Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'What kind of accidents?'

'The kind of accidents that you prefer to call. . . accidents.' Mr Bucket's eyes stayed closed. 'Like. . . the time when Reg Plenty and Fred Chiswell were working late one night up on the curdling vats and it turned out Reg had been seeing Fred's wife and somehow-' Bucket swallowed -'somehow he must have tripped, Fred said, and fallen-'

'I am not familiar with the gentlemen concerned but. . . that kind of accident. Yes.' Bucket sighed. 'That was some of the finest Farmhouse Nutty we ever made.'

'Do you want me to tell you about our accidents?'

'I'm sure you're going to.'

'A seamstress stitched herself to the wall. A deputy stage manager was found stabbed with a prop sword. Oh, and you wouldn't like me to tell you what happened to the man who worked the trapdoor. And all the lead mysteriously disappeared from the roof, although personally I don't think that was the work of the Ghost.'

'And everyone. . . calls these. . . accidents?'

'Well, you wanted to sell your cheese, didn't you? I can't imagine anything that would depress the house like news that dead bodies are dropping like flies out of the flies.' He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. 'The Ghost likes to leave little messages,' he said. 'There was one by the organ. A scenery painter spotted him and . . . .nearly had an accident.' Bucket sniffed the envelope. It reeked of turpentine. The letter inside was on a sheet of the Opera House's own notepaper. In neat, copperplate writing, it said: Ahahahahaha! Ahahahaha! Aahahaha! BEWARE!!!!! Yrs Sincerely, The Opera Ghost 'What sort of person,' said Salzella patiently, 'sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man. Look, at least let's search the building. The cellars go on for ever. I'll need a boat-'

'A boat? In the cellar?'

'Oh. Didn't they tell you about the sub-basement?' Bucket smiled the bright, crazed smile of a man who was nearing double exclamation marks himself. 'No,' he said. 'They didn't tell me about the subbasement. They were too busy not telling me that someone goes around killing the company. I don't recall anyone saying “Oh, by the way, people are dying a lot, and incidentally there's a touch of rising damp-” '

'They're flooded.'

'Oh, good!' said Bucket. 'What with? Buckets of blood?'

'Didn't you have a look?'

'They said the cellars were fine!'

'And you believed them?'

'Well, there was rather a lot of champagne. . .' Salzella sighed. Bucket took offence at the sigh. 'I happen to pride myself that I am a good judge of character,' he said. 'Look a man deeply in the eye and give him a firm handshake and you know everything about him.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella. 'Oh, blast. . . Senor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?'

'Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps.'

'What? You think so?'

'How should I know?'

'What do you want me to do? Close the place? As far as I can see it doesn't make any money as it is! Why hasn't anyone told the Watch?'

'That would be worse,' said Salzella. 'Big trolls in rusty chain mail tramping everywhere, getting in everyone's way and asking stupid questions. They'd close us down.' Bucket swallowed. 'Oh, we can't have that,' he said. 'Can't have them. . . putting everyone on edge.' Salzella sat back. He seemed to relax a little. 'On edge? Mr Bucket,' he said, 'this is opera. Everyone is always on edge. Have you ever heard of a catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket?' Seldom Bucket did his best. 'Well, I know there's a dreadful bend in the road up by-'

'A catastrophe curve, Mr Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn't cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr Bucket, you shouldn't have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry.' Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse. 'Certainly an interestin' way to travel,' she said. 'You do get to see places.'

'Yes,' said Granny. 'Every five miles, it seems to me.'

'Can't think what's got into me.'

'I shouldn't think the horses have managed to get faster'n a walk all morning.' They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travellers on top. The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat's unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he'd leapt heavily into their laps and given them the 'young masser back on de ole plantation' treatment. And he'd treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he'd started to smell. No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes' doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets. He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn't working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill. The snores reverberated around the coach. 'Wouldn't like to come between him and his pudding,' said Nanny Ogg. Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity. 'Gytha?'

ourse. I am sure she will welcome the suggestion. You may well have halved costs at a stroke.' Bucket beamed. 'Which is perhaps just as well,' said Salzella. 'There is, in fact, another matter that I've come to see you about. . .'

'Yes?'

'It is to do with the organ we had.'

'Had? What do you mean, had?' said Bucket, adding, 'You're going to tell me something expensive, are you? What have we got now?'