Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'I'll try.'

'The two thousand might be only the start, I hope. Every time I open a drawer there are more bills! We seem to owe money to everyone!'

'Opera is expensive.'

'You're telling me: Whenever I try to make a start on the books, something dreadful happens. Do you think I might just have a few hours without something awful happening?'

'In an opera house?' The voice was muffled by the half-dismantled mechanism of the organ. 'All right-give me middle C.'

A hairy finger pressed a key. It made a thudding noise and somewhere in the mechanism something else went woing. 'Blast, it's come off the peg. . . hold on again. . . The note rang out sweet and clear. 'O-kay,' said the voice of the man hidden in the exposed entrails of the organ. 'Wait until I tighten the peg. . .' Agnes stepped closer. The hulking figure seated at the organ turned around and gave her a friendly grin, which was much wider than the average grin. Its owner was covered in red hair and, while short-changed in the leg department, had obviously been first in the queue when the arm counter opened. And had also been given a special free offer of lip. . . .try 'André?' said Agnes weakly. The organist extracted himself from the mechanism. He was holding a complicated wooden bar with springs on it. 'Oh, hello,' he said. 'Er. . . who is this?' said Agnes, backing away from the primeval organist. 'Oh, this is the Librarian. I don't think he has a name. He's the Librarian at Unseen University but, much more importantly, he's their organist and it turns out our organ is a Johnson[8], just like theirs. He's given us some spare parts-'

'Ook'

'Sorry, lent us some spare parts.'

'He plays the organ?'

'In an amazingly prehensile way, yes.' Agnes relaxed. The creature didn't seem about to attack. 'Oh,' she said. 'Well. . . I suppose it's natural, because sometimes barrel-organ men came to our village and they often had a dear little mon-' There was a crashing chord. The orang-utan raised its other hand and waved a finger politely in front of Agnes's face. 'He doesn't like being called a monkey,' said André. 'And he likes you.'

'How can you tell?, 'He doesn't usually go in for warnings.' She stepped back quickly and grabbed the boy's arm. 'Can I have a word with you?' she said. 'We've got only a few hours and I'd really like to get this-'

'It's important.' He followed her into the wings. Behind them, the Librarian tapped a few keys on the half-repaired keyboard and then ducked underneath. 'I know who the Ghost is,' whispered Agnes. André stared at her. Then he pulled her further into the shadows. 'The Ghost isn't anybody,' he said softly. 'Don't be silly. It's just the Ghost.'

'I mean he's someone else when he takes his mask off.' Who. 'Should I tell Mr Bucket and Mr Salzella?'

'Who? Tell them about who?'

'Walter Plinge.' He stared at her again. 'If you laugh I'll. . . I'll kick you,' said Agnes. 'But Walter isn't even-'

'I didn't believe it either but he said he saw the Ghost in the ballet school and there's mirrors all over the walls and he'd be quite tall if he stood up properly and he roams around in the cellars-'

'Oh, come on. . .'

'The other night I thought I heard him singing on the stage when everyone else had gone.'

'You saw him?'

'It was dark.'

'Oh, well. . .' André began dismissively. 'But afterwards I'm certain I heard him talking to the cat. Talking normally, I mean. I mean like a normal person, I mean. And you've got to admit. . . he is strange. Isn't he just the sort of person who'd want to wear a mask to hide who he is?' She sagged. 'Look, I can see you don't want to listen-'

'No! No, I think. . . well. . .'

'I just thought I'd feel better if I told someone.' André smiled in the gloom. 'I wouldn't mention it to anyone else, though.' Agnes looked down at her feet. 'I suppose it does sound a bit far- fetched. . .' André laid a hand on her arm. Perdita felt Agnes draw herself back. 'Do you feel better?' he said. 'I. . . don't know. . . I mean. . . I don't know. . . I mean, I just can't imagine him hurting anyone. . . I feel so stupid. . .'

'Everyone's on edge. Don't worry about it.'

'I'd. . . hate you to think I was being silly-'

'I'll keep an eye on Walter, if you like.' He smiled at her. 'But I'd better get on with things,' he added. He gave her another smile, as fast and brief as summer lightning. 'Thank y-' He was already walking back to the organ. * * * This shop was a gentlemen's outfitters. 'It's not for me,' said Nanny Ogg. 'It's for a friend. He's six foot tall, very broad shoulders.'

'Inside leg?'

'Oh, yes.' She looked around the store. Might as well go all the way. It was her money, after all. 'And a black coat, long black tights, shoes with them shiny buckles, one of those top hats, a big cloak with a red silk lining, a bow-tie, a really posh black cane with a very nobby silver knob on it. . . and. . . a black eye-patch.'

'An eye-patch?'

'Yes. Maybe with sequins or something on it, since it's the opera.' The tailor stared at Nanny. 'This is a little irregular,' he said. 'Why can't the gentleman come in himself?'