Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'I ain't talking about that, Gytha. I know about fear.'

'That's true,' said Nanny. 'Most of the people you meet are full of fear.'

'Mrs Phnge is living in fear,' said Granny, appearing not to hear this. 'Her mind is flat with it. She can't hardly think for the terror. I could feel it coming off of her like mist.'

'Why? Because of the Ghost?'

'I don't know yet. Not all of it, anyway. But I will find out.' Nanny fished in the recesses of her clothing. 'Fancy a drink?' she said. There was a muffled clink from somewhere in her petticoats. 'I got champagne, brandy and port. Also some nibbles and biscuits.'

'Gytha Ogg, I believe you are a thief,' said Granny. 'I ain't!' said Nanny, and added, with that grasp of advanced morality that comes naturally to a witch: 'Just because I occasionally technic'ly steal something, that doesn't make me a thief. I don't think thief.'

'Let's get back to Mrs Palm's.'

'All right,' said Nanny. 'But can we get something to eat first? I don't mind the cooking, but the grub there is a bit of an all-day breakfast, if you know what I mean. . .' There was a sound from the stage as they stood up. Walter had returned, followed by a slightly fatter Greebo. Oblivious to the watchers, he continued to mop the stage. 'First thing tomorrow,' said Granny, 'we'll go and see Mr Goatberger the Almanack man again. I've had time to think about what to do next. And then we're going to sort this out.' She glared at the innocent figure washing the stage arid said, under her breath: 'What is it you know, Walter Plinge? What is it you've seen?'

'Wasn't it amazing?!' said Christine, sitting up in bed. Her nightdress, Agnes had noted, was white. And extremely lacy. 'Yes, indeed,' said Agnes. 'Five curtain calls!! Mr Bucket says that's more than anyone's ever had since Dame Gigli!! I'm sure I won't be able to sleep for the excitement!!'

'So you just drink up that lovely hot milk drink I've done for us,' said Agnes. 'It took me ages to carry the saucepan up those stairs.'

they capable of playing?'

'They never have been, so I don't see why they should start now,' said Salzella. 'They're musicians, Bucket. The only way a dead body would upset them is if it fell in their beer, and even then they'd play if you offered them Dead Body Money.' Bucket walked over to the recumbent Christine. 'How is she?'

'She keeps mumbling a bit-' Agnes began. 'Cup of tea? Tea? Cup of tea, anyone? Nothing nicer than a cup of tea, well, I tell a lie, but I see the couch is occupied, just my little joke, no offence meant, anyone for a nice cup of tea?'

Agnes looked around in horror. 'Well, I could certainly do with one,' said Bucket, with false joviality. 'How about you, miss?' Nanny winked at Agnes. 'Er. . .no, thank you. . . do you work here?' said Agnes. 'I'm just helping out for Mrs Plinge, who has been taken poorly,' said Nanny, giving her another wink. 'I'm Mrs Ogg. Don't mind me.' This seemed to satisfy Bucket, if only because random teadistributors represented the most minor of threats at this point. 'It's more like Grand Guignol than opera out there tonight,' said Nanny. She nudged Bucket. '

'S foreign for “blood all over the stage”,' she said helpfully. 'Really.'

'Yep. It means. . . Big Gignol.' Music started in the distance. 'That's the overture to Act Two,' said Bucket. 'Well, if Christine is still unwell, then. . .' He looked desperately at Agnes. Well, at a time like this people would understand. Agnes's chest swelled further with pride. 'Yes, Mr Bucket?'

'Perhaps we could find you a white-' Christine, her eyes still shut, raised her wrist to her forehead and groaned. 'Oh, dear, what happened?' Bucket knelt down instantly. 'Are you all right? You had a nasty shock! Do you think you could go on for the sake of your art and people not asking for their money back?' She gave him a brave smile. Unnecessarily brave, it seemed to Agnes. 'I can't disappoint the dear public!' she said. . 'Jolly good!' said Bucket. 'I should hurry on out there, then. Perdita will help you-won't you, Perdita?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'And you'll be in the chorus for the duet,' said Bucket. 'Nearby in the chorus.' Agnes sighed. 'Yes, I know. Come on, Christine.'

'Dear Perdita. . .' said Christine. Nanny watched them go. Then she said, 'I'll have that cup if you've finished with it.'

'Oh. Yes. Yes, it was very nice,' said Bucket. 'Er. . . I had a bit of an accident up at the Boxes,' said Nanny. Bucket clutched at his chest. 'How many died?'

'Oh, no one died, no one died. They got a bit damp because I spilled some champagne.' Bucket sagged with relief. 'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,' he said. 'When I say spilled. . . I mean, it went on happening. . .' He waved her away. 'It cleans up well off the carpet,' he said. 'Does it stain ceilings?'

'Mrs. . . ?'

'Ogg., 'Please just go away.' Nanny nodded, gathered up the teacups and wandered out of the office. If no one questioned an old lady with a tray of tea, they certainly weren't bothered about one behind a pile of washing-up. Washing-up is a badge of membership anywhere. As far as Nanny Ogg was concerned, washing-up was also something that happened to other people, but she felt that it might be a good idea to stay in character. She found an alcove with a pump and a sink in it, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. 'You shouldn't do that, you know,' said a voice. 'That's very unlucky.'

She glanced around at a stage-hand. 'What, washing-up causes seven years' bad luck?' she said. 'You were whistling.'

'Well? I always whistle when I'm thinkin'.'

'You shouldn't whistle on stage, I meant.' It's unlucky?'

'I suppose you could say that. We use whistle codes when we're shifting the scenery. Having a sack of sandbags land on you could be unlucky, I suppose.' Nanny glanced up. His gaze followed hers. just here the ceiling was about two feet away. 'It's just safest not to whistle,' the boy mumbled. 'I'll remember that,' said Nanny. 'No whistlin'. Interestin'. We do live and learn, don't we?' The curtain went up on Act Two. Nanny watched from the wings. The interesting thing was the way in which people contrived to keep one hand higher than their necks in case of accidents. There seemed to be far more salutes and waves and dramatic gestures than were strictly called for in the opera. She watched the duet between Iodine and Bufola, possibly the first in the history of the opera where both singers kept their eyes turned resolutely upwards. Nanny enjoyed music, as well. If music were the food of love, she was game for a sonata and chips at any time. But it was clear that the sparkle -had gone out of things tonight. She shook her head. A figure moved through the shadows behind her, and reached out. She turned, and looked at a fearsome face. 'Oh, hello, Esme. How did you get in?'

'You've still -got the tickets so I had to talk to the man on the door. But he'll be right as rain in a minute or two. What's been happening?'

'Well. . . the Duke's sung a long song to say that he must be going, and the Count has sung a song saying how nice it is in the springtime, and a dead body's fallen out of the ceiling.'