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'Lord Henry Gleet and Lady Gleet!'
The ballroom wasn't a room at all, but a courtyard open to the soft night airs. Steps led down into it. At the far end, another much wider staircase, lined with nickering torches, led up into the palace itself. On the far wall, huge and easily visible, was a clock.
'The Honourable Douglas Incessant!'
The time was a quarter to eight. Magrat had a vague recollection of some old woman shouting something about the time, but. . . that didn't matter either . . .
'Lady Volentia D'Arrangement!'
She reached the top of the stairs. The butler who was announcing the arrivals looked her up and down and then, in the manner of one who had been coached carefully all afternoon for this very moment, bellowed:
'Er . . . Mysterious and beautiful stranger!'
Silence spread out from the bottom of the steps like spilled paint. Five hundred heads turned to look at Magrat.
A day before, even the mere thought of having five hundred people staring at her would have melted Magrat like butter in a furnace. But now she stared back, smiled, and raised her chin haughtily.
Her fan snapped open like a gunshot.
The mysterious and beautiful stranger, daughter of Simplicity Garlick, granddaughter of Araminta Garlick, her self-possession churning so strongly that it was crystallizing out on the sides of her personality . . .
. . . stepped out.
A moment later another guest stalked past the butler.
The butler hesitated. Something about the figure worried him. It kept going in and out of focus. He wasn't entirely certain if there was anyone else there at all.
Then his common sense, which had temporarily gone and hidden behind something, took over. After all, it was Samedi Nuit Mort - people were supposed to dress up and look weird. You were allowed to see people like that.
'Excuse me, er, sir,' he said. 'Who shall I say it is?'
I'M HERE INCOGNITO.
The butler was sure nothing had been said, but he was also certain that he had heard the words.
'Urn. . . fine ..." he mumbled. 'Go on in, then . . . urn.' He brightened. 'Damn good mask, sir.'
He watched the dark figure walk down the steps, and leaned against a pillar.
Well, that was about it. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket, removed his powdered wig, and wiped his brow. He felt as though he'd just had a narrow escape, and what was even worse was that he didn't know from what.
He looked cautiously around, and then sidled into the ante-room and took up a position behind a velvet curtain, where he could enjoy a quiet roll-up.
He nearly swallowed it when another figure loped silently up the red carpet. It was dressed like a pirate that had just raided a ship carrying black leather goods for the discerning customer. One eye had a patch over it. The other gleamed like a malevolent emerald. And no-one that big ought to be able to walk that quietly.
The butler stuck the dog-end behind his ear.
'Excuse me, milord,' he said, running after the man and touching him firmly yet respectfully on the arm. 'I shall need to see your tic ... your ... tic . . ,'
The man transferred his gaze to the hand on his arm. The butler let go hurriedly.
'Wrowwwl?'
'Your . . . ticket. . .'
The man opened his mouth and hissed.
'Of course,' said the butler, backing away with the efficient speed of someone who certainly isn't being paid enough to face a needle-toothed maniac in black leather, 'I expect you're one of the Duc's friends, yes?'
