Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'Really?' Now that Nanny's eyes had-managed to discern some order in the chaos, she could see a cluster of people in the middle of the floor, around the chandelier. Salzella was sitting on the planking. His collar was torn and a sleeve had been ripped off his jacket, but he had a triumphant look in his eyes. He waved something in the air. It was white. It looked like a piece of a skull. 'It was Plinge!' he said. 'I tell you, it was Walter Plinge! Why are you all standing around? Get after him!'

'Walter?' said one of the men, doubtfully. 'Yes, Walter!' Another man hurried up, waving his lantern. 'I saw the Ghost heading up to the roof! And there was some big one-eyed bastard going after him like a scalded cat!' That's wrong, thought Nanny. Something wrong here. 'To the roof!' shouted Salzella.

'Hadn't we better get the flaming torches first?'

'Flaming torches are not compulsory!'

'Pitchforks and scythes?'

'That's only for vampires!'

'How about just one torch?'

'Get up there now! Understand?' * * * The curtains closed. There was a smattering of applause which was barely audible above the chatter from the audience. The chorus turned to one another. 'Was that supposed to happen?' Dust rained down. Stage-hands were scampering across the gantries far above. Shouts echoed among the ropes and dusty backdrops. A stage-hand ran across the stage, holding a flaming torch. 'Here, what's going on?' said a tenor. 'They've got the Ghost! He's heading for the roof! It's Walter Plinge!'

'What, Walter?'

'Our Walter Plinge?'

'Yes!' The stage-hand ran on in a trail of sparks, leaving the yeast of rumour to ferment in the ready dough that was the chorus. 'Walter? Surely not!'

'Weeelll. . . he's a bit odd, isn't he. . . ?'

'But only this morning he said to me, “It's a nice day Mr Sidney!” Just like that. Normal as anything. Well. . . normal for Walter. . .'

'As a matter of fact, it's always worried me, the way his eyes move as though they don't talk to each other-'

'And he's always around the place!'

'Yes, but he's the odd job man-'

'No argument about that!'

'It's not Walter,' said Agnes. They looked at her. 'That's who he said they're chasing, dear.'

'I don't know who they're chasing, but Walter's not the Ghost. Fancy anyone thinking Walter's the Ghost!' said Agnes, hotly. 'He wouldn't hurt a fly! Anyway, I've seen-'

'He's always struck me as a bit slimy, though.'

'And they say he goes down into the cellars a lot. What for, I ask myself? Let's face it. Fair's fair. He's crazy.'

'He doesn't act crazy!' said Agnes. 'Well, he always looks as though he's about to, you must admit. I'm going to see what's happening. Anyone coming?' Agnes gave up. It was a horrible thing to learn, but there are times when evidence gets trampled and the hunt is on. A hatch flew open. The Ghost clambered out, looked down, and slammed the hatch shut. There was a yowl from below. Then he danced across the leads until he reached the gargoyle-encrusted parapet, black and silver in the moonlight. The wind caught at his cloak as he ran along the very edge of the roof and dropped down again near another door. And a gargoyle was suddenly no longer a gargoyle, but a figure that reached down suddenly and twitched off his mask. It was like cutting strings. 'Good evening, Walter,' said Granny, as he sagged to his knees. 'Hello Missus Weatherwax!'

'Mistress,' Granny corrected him. 'Now stand up.' There was a growl further along the roof, and then a thump. Bits of trapdoor rose for a moment against the moonlight. 'It's nice up here, ain't it?' said Granny. 'There's fresh air and stars. I thought: up or down? But there's only rats down below.' In another swift movement she grabbed Walter's chin and tilted it, just as Greebo pulled himself on to the roof with prolonged murder in his heart. 'How does your mind work, Walter Plinge? If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd try to take out? Greebo stalked along the rooftop, growling. He liked rooftops in general, and some of his fondest memories involved them, but a trapdoor had just been slammed on his head and he was looking for anything he could disembowel. Then he recognized the shape of Walter Plinge as someone who had given him food. And, standing right next to him, the much more unwelcome shape of Granny Weatherwax, who had once caught him digging in her garden and had kicked him in the cucumbers. Walter said something. Greebo didn't take much notice of it. Granny Weatherwax said: 'Well done. A good answer. Greebo!' Greebo nudged Walter heavily in the back. 'Want milluk right noaow! Purr, purr!' Granny thrust the mask at the cat. In the distance people were running up stairs and shouting. 'You put this on! And you stay down real low, Walter Plinge. One man in a mask is pretty much like another, after all. And when they chase you, Greebo. . . give them a run for their money. Do it right and there could be-'

'Yurr, I knoaow,' said Greebo despondently, taking the mask. It was turning out to be a long and busy evening for a kipper. Someone poked their head out of the stricken trapdoor. The light glinted off Greebo's mask. . . and it had to be said, even by Granny, that he made a good Ghost. For one thing, his morphogenic field was trying to reassert itself. His claws could no longer even remotely be thought of as fingernails. He spat at the pursuit as they poured up the steps, arched his back dramatically on the very edge of the roof, and stepped off. One storey down he thrust out an arm, caught a windowsill, and landed on the head of a gargoyle, which said 'Oh, fank oo ver' mush' in a reproachful voice. The pursuers looked down at him. Some of them had managed to get hold of flaming torches, because sometimes convention is too strong to be lightly denied. Greebo snarled defiance and dropped again, springing from sill to drainpipe to balcony and pausing every now and again for another dramatic pose and another snarl at the pursuers. 'We'd better get after him, Corporal de Nobbs,' said one of them, who was staggering along behind. 'We'd better get after him by carefully going back down the stairs, you mean. 'Cos somethin' I drank don't want to stay drunk. Much more runnin' and I'll be droppin' a custard, I'm tellin' you.' The other members of the posse also seemed to be reaching the conclusion that there was no extended future in chasing a man down the sheer wall of a building. As one mob they turned and, shouting and waving their torches in the air, headed back to the stairs. The parting crowd revealed Nanny Ogg, holding a pitchfork in one hand and a torch in the other and thrusting them both in the air while muttering, 'Rhubarb, rhubarb.'

Granny walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. 'They've gone, Gytha.'

'Rhuba- Oh, hello, Esme,' said Nanny, lowering the implements of righteous retribution. 'I was just tagging along to see it didn't get out of hand. Was that Greebo I saw just then?'

'Yes.'

'Awww, bless him,' said Nanny. 'He looked a bit bothered, though. I hope he doesn't happen to anybody.'

'Where's your broomstick?' said Granny. 'It's in the cleaners' cupboard backstage.'

'Then I'll borrow it and keep an eye on things,' said Granny. 'Hey, he's my cat, I ought to be looking after him-' Nanny began. Granny stepped aside, revealing a huddled shape sitting hugging its knees. 'You look after Walter Plinge,' she said. 'It's something you'd be better at than me.'