Page 21 of Maskerade (Discworld 18)

Esme?'

'Mind if I ask you a question?'

'You don't normally ask if I mind,' said Nanny. 'Doesn't it ever get you down, the way people don't think properly?' Oh-oh, thought Nanny. I reckon I got her out just in time. Thank goodness for literature. 'How d'you mean?' she said. 'I means the way they distracts themselves.'

'Can't say I ever really thought about it, Esme.'

'Like. . .s'pose I was to say to you, Gytha Ogg, your house is on fire, what's the first thing you'd try to take out?' Nanny bit her lip. 'This is one of them personality questions, ain't it?' she said. 'That's right.'

'Like, you try to guess what I'm like by what I say. . .'

'Gytha Ogg, I've known you all my life, I knows what you're like. I don't need to guess. But answer me, all the same.'

'I reckon I'd take Greebo.' Granny nodded. '

'Cos that shows I've got a warm and considerate nature,' Nanny went on. 'No, it shows you're the kind of person who tries to work out what the right answer's supposed to be,' said Granny. 'Untrustworthy. That was a witch's answer if ever I heard one. Devious.'

Nanny looked proud. The snores changed to a blurt-blurt noise and the handkerchief quivered. '. . .treacle pudding, with lots of custard. . .'

'Hey, he just said something,' said Nanny. 'He talks in his sleep,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'He's been doing it on and off.'

'I never heard him!'

'You were out of the coach.'

'Oh.'

'At the last stop he was going on about pancakes with lemon,' said Granny. 'And mashed potatoes with butter.'

'Makes me feel hungry just listening to that,' said Nanny. 'I've got a pork pie in the bag somewhere-' The snoring stopped abruptly. A hand came up and moved the handkerchief aside. The face beyond was friendly, bearded and small. It gave the witches a shy smile which turned inexorably towards the pork pie. 'Want a slice, mister?' said Nanny. 'I've got some mustard here, too.'

'Oo, would you, dear lady?' said the man, in a squeaky voice. 'Don't know when I last had a pork pie-oh, dear. . .' He grimaced as if he'd just said something wrong, and then relaxed. 'Got a bottle of beer if you want a drop, too,' said Nanny. She was one of those women who enjoy seeing people eat almost as much as eating itself. 'Beer?' said the man. 'Beer? You know, they don't let me drink beer. Hah, it's supposed to be the wrong ambience. I'd give anything for a pint of beer-'

'Just a “thank you” would do,' said Nanny, passing it over. 'Who's this “they” to whom you refers?' said Granny. '

'S my fault really,' said the man, through a faint spray of pork crumbs. 'Got caught up, I suppose. . .' There was a change in the sounds from outside. The lights of a town were going past and the coach was slowing down. The man forced the last of the pie into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of the beer. 'Oo, lovely,' he said. Then he leaned back and put the handkerchief over his face. He raised a corner. 'Don't tell anyone I spoke to you,' he said, 'but you've made a friend of Henry Slugg.'

'And what do you do, Henry Slugg?' said Granny, carefully. 'I'm. . . I'm on the stage.'

'Yes. We can see,' said Nanny Ogg. 'No, I meant-' The coach stopped. Gravel crunched as people climbed down. The door was pulled open. Granny saw a crowd of people peering excitedly through the doorway, and reached up automatically to straighten her hat. But several hands reached out for Henry Slugg, who sat up, smiled nervously, and let himself be helped out. Several people also shouted out a name, but it wasn't the name of Henry Slugg. 'Who's Enrico Basilica?' said Nanny Ogg. 'Don't know,' said Granny. 'Maybe he's the person Mr Slugg's afraid of.' The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies travelling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadn't. Mr Bucket looked pained. 'I may just be a big man in cheese to you,' he said, 'you may think I'm just some hard-headed businessman who wouldn't know culture if he found

it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of the opera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole of-'

'I am sure you've seen a lot of opera,' said Salzella. 'But. . . how much do you know about production?'

'I've been behind the scenes in lots of theatres-'

'Oh, theatre,' said Salzella. 'Theatre doesn't even approach it. Opera isn't theatre with singing and dancing. Opera's opera. You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but it's a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won't talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and that's only the start of it, because what is really-' There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard. 'Come in, Walter,' said Salzella. Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. 'Come to fill your coalscuttle Mr Bucket!' Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. 'You were saying?' Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time. 'Salzella?'

'What? Oh. I'm sorry. . . what was I saying?'

'Something about it being only the start?'

'What? Oh. Yes. Yes. . . you see, it's fine for actors. There's plenty of parts for old men. Acting's something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing. . . Time creeps up behind you, all the. . .' He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for 'Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you'll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone's on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That's why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so's green. And real jewellery worn on stage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling on stage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting on stage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don't ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that's worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.' Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully. 'Good grief,' said Bucket; at last. 'I thought it was tough in cheese.' He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. 'I paid thirty thousand for this place,' he said. 'It's in the centre of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!'

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

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

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