted to have
centre-stage again. ‘He swooped out at me, Mr Salzella! I think my leg is broken,' he added quickly, in the voice of one who is suddenly aware of the time-off opportunities of the situation.

Agnes expected the newcomer to say something like ‘Ghosts? There's no such thing.' He had the kind of
face
that said that.

Instead, he said, ‘Back again, is he? Where did he go?'

‘Didn't see, Mr Salzella. He just swooped off again!'

‘Some of you help Tommy down to the canteen,' said Salzella. ‘And someone else fetch a doctor—'

‘His leg isn't broken,' said Agnes. ‘But that's a nasty rope burn on his neck and he's filled his own ear with paint.'

‘What do you know about it, miss?' said Tommy. A paint-filled ear didn't sound as though it had the possibilities of a broken leg.

‘I've … er … had some training,' said Agnes, and then added quickly, ‘It's a nasty burn, though, and of course there may be some delayed shock.'

‘Brandy is very good for that, isn't it?' said Tommy. ‘Perhaps you could try forcing some between my lips?'

‘Thank you, Perdita. The rest of you, go back to what you were doing,' said Salzella.

‘Big dark holes,' said Mr Pounder. ‘Big ones.'

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Pounder. Help Ron with Mr Cripps, will you? Perdita, you come here. And you, Christine.'

The two girls stood before the director of music.

‘Did
you
see anything?' said Salzella.

‘I saw a great creature with great flapping wings and great big holes where his eyes should be!!' said Christine.

‘I'm afraid I just saw something white up in the ceiling,' said Agnes. ‘Sorry.'

She blushed, aware of how useless that sounded. Perdita would have seen a mysterious cloaked figure or something … something
interesting
…

Salzella smiled at her. ‘You mean you just see things that are really there?' he said. ‘I can see you haven't been with the opera for long, dear. But I may say I'm pleased to have a level-headed person around here for once—'