Maskerade (9 page)

‘They'd have probably accepted twenty-five.'

‘And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?'

‘The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes.'

‘How does he get in?'

‘No one knows. We've searched and searched for secret entrances …'

‘He really doesn't pay?'

‘No.'

‘It's worth fifty dollars a night!'

‘There will be trouble if you sell it,' said Salzella.

‘Good grief, Salzella, you're an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?'

‘I told you: the show must go on.'

‘
Why?
We never said “the cheese must go on”! What's so special about the show going on?'

Salzella smiled. ‘As far as I understand it,' he said, ‘the … power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that's gone into it, call it what you will … it leaks out and spills everywhere. That's why they burble about “the show must go on”. It
must
go on. But most of the company wouldn't even understand why anyone should ask the question.'

Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House's financial records.

‘They certainly don't understand book-keeping! Who does the accounts?'

‘All of us, really,' said Salzella.

‘
All
of you?'

‘Money gets put in, money gets taken out …' said Salzella vaguely. ‘Is it important?'

Bucket's jaw dropped. ‘Is it
important
?'

‘Because,' Salzella went on, smoothly, ‘opera doesn't make money. Opera never makes money.'

‘Good grief, man!
Important?
What'd I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I'd like to know, if I'd said that money wasn't important?'

Salzella smiled humourlessly. ‘There are people out on the stage right now, sir,' he said, ‘who'd say that you would probably have made better cheeses.' He sighed, and leaned over the desk. ‘You see,' he said, ‘cheese
does
make money. And opera
doesn't
. Opera's what you spend money
on
.'

‘But … what do you get out of it?'

‘You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,' said Salzella wearily.

‘There's no
profit
?'

‘Profit … profit,' murmured the director of music, scratching his forehead. ‘No, I don't believe I've come across the word.'

‘Then how do we manage?'

‘We seem to rub along.'

Bucket put his head in his hands. ‘I mean,' he muttered, half to himself, ‘I knew the place wasn't making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I'm told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don't even make any money!'

Salzella beamed. ‘Ah,
opera
,' he said.

*    *    *

Greebo stalked over the inn's rooftops.

Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal's mind off where the walls actually
are
.

But Greebo travelled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirtbox.

He dropped heavily on to an outhouse roof and padded towards a small open window.

Greebo also had a cat's approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people.

From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped on to the pantry shelf.

Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got
discovered …

There
was
cream. He settled down.

He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened.

Greebo's ears flattened. His one good eye sought desperately for an escape route. The window was too high, the person opening the door was wearing a long dress that militated against the old ‘through the legs' routine and … and … and …
there was no escape …

His claws scrabbled on the floor …

Oh
no … here it came …

Something flipped in his body's morphogenic
field. Here was a problem a cat shape couldn't deal with. Oh, well, we know another one …

Crockery crashed around him. Shelves erupted as his head rose. A bag of flour exploded outwards to make room for his broadening shoulders.

The cook stared up at him. Then she looked down. And then up. And then, her gaze dragged as though it were on a winch, down again.

She screamed.

Greebo screamed.

He grabbed desperately at a bowl to cover that part which, as a cat, he never had to worry about exposing.

He screamed again, this time because he'd just poured lukewarm pork dripping all over himself.

His groping fingers found a large copper jelly-mould. Clasping it to his groinal areas, he barrelled forward and fled out of the pantry and out of the kitchen and out of the dining-room and out of the inn and into the night.

The spy, who was dining with the travelling salesman, put down his knife.

‘That's something you don't often see,' he said.

‘What?' said the salesman, who'd had his back to the excitement.

‘One of those old copper jelly-moulds. They're worth quite a lot now. My aunt had a very good one.'

The hysterical cook was given a big drink and several members of staff went out into the darkness to investigate.

All they found was a jelly-mould, lying forlornly in the yard.

*    *    *

At home Granny Weatherwax slept with open windows and an unlocked door, secure in the knowledge that the Ramtops' various creatures of the night would rather eat their own ears than break in. In dangerously civilized lands, however, she took a different view.

‘I really don't think we
need
to shove the bed in front of the door, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg, heaving on her end.

‘You can't be too careful,' said Granny. ‘Supposing some man started rattlin' the knob in the middle of the night?'

‘Not at our time of life,' said Nanny sadly.

‘Gytha Ogg, you are the most—'

Granny was interrupted by a watery sound. It came from behind the wall and went on for some time.

It stopped, and then started again – a steady splashing that gradually became a trickle. Nanny started to grin.

‘Someone fillin' a bath?' said Granny.

‘… or I suppose it could be someone fillin' a bath,' Nanny conceded.

There was the sound of a third jug being emptied. Footsteps left the room. A few seconds later a door opened and there was a rather heavier tread, followed after a brief interval by a few splashes and a grunt.

‘Yes, a man gettin' into a bath,' said Granny. ‘What're you doin', Gytha?'

‘Seein' if there's a knothole in this wood somewhere,' said Nanny. ‘Ah, here's one—'

‘Come back here!'

‘Sorry, Esme.'

And then the singing started. It was a very pleasant tenor voice, given added timbre by the bath itself.

‘Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed—'

‘Someone's enjoyin' themselves, anyway,' said Nanny.

‘—wherever I may roam—'

There was a knock at the distant bathroom door, upon which the singer slipped smoothly into another language:

‘—
per via di terra, mare o schiuma
—'

The witches looked at one another.

A muffled voice said, ‘I've brought you your hot-water bottle, sir.'

‘Thank you verr' mucha,' said the bather, his voice dripping with accent.

Footsteps went away in the distance.

‘—
Indicame la strada
… to go home.' Splash, splash. ‘Good eeeeevening, frieeeends …'

‘Well, well, well,' said Granny, more or less to herself. ‘It seems once again that our Mr Slugg is a secret polyglot.'

‘Fancy! And you haven't even looked through the knothole,' said Nanny.

‘Gytha, is there anything in the whole world you can't make sound grubby?'

‘Not found it yet, Esme,' said Nanny brightly.

‘I
meant
that when he mutters in his sleep and sings in his bath he talks just like us, but when
he thinks people are listening he comes over all foreign.'

‘That's probably to throw that Basilica person off the scent,' Nanny said.

‘Oh, I reckon Mr Basilica is very close to Henry Slugg,' said Granny. ‘In fact, I reckon that they're one and—'

There was a gentle knock at the door.

‘Who's there?' Granny demanded.

‘It's me, ma'am. Mr Slot. This is my tavern.'

The witches pushed the bed aside and Granny opened the door a fraction.

‘Yes?' she said suspiciously.

‘Er … the coachman said you were … witches?'

‘Yes?'

‘Maybe you could … help us?'

‘What's wrong?'

‘It's my boy …'

Granny opened the door further and saw the woman standing behind Mr Slot. One look at her face was enough. There was a bundle in her arms.

Granny stepped back. ‘Bring him in and let me have a look at him.'

She took the baby from the woman, sat down on the room's one chair, and pulled back the blanket. Nanny Ogg peered over her shoulder.

‘Hmm,' said Granny, after a while. She glanced at Nanny, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

‘There's a curse on this house, that's what it is,' said Slot. ‘My best cow's been taken mortally sick, too.'

‘Oh? You have a cowshed?' said Granny. ‘Very good place for a sickroom, a cowshed. It's the warmth. You better show me where it is.'

‘You want to take the boy down there?'

‘Right now.'

The man looked at his wife, and shrugged. ‘Well, I'm sure you know your business best,' he said. ‘It's this way.'

He led the witches down some back stairs and across a yard and into the foetid sweet air of the byre. A cow was stretched out on the straw. It rolled an eye madly as they entered, and tried to moo.

Granny took in the scene and stood looking thoughtful for a moment.

Then she said, ‘This will do.'

‘What do you need?' said Slot.

‘Just peace and quiet.'

The man scratched his head. ‘I thought you did a chant or made up some potion or something,' he said.

‘Sometimes.'

‘I mean, I know where there's a toad …'

‘All I shall require is a candle,' said Granny. ‘A new one, for preference.'

‘That's all?'

‘Yes.'

Mr Slot looked a little put out. Despite his distraction, something about his manner suggested that Granny Weatherwax was possibly not that much of a witch if she didn't want a toad.

‘And some matches,' said Granny, noting this. ‘A pack of cards might be useful, too.'

‘And I'll need three cold lamb chops and exactly two pints of beer,' said Nanny Ogg.

The man nodded. This didn't sound too toad-like, but it was better than nothing.

‘What'd you ask for that for?' hissed Granny, as the man bustled off. ‘Can't imagine what good those'd do! Anyway, you already had a big dinner.'

‘Well, I'm always prepared to go that extra meal. You won't want me around and I'll get bored,' said Nanny.

‘Did I say I didn't want you around?'

‘Well … even I can see that boy is in a coma, and the cow has the Red Bugge if I'm any judge. That's bad, too. So I reckon you're planning some … direct action.'

Granny shrugged.

‘Time like that, a witch needs to be alone,' said Nanny. ‘But you just mind what you're doing, Esme Weatherwax.'

The child was brought down in a blanket and made as comfortable as possible. The man followed behind his wife with a tray.

‘Mrs Ogg will do her necessary procedures with the tray in her room,' said Granny haughtily. ‘You just leave me in here tonight. And no one is to come in, right? No matter what.'

The mother gave a worried curtsey. ‘But I thought I might look in about midn—'

‘No one. Now, off you go.'

When they'd been gently but firmly ushered out, Nanny Ogg stuck her head around the door. ‘What
exactly
are you planning, Esme?'

‘You've sat up with the dyin' often enough, Gytha.'

‘Oh, yes, it's …' Nanny's face fell. ‘Oh, Esme … you're not going to …'

‘Enjoy your supper, Gytha.'

Granny closed the door.

She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check.

In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper's keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs.

She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow.

On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she'd never been able to master.

The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame.

After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn't been concentrating on it for some while.

She took a deep breath and—