Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'I reckon Granny ought to have a good look at you, Walter,' said Nanny. 'I reckon your mind's all tangled up like a ball of string what's been dropped.' She pedalled the harmonium thoughtfully. 'Was it the Ghost that wrote all this music, Walter?'

'It's wrong to tell lies about the room with the sacks in it Mrs Ogg!' Ah, thought Nanny. 'That'd be down here, would it?'

'He said I wasn't to tell anyone!'

'Who did?'

'The Ghost Mrs Ogg!'

'But you're-' Nanny began, and then tried another way. 'Ah, but I ain't anyone,' she said. 'Anyway, if you was to go to this room with the sacks and I was to follow you, that wouldn't be telling anyone, would it? It wouldn't be your fault if some ole woman followed you, would it?' Walter's face was an agony of indecision but, erratic though his thinking might have been, it was no match for Nanny Ogg's meretricious duplicity. He was up against a mind that regarded truth as a reference point but certainly not as a shackle. Nanny Ogg could think her way through a corkscrew in a tornado without touching the sides. 'Anyway, it's all right if it's me,' she added for good measure. 'In fact, he prob'ly meant to say “except for Mrs Ogg”, only he forgot.' Slowly, Walter reached out and picked up a candle. Without saying a word he walked out of the door and into the damp darkness of the cellars. Nanny Ogg followed him, her boots making squelching noises in the mud. It didn't seem like much of a distance. As far as Nanny could work out they were no longer under the Opera House, but it was hard to be sure. Their shadows danced around them and they walked through other rooms, even more dark and dripping than the ones they'd been in. Walter stopped in front of a pile of timber that glistened with rot, and pulled a few of the spongy planks aside. There were some sacks neatly piled. Nanny kicked one, and it broke. In the flickering candlelight all that she could really see were sparkles of light as the cascade poured out, but there was no mistaking the gentle metallic scraping of lots of money. Lots and lots of money. Enough money

to suggest very clearly that it belonged to either a thief or a publisher, and there didn't seem to be any books around. 'What's this, Walter?'

'It's the Ghost's money Mrs Ogg!' There was a square hole in the opposite corner of the room. Water glinted a few inches below. Beside the hole were half a dozen containers of various sorts-old biscuit tins, broken bowls and the like. There was a stick, or possibly a dead shrub, in each one. 'And those, Walter? What are those?'

'Rose bushes Mrs Ogg!'

'Down here? But nothing could gr-' Nanny stopped. She squelched over to the pots. They'd been filled with muck scraped from the floor. The dead stems glistened with slime. Nothing could grow down here, of course. There was no light. Everything that grew needed something else to feed on. And. . .she moved the candle closer, and sniffed the fragrance. Yes. It was subtle, but it was there. Roses in darkness. 'Well, my word, Walter Plinge,' she said. 'Always one for the surprises, you are.' Books were piled on Mr Bucket's desk. 'What you're doing is wrong, Granny Weatherwax,' said Agnes from the doorway. Granny glanced up. 'Wrong as living other people's lives for them?' she said. 'S' matter of fact, there's something even worse than that, which is living other people's lives for yourself. That kind of wrong?' Agnes said nothing. Granny Weatherwax couldn't know. Granny turned back to the books. 'Anyway, this only looks wrong. Appearances is deceivin'. You just pay attention to watching the corridor, madam.' She riffled through the bits of torn envelope and scribbled notes that seemed to be the Opera House's equivalent of proper accounts. It was a mess. In fact, it was more than a mess. It was far too much of a mess to be. a real mess, because a real mess has occasional bits of coherence, bits of what might be called random order. Rather, it was the kind of erratic mess that suggested that someone had set out to be messy. Take the account books. They were full of tiny rows and columns, but someone hadn't thought it worthwhile to invest in lined paper and had handwriting that wandered a bit. There were forty rows on the left-hand side but only thirty-six by the time they reached the other side of the page. It was hard to spot because of the way your eyes watered. 'What are you doing?' said Agnes, tearing her gaze away from the corridor. 'Amazin',' said Granny. 'Some things is entered twice! And I reckon there's a page here where someone's added the month and taken away the time of day!'

'I thought you didn't like books,' said Agnes. 'I don't,' said Granny, turning a page. 'They can look you right in the face and still lie. How many fiddle players are there in the band?'

'I think there are nine violinists in the orchestra.' The correction appeared to pass unnoticed. 'Well, there's a thing,' said Granny, without moving her head. 'Seems that twelve of 'em are drawing wages, but three of 'em is over the page, so you mightn't notice.' She looked up and rubbed her hands happily. 'Unless you've got a good memory, that is.' She ran a skinny finger down another erratic column. 'What's a flying ratchet?'

'I don't know!'

'Says here “Repairs to flying ratchet, new springs for rotation cog assembly, and making good. Hundred and sixty dollars and sixty-three pence.” Hah!' She licked her finger and tried another page - 'Even Nanny ain't this bad at numbers,' she said. 'To be this bad at numbers you've got to be good. Hah! No wonder this place never makes any money. You might as well try to fill a sieve.' Agnes darted into the room. 'There's someone coming!' Granny got up and blew out the lamp. 'You get behind the curtains,' she commanded. 'What're you going to do?'

'Oh. . . I'll just have to make myself inconspicuous. . .' Agnes hurried across to the big window and turned to look at Granny, who was standing by the fireplace. The old witch faded. She didn't disappear. She merely slid into the background. An arm gradually became part of the mantelpiece. A fold of her dress was a piece of shadow. An elbow became the top of the chair behind her. Her face became one with a vase of faded flowers. She was still there, like the old woman in the puzzle picture they sometimes printed in the Almanack, where you could see the old woman or the young girl but not both at once, because one was made of the shadows of the other. Granny Weatherwax was standing by the fireplace, but you could see her only if you knew she was there. Agnes blinked. And there were just the shadows, the chair and the fire. The door opened. She ducked behind the curtains, feeling as conspicuous as a strawberry in a stew, certain that the sound of her heart would give her away. The door shut, carefully, with barely a click. Footsteps crossed the floor. A wooden scraping noise might have been a chair being moved slightly. A scratch and a hiss were the sound of a match, striking. A clink was the glass of the lamp, being lifted. . . All noise ceased. Agnes crouched, every muscle suddenly screaming with the strain. The lamp hadn't been lit-she'd have seen the light around the curtain. Someone out there was making no noise. Someone out there was suddenly suspicious. A floorboard squeaked verrrry slowwwly, as someone shifted their weight. She felt as if she was going to scream, or burst with the effort of silence. The handle of the window behind her, a mere point of pressure a moment ago, was trying seriously to become part of her life. Her mouth was so dry that she knew it'd creak like a hinge if she dared to swallow. It couldn't be anyone who had a right to be here. People who had a right to be in places walked around noisily. The handle was getting really personal. Try to think of something else. . . The curtain moved. Someone was standing on the other side of it. If her throat weren't so arid she might be able to scream. She could feel the presence through the cloth. Any moment now, someone was going to twitch the curtain aside. She leapt, or as close to a leap as was feasible-it was a kind of vertical lumber, billowing the curtain aside, colliding with a slim body behind it, and ending on the floor in a tangle of limbs and ripping velvet. She gulped air, and pressed down on the squirming bundle below her.

'I'll scream!' she said. 'And if I do your eardrums will come down your nose!' The writhing stopped. 'Perdifa?' said a muffled voice. Above her, the curtain-rail sagged at one end and the brass rings, one at a time, spun towards the floor. Nanny went back to the sacks. Each one bulged with round hard shapes that clinked gently under her questing finger. 'This is a lot of money, Walter,' she said carefully. 'Yes Mrs Ogg!' Nanny lost track of money fairly easily although this didn't mean the subject didn't interest her: it was just that, beyond a certain point, it became dream-like. All she could be sure of was that the amount in front of her would make anyone's drawers drop. 'I suppose,' she said, 'that if I was to ask you how it'd got here, you'd say it was the Ghost, yes? Like the roses?'

'Yes Mrs Ogg!' She gave him a worried look. 'You'll be all right down here, will you?' she said. 'You'll sit quiet? I reckon I need to talk to some people.'

'Where's my mum Mrs Ogg?'

'She's having a nice sleep, Walter.' Walter seemed satisfied with this. 'You'll sit quiet in your. . . in that room, will you?'

'Yes Mrs Ogg!'

'There's a good boy.' She glanced at the money-bags again. Money was trouble. Agnes sat back. André raised himself on his elbows and pulled the curtain off his face. 'What the hell were you doing there?' he said. 'I was- What do you mean, what was I doing there? You were creeping around!'

'You were hiding behind the curtain!' said André, getting to his feet and fumbling for the matches again. 'Next time you blow out a lamp, remember it'll still be warm.'

'We were. . . on important business. . .' The lamp glowed. André turned. 'We?' he said. Agnes nodded, and looked across at Granny. The witch hadn't moved, although it took a deliberate effort of will to focus on her among the shapes and shadows. André picked up the lamp and stepped forward. The shadows shifted. 'Well?' he said. Agnes strode across the room and waved a hand in the air. There was the chair back, there was the vase, there was. . . nothing else. 'But she was there!'

'A ghost, eh?' said André sarcastically. Agnes backed away. There is something about the light of a lamp held lower than someone's face. The shadows are wrong. They fall into unfortunate places. Teeth seem more prominent. Agnes came to realize that she was alone in a room in suspicious circumstances with a man whose face suddenly looked a lot more unpleasant than it had before. 'I suggest,' he said, 'that you get back to the stage right now, yes? That would be the very best thing you could do. And don't meddle in things that don't concern you. You've done too much as it is.'

The fear hadn't drained out of Agnes, but it had found a space in which to metamorphose into anger. 'I don't have to put up with that! For all I know, you might be the Ghost!'

'Really? I was told that Walter Plinge was the Ghost,' said André. 'How many people did you tell? And now it turns out that he's dead. . .'

'No, he's not!' It was out before she could stop it. She'd said it merely to wipe the sneer off his face. This happened. But the expression that replaced it was no improvement. A floorboard creaked. They both turned. There was a hat-stand in the corner, next to a bookcase. There were a few coats and scarves hanging from it. It was surely only the way that the shadows fell that made it look, from this angle, like an old woman. Or. . . 'Damn floors,' said Granny, fading into the foreground. She stepped away from the coats. As Agnes said, later: it wasn't as though she'd been invisible. She'd simply become part of the scenery until she put herself forward again; she was there, but not there. She didn't stand out at all. She was as unnoticeable as the very best of butlers. 'How did you get in?' said André. 'I looked all round the room!'

'Seein' is believin',' said Granny, calmly. 'Of course, the trouble is that believin' is also seein', and there's been too much of that round here lately. Now, I know you ain't the Ghost. . . so what are you, to be sneaking around in places where you shouldn't be?'

'I could ask you the same quest-'

'Me? I'm a witch, and I'm pretty good at it.'