Maskerade d-18

by Terry David John Pratchett

  There was a whirr off on one side of the stage. The skirts of costumes began to flap. Dust flew up.

  André looked around. Beside him, the wind machine had started up. The handle was turning by itself.

  Salzella turned to see what everyone was staring at.

  The Ghost had dropped lightly on to the stage. His opera cloak billowed around him… operatically.

  He bowed slightly, and drew his sword.

  “But you're dea—” Salzella began. “Oh, yes! A ghost of a Ghost! Totally unbelievable and an offence against common sense, in the best operatic tradition! This was really too much to hope for!”

  He thrust Agnes away, and nodded happily.

  “That's what opera does to a man,” he said. “It rots the brain, you see, and I doubt whether he had too much of that to begin with. It drives people mad. Mad, d'you hear me, mad!! Ahem. They act irrationally. Don't you think I've watched you, over the years? It's like a hothouse for insanity!! D'you hear me? Insanity!!”

  He and the Ghost began to circle one another.

  “You don't know what it has been like, I assure you, being the only sane man in this madhouse!! You believe anything!! You'd prefer to believe a ghost can be in two places at once than that there might simply be two people!! Even Pounder thought he could blackmail me!! Poking around in places that he shouldn't!! Well, of course, I had to kill him for his own good. This place sends even ratcatchers mad!! And Undershaft… well, why couldn't he have forgotten his glasses like he usually did, eh?”

  He lashed out with his sword. The Ghost parried.

  “And now I'll fight your Ghost,” he said, moving forward in a flurry of strokes, “and you'll notice that our Ghost here doesn't actually know how to fence… because he only knows stage‑fencing, you see… where the whole point, of course, is simply to hit the other fellow's sword with a suitably impressive metallic noise… so that you can die very dramatically merely because he's carefully thrust his sword under your armpit…”

  The Ghost was forced to retreat under the onslaught, until he fell backwards over the unconscious body of Christine.

  “See?” said Salzella. “That's what comes of believing in opera!!!”

  He reached down quickly and tugged the mask off Walter Plinge's face.

  “Really, Walter!!! You are a bad boy!!!!”

  “Sorry Mr Salzella!”

  “Look how everyone's staring!!!!”

  “Sorry Mr Salzella!”

  The mask crumpled in Salzella's fingers. He let the fragments tumble to the floor. Then he pulled Walter to his feet.

  “See, company? This is your luck!!! This is your Ghost!!! Without his mask he's just an idiot who can hardly tie his shoelaces!!! Ahahaha!!!! Ahem. It's all your fault, Walter Plinge…”

  “Yes Mr Salzella!”

  “No.”

  Salzella looked around.

  “No one would believe Walter Plinge. Even Walter Plinge gets confused about the things Walter Plinge sees. Even his mother was afraid he might have murdered people. People could accept just about anything of a Walter Plinge.”

  There was a steady tapping noise.

  The trapdoor opened beside Salzella.

  A pointy hat appeared slowly, followed by the rest of Granny Weatherwax, with her arms folded. She glared at Salzella as the floor clicked into place. Her foot stopped tapping on the boards.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Lady Esmerelda, eh?”

  “I'm stoppin' bein' a lady, Mr Salzella.”

  He glanced up at the pointy hat. “So you are a witch instead?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “A bad witch, no doubt?”

  “Worse.”

  “But this,” said Salzella, “is a sword. Everyone knows witches can't magic iron and steel. Get out of my way!!!”

  The sword hissed down.

  Granny thrust out her hand. There was a blur of flesh and steel and…

  …she held the sword, by the blade.

  “Tell you what, Mr Salzella,” she said, levelly, “it ought to be Walter Plinge who finishes this, eh? It's him you harmed, apart from the ones you murdered, o' course. You didn't need to do that. But you wore a mask, didn't you? There's a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes out in darkness. I bet you could do just what you liked, behind a mask…?”

  Salzella blinked at her. He pulled on his sword, tugged hard on a sharp blade held in an unprotected hand.

  There was a groan from several members of the chorus. Granny grinned. Her knuckles whitened as she redoubled her grip.

  She turned her head towards Walter Plinge. “Put your mask on, Walter.”

  Everyone looked down at the crumpled cardboard on the stage.

  “Don't have one any more Mistress Weatherwax!”

  Granny followed his gaze. “Oh deary, deary me,” she said. “Well, I can see we shall have to do something about that. Look at me, Walter.”

  He did as he was told. Granny's eyes half‑closed. “You… trust Perdita, don't you, Walter?”

  “Yes Mistress Weatherwax!”

  “That's good, because she's got a new mask for you, Walter Plinge. A magic one. It's just like your old one, d'you see, only you wear it under your skin and you don't have to take it off and no one but you will ever need to know it's there. Got it, Perdita?”

  “But I—” Agnes began.

  “Got it?”

  “Er… oh, yes. Here it is. Yes. I've got it in my hand.” She waved an empty hand vaguely.

  “You're holding it the wrong way up, my girl!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Well? Give it to him, then.”

  “Er. Yes.”

  Agnes advanced on Walter.

  “Now you take it, Walter,” said Granny, still gripping the sword.

  “Yes Mistress Weatherwax…”

  He reached out towards Agnes. As he did so, she was sure that, just for a moment, there was a faint pressure on her fingertips.

  “Well? Put it on!”

  Walter looked uncertain.

  “You do believe there's a mask there, don't you, Walter?” Granny demanded. “Perdita's sensible and she knows an invisible mask when she sees one.”

  He nodded, slowly, and raised his hands to his face.

  And Agnes was sure that he'd somehow come into focus. Almost certainly nothing had happened that could be measured with any kind of instrument, any more than you could weigh an idea or sell good fortune by the yard. But Walter stood up, smiling faintly.

  “Good,” said Granny. She stared at Salzella.

  “I reckon you two should fight again,” she said. “But it can't be said I'm unfair. I expect you've got a Ghost mask somewhere? Mrs Ogg saw you waving it, see. And she's not as gormless as she looks—”

  “Thank you,” said a fat ballerina.

  “‑so she thought, how could people still say afterwards that they'd seen the Ghost? “Cos that's how you recognize the Ghost, by his mask. So there's two masks.”

  Under her gaze, telling himself that he could resist any time he wanted to, Salzella reached into his jacket and produced his own mask.

  “Put it on, then.” She let go of the sword. “Then who you are can fight who he is.”

  Down in the pit, the percussionist stared as his sticks rose and began a drum roll.

  “Are you doing that, Gytha?” said Granny Weatherwax.

  “I thought you were.”

  “It's opera, then. The show must go on.”

  Walter Plinge raised his sword. The masked Salzella glanced from him to Granny, and then lunged.

  The swords met.

  It was, Agnes realized, stage‑fighting. The swords clashed and rattled as the fighters danced back and forth across the stage. Walter wasn't trying to hit Salzella. Every thrust was parried. Every opportunity to strike back, as the director of music grew more angry, was ignored.

  “This isn't fighting!” Salzella shouted, standing back. “This is'
<
br />   Walter thrust.

  Salzella staggered away, until he cannoned into Nanny Ogg. He lurched sideways. Then he staggered forward, dropped on to one knee, got unsteadily to his feet again, and staggered into the centre of the stage.

  “Whatever happens,” he gasped, wrenching off his mask, “it can't be worse than a season of opera!!!! I don't mind where I'm going so long as there are no fat men pretending to be thin boys, and no huge long songs which everyone says are so beautiful just because they don't understand what the hell they're actually about!!!! Ah‑ Ahargh…”

  He slumped to the floor.

  “But Walter didn't—” Agnes began.

  “Shut up,” said Nanny Ogg, out of the corner of her mouth.

  “But he hasn't—” Bucket began.

  “Incidentally, another thing I can't stand about opera,” said Salzella, rising to his feet and reeling crabwise towards the curtains, “are the plots. They make no sense!! And no one ever says so!!! And the quality of the acting? It's nonexistent!! Everyone stands around watching the person who's singing. Ye gods, it's going to be a relief to put that behind… ah… argh…”

  He slumped to the floor.

  “Is that it?” said Nanny.

  “Shouldn't think so,” said Granny Weatherwax.

  “As for the people who attend opera,” said Salzella, struggling upright again and staggering sideways, “I think I just possibly hate them even worse!!! They're so ignorant!!! There's hardly a one of them out there who knows the first thing about music!!! They go on about tunes!!! They spend all day endeavouring to be sensible human beings, and then they walk in here and they leave their intelligence on a nail by the door—”

  “Then why didn't you just leave?” snapped Agnes. “If you'd stolen all this money why didn't you just go away somewhere, if you hated it so much?”

  Salzella stared at her while swaying back and forth. His mouth opened and shut once or twice, as if he were trying out unfamiliar words.

  “Leave?” he managed. “Leave? Leave the opera?… Argh argh argh…”

  He hit the floor again.

  André prodded the fallen director. “Is he dead yet?” he said.

  “How can he be dead?” said Agnes. “Good grief, can't anyone see that?”

  “You know what really gets me down,” said Salzella, rising to his knees, “is the way that in opera everyone takes such a long!!!!!… time!!!!!… to!!!!!… argh… argh… argh…”

  He keeled over.

  The company waited for a while. The audience held its collective breath.

  Nanny Ogg poked him with a boot. “Yep, that's about it. Looks like he's gone down for the last curtain call,” she said.

  “But Walter didn't stab him!” said Agnes. “Why won't anyone listen? Look, the sword isn't even sticking in him! It's just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven's sake!”

  “Yes,” said Nanny. “I s'pose, really, it's a shame he dint notice that.” She scratched at her shoulder. “Here, these ballet dresses really tickle…”

  “But he's dead!”

  “Got a bit overexcited, perhaps,” said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap.

  “Overexcited?”

  “Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course.”

  “He's really dead?” said Bucket.

  “Seems to be,” said Granny. “One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn't mind betting.”

  “That's terrible!!” Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. “Where's my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you've done with my money!!! I don't hear you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!”

  “That's on account of being dead,” said Granny. “Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule.”

  “Well, you're a witch!!! Can't you do that thing with the cards and the glasses?”

  “Well, yes… we could have a poker game,” said Nanny. “Good idea.”

  “The money is in the cellars,” said Granny. “Walter'll show you.”

  Walter Plinge clicked his heels. “Certainly,” he said. “I would be glad to.”

  Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge's voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge's face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face.

  “Good grief,” Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella's coat. There was a thump.

  “And since you're going to be needing a new director of music,” said Granny, “you could do worse than look to Walter here.”

  “Walter?”

  “He knows everything there is to know about opera,” said Granny. “And everything about the Opera House, too.”

  “You should see the music he's written—” said Nanny.

  “Walter? Musical director?” said Bucket.

  “‑stuff you can really hum—”

  “Yes, I think you might be surprised,” said Granny.

  “‑there's one with lots of sailors dancin' around singin' about how there's no women—”

  “This is Walter, isn't it?”

  “‑and then some bloke called Les who's miserable all the time—”

  “Oh, this is Walter,” said Granny. “The same person.

  “‑and there's one, hah, with all cats all leapin' around all singin', that was fun,” Nanny burbled. “Can't imagine how he thought up that one—”

  Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling lightheaded enough as it was.

  “And he's trustworthy,” said Granny. “And he's honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And… where everything is…”

  That was enough for Mr Bucket. “Want to be director of music, Walter?” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr Bucket,” said Walter Plinge. “I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I won't have to stop doing them, will I? I've just got them working right.”

  “Oh? Right. Really?” Mr Bucket's eyes crossed for a moment. “Well, fine. You can sing while you're doing it, if you like,” he added generously. “And I won't even cut your pay! I'll… I'll raise it! Six… no, seven shiny dollars!”

  Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. “Mr Bucket…”

  “Yes, Walter?”

  “I think… you paid Mr Salzella forty shiny dollars…”

  Bucket turned to Granny. “Is he some kind of monster?”

  “You just listen to the stuff he's been writin',” said Nanny. “Amazin' songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff…'scuse me…”

  She turned her back on the audience–

  — twingtwangtwong–

  — and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands.

  “I know good music when I sees it,” she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. “It's got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?”

  “You have been writing this music?” said Bucket to Walter. “Which is unaccountably warm?”

  “Indeed, Mr Bucket.”

  “In my time?”

  “There's a lovely song here,” said Nanny, “ "Don't cry for me, Genua". It's very sad. That reminds me, I'd better go and see if Mrs Plinge has come rou… has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the stumble.” She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. “This balleting doesn't half make you sweat, don't you find?”

  “Excuse me, there's something I didn't quite believe,” said André. He took Salzella's sword and tested the blade carefully.

  “Ow!” he shouted.

  “Sharp, is it?” said Agnes.

  “Yes!” André sucked his thumb. “She caught it in her hand.”

  “She's a witch,” said Agnes.

  “But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows that.”

  “I wouldn't be too impressed if I was you,” said Agnes sourly. “It was probably just some kind of trick…”
/>
  André turned to Granny. “Your hand isn't even scratched! How did… you…”

  Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can't remember where he's just put something down.

  “I hope he didn't hurt Christine,” he mumbled. “Why isn't anyone seeing to her?”

  “Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,” said Perdita, through Agnes.

  André set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine.

  “It'd be terrible if anything happened to her,” said André.

  “Oh… yes.”

  “Everyone says she's showing such promise…”

  Walter stepped up beside him. “Yes. We should get her somewhere,” he said. His voice was clipped and precise.

  Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. “Yes, but… you know it was me doing the singing.”

  “Oh, yes… yes, of course…” said André, awkwardly. “But…well… this is opera… you know…”

  Walter took her hand.

  “But it was me youtaught!” she said desperately.

  “Then you were very good,” said Walter. “I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words "star quality"?”

  “Is it the same as talent?” snapped Agnes.

  “It is rarer.”

  She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights.

  She pulled her hand free. “I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge,” she said.

  Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax's gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze.

  “Er… we ought to get Christine into Mr Bucket's office,” André said.

  This seemed to break some sort of spell.

  “Yes, indeed!!!” said Bucket. “And we can't leave Mr Salzella corpsing on stage, either. You two, you'd better take him backstage. The rest of you… well, it was nearly over anyway… er… that's it. The… opera is over…”

  “Walter Plinge!”

  Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs Plinge. Walter's mother fixed him with a beady gaze. “Have you been a bad boy?”

  Mr Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. “I think you'd better come along to my office, too,” he said. He handed the sheaf of music to André, who opened it at random.