Maskerade (22 page)

Agnes stared at them, unseeing.

People were disappearing and the first thought that everyone had was that it was going to be inconvenient without them.

The show must go on. Everyone said that. People said it all the time. Often they smiled when they said it, but they were serious all the same, under the smile. No one ever said
why
. But yesterday, when the chorus had been arguing about the money, everyone knew that they weren't actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game.

The show went on. She'd heard all the stories. She'd heard about shows continuing while fire raged around the city, while a dragon was roosting on the roof, while there was rioting in the streets outside. Scenery collapsed? The show went on. Leading tenor died? Then appeal to the audience for any student of music who knew the part, and give him his big chance while his predecessor's body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like something important. But … the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didn't even think about it any more, as though there were fog in their heads.

On the other hand … someone was teaching her to sing at night. A mysterious person sang songs on the stage when everyone had gone home. She tried to think of that voice belonging to someone who killed people. It didn't work. Maybe she'd caught some of the fog and didn't
want
it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people?

She'd been idly turning the pages of an old programme and a name caught her eye.

She quickly shuffled through the others beneath.

There it was again. Not in every performance, and never in a major role, but it was there. Generally it played an innkeeper or a servant.

‘Walter Plinge?' she said.
‘Walter?
But …
he
doesn't sing, does he?'

She held up a programme and pointed.

‘What? Oh, no!' André laughed. ‘Good heavens … it's a … a kind of convenient name, I suppose. Sometimes someone has to sing a very minor part … perhaps a singer is in a role that they'd rather not be remembered in … well, here, they just go down on the programme as Walter Plinge. Lots of theatres have a useful name like that. Like A. N. Other. It's convenient for everyone.'

‘But …
Walter Plinge
?'

‘Well, I suppose it started as a joke. I mean, can you imagine Walter Plinge on stage?' André grinned. ‘In that little beret he wears?'

‘What does he think about it?'

‘I don't think he minds. It's hard to tell, isn't it?'

There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo – the long-drawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don't have three hands, and ends with the
roinroinroin
of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor.

They heard an irate female voice.

‘Walter Plinge!'

‘Sorry Mrs Clamp!'

‘Damn' thing keeps holding on to the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect—'

There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a
spoing
.

‘
Now
where's it gone?'

‘Don't know Mrs Clamp!'

‘And what's that cat doing in here?'

André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. ‘It is a little cruel, I suppose,' he said. ‘The poor chap is a bit daft.'

‘I'm not at all sure,' said Agnes, ‘that I've met anyone here who isn't.'

He grinned again. ‘I know,' he said.

‘I mean, everyone acts as if it's only the music that matters! The plots don't make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they've got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine – that's practically
normal
compared to opera! It's an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasn't for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!'

She realized he was looking at her with an opera face.

‘Of course, that's it, isn't it? It
is
the show that matters, isn't it?' she said. ‘It's
all
show.'

‘It's not meant to be real,' said André. ‘It's not like theatre. No one's saying, “You've got to pretend
this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king.” The plot's only there to fill in time before the next song.'

He leaned forward and took her hand. ‘This must be wretched for you,' he said.

No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets.

She pulled her hand away.

‘I, er, better go and practise,' she said, feeling the blush start.

‘You really picked up the role of Iodine very well,' said André.

‘I, er, have a private tutor,' said Agnes.

‘Then he's really studied opera, that's all I can say.'

‘I … think he has.'

‘Esme?'

‘Yes, Gytha?'

‘It's not that I'm complaining or anything …'

‘Yes?'

‘… but why isn't it
me
who's being the posh opera patronizer?'

‘Because you're as common as muck, Gytha.'

‘Oh. Right.' Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldn't see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. ‘Fair enough.'

‘It's not as though
I
like this.'

‘Shall I do madam's feet?' said the manicurist. She stared at Granny's boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer.

‘I got to admit, it's a nice hairstyle,' said Nanny.

‘Madam has
marvellous
hair,' said the hairdresser. ‘What is the secret?'

‘You've got to make sure there's no newts in the water,' said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away … and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. ‘Hmm,' she said.

At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Granny's boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities she'd been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didn't know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do.

Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didn't have Granny's gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong.

‘Esme? I reckon we've spent … probably more'n a thousand dollars so far, and that's not including hirin' the coach, and we haven't paid Mrs Palm for the room.'

‘You said nothing was too much trouble to help a Lancre girl,' said Granny.

But I didn't say nothing was too much money, thought Nanny, and then scolded herself for thinking like that. But she was definitely feeling a little lighter in the underwear regions.

There seemed to be a general consensus among
the artisans of beauty that they'd done what they could. Granny swivelled the chair around.

‘What do you think?' she said.

Nanny Ogg stared. She'd seen many strange things in her life, some of them twice. She'd seen elves and walking stones and the shoeing of a unicorn. She'd had a farmhouse dropped on her head. But she'd never seen Granny Weatherwax in rouge.

All her normal expletives of shock and surprise fused instantly, and she found herself resorting to an ancient curse belonging to her grandmother.

‘Well, I'll be
mogadored
!' she said.

‘Madam has extremely good skin,' said the cosmetics lady.

‘I know,' said Granny. ‘Can't seem to do anything about it.'

‘I'll be
mogadored
!' said Nanny again.

‘Powder and paint,' said Granny. ‘Huh. Just another kind of mask. Oh, well.' She gave the hairdresser a dreadful smile. ‘How much do we owe you?' she said.

‘Er … thirty dollars?' said the hairdresser. ‘That is …'

‘Give the w … man thirty dollars and another twenty to make up for his trouble,' said Granny, clutching at her head.

‘Fifty dollars? You could buy a
shop
for—'

‘Gytha!'

‘Oh, all
right
. 'Scuse me, I'm just going to the bank.'

She turned away demurely, raised the hem of her skirt—

—twangtwingtwongtwang—

—and turned back with a handful of coins.

‘There you go, my good wo … sir,' she said sourly.

There was a coach waiting outside. It was the best Granny had been able to hire with Nanny's money. A footman held open the door as Nanny helped her friend aboard.

‘We'll go straight to Mrs Palm's so's I can change,' said Granny as they pulled away. ‘And then to the Opera House. We ain't got much time.'

‘Are you all right?'

‘Never felt better.' Granny patted her hair. ‘Gytha Ogg, you wouldn't be a witch if you couldn't jump to conclusions, right?'

Nanny nodded. ‘Oh, yes.' There was no shame in it. Sometimes there wasn't time to do anything else but take a flying leap. Sometimes you had to trust to experience and intuition and general awareness and take a running jump. Nanny herself could clear quite a tall conclusion from a standing start.

‘So I've no doubt at all that there's some kind of idea floating around in your mind about this Ghost …'

‘Well … sort of an idea, yes …'

‘A name, perhaps?'

Nanny shifted uncomfortably, and not only because of the moneybags under her skirt.

‘I got to admit something crossed my mind. A kind of … feeling. I mean, you never can tell …'

Granny nodded. ‘Yes. It's all neat, isn't it? It's a lie.'

‘You said last night you saw the whole thing!'

‘It's still a lie. Like the lie about masks.'

‘What lie about masks?'

‘The way people say they hide faces.'

‘They
do
hide faces,' said Nanny Ogg.

‘Only the one on the outside.'

No one took much notice of Agnes. The stage was being set for the new performance tonight. The orchestra was rehearsing. The ballerinas had been herded into their practice-room. In various other rooms people were singing at cross-purposes. But no one seemed to want her to do anything.

I'm just a wandering voice, she thought.

She climbed the stairs to her room and sat on the bed. The curtains were still drawn and, in the gloom, the strange roses glowed. She had rescued them from the bin because they were beautiful, but, in a way, she'd have been happier if they weren't there. Then she could have believed she'd imagined the whole thing.

There was no sound from Christine's room. Telling herself that it was really
her
room
anyway
, and Christine had just been allowed to borrow it, Agnes went in.

It was a mess. Christine had got up, got dressed – either that or a thorough but overenthusiastic burglar had gone through every drawer in the place – and gone. The bouquets that Agnes had put into whatever receptacles she could find last night were where she had left them. The others were where she had left them, too, and they were already dying.

She caught herself wondering where she could find some jars and pots for them, and hated herself for it. It was as bad as saying ‘poot!' You might as well paint W
ELCOME
on yourself and lie down on the doorstep of the universe. It was no fun at all, having a wonderful personality. Oh … and good hair.

And then she went and found pots for them anyway.

The mirror dominated the room. It seemed to grow a little larger each time she looked at it.

All right. She had to know, didn't she?

Heart pounding, she felt around the edges of it. There was a little raised area that might have looked like part of the frame, but as her fingers moved across it there was a ‘click' and the mirror swung inwards a fraction of an inch. When she pushed at it, it moved.

She breathed out. And stepped in.

‘It's disgusting!' said Salzella. ‘It's pandering to the most depraved taste!'

Mr Bucket shrugged. ‘It's not as though we're putting “Good Chance of Seeing Someone Throttled on Stage” on the posters,' he said. ‘But news has got around. People like … drama.'

‘You mean the Watch didn't want us to shut down?'

‘No. They just said we should mount guards like last night and they'd take steps.'

‘Steps to the nearest place of safety, no doubt.'

‘I don't like it any more than you do, but it's gone too far. We need the Watch now. Anyway,
there'd be a riot if we closed. Ankh-Morpork has always enjoyed … excitement. We're completely sold out. The show must go on.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Salzella nastily. ‘Would you like me to slit a few throats in the second act? Just so no one feels disappointed?'

‘Of course not,' said Bucket. ‘We don't want any deaths. But …'

The ‘but' hung in the air like the late Dr Undershaft.

Salzella threw up his hands.

‘Anyway, I believe we are past the worst,' said Mr Bucket.

‘I hope so,' said Salzella.

‘Where's Señor Basilica?' said Bucket.

‘Mrs Plinge is showing him his dressing-room.'

‘Mrs Plinge hasn't been murdered?'

‘No, no one has been found dead so far today,' said Salzella.