Maskerade. Part 26

"Who are are you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?" you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes."

Then: "Let us examine the role of Laura in Il Truccatore- Il Truccatore- 'The Master of Disguise', also sometimes vulgarly known as 'The Man with a Thousand Faces'..." 'The Master of Disguise', also sometimes vulgarly known as 'The Man with a Thousand Faces'..."

When the witches arrived at Goatberger's offices next morning they found a very large troll sitting on the stairs. It had a club across its knees and held up a shovel-sized hand to prevent them going any farther.

"No one's allowed in," it said. "Mr. Goatberger is in a meetin'."

"How long is this meetin' going to be?" said Granny.

"Mr. Goatberger is a very elongated meeter."

Granny gave the troll an appraising stare. "You been in publishin' long?" she said.

"Since dis mornin'," said the troll proudly.

"Mr. Goatberger gave you the job?"

"Yup. Come up Quarry Lane and picked me special for..."-the troll's brow creased as it tried to remember the unfamiliar words-"...the fast track inna fast-movin' worlda publishin'."

"And what exactly is your job?"

"'Ead 'itter."

"'Scuse me," said Nanny, pushing forward. "I'd know that strata anywhere. You're from Copperhead in Lancre, ain't you?"

"So what?"

"We're from Lancre, too."

"Yeah?"

"This is Granny Weatherwax, you know."

The troll gave her a disbelieving grin, and then its brow corrugated again, and then it looked at Granny.

She nodded.

"The one you boys call Aaoograha hoa Aaoograha hoa, you know?" said Nanny. "'She Who Must Be Avoided'?"

The troll looked at its club as if seriously considering the possibility of beating itself to death.

Granny patted it on the lichen-encrusted shoulder. "What's your name, lad?"

"Carborundum, miss," it mumbled. One of its legs began to tremble.

"Well, I'm sure you're going to make a good life for yourself here in the big city," said Granny.

"Yes, why don't you go and start now?" said Nanny.

The troll gave her a grateful look and fled, without even bothering to open the door.

"Do they really call me that?" said Granny.

"Er. Yes," said Nanny, kicking herself. "It's a mark of respect, of course."

"Oh."

"Er..."

"I've always done my best to get along with trolls, you know that."

"Oh, yes."

"How about the dwarfs?" said Granny, as someone might who had found a hitherto unsuspected boil and couldn't resist poking it. "Have they got a name for me, too?"

"Let's go and see Mr. Goatberger, shall we?" said Nanny brightly.

"Gytha!"

"Er...well...I think it's K'ez'rek d'b'duz K'ez'rek d'b'duz," said Nanny.

"What does that mean?"

"Er...'Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain'," said Nanny.

"Oh."

Granny was uncharacteristically silent as they made their way up the stairs.

Nanny didn't bother to knock. She opened the door and said, "Coo-ee, Mr. Goatberger! It's us again, just like you said. Oh, I shouldn't try to get out of the window like that-you're three flights up and that bag of money is a bit dangerous if you're climbing around."

The man edged around the room so that his desk was between him and the witches.

"Wasn't there a troll downstairs?" he said.

"It's decided to break out of publishing," said Nanny. She sat down and gave him a big smile. "I 'spect you've got some money for us."

Mr. Goatberger realized that he was trapped. His face contorted into a series of twisted expressions as he experimented with some replies. Then he smiled as widely as Nanny and sat down opposite her.

"Of course, things are very difficult at the moment," he said. "In fact I can't recall a worse time," he added, with considerable honesty.

He looked at Granny's face. His grin stayed where it was but the rest of his face began to edge away.

"People just don't seem to be buying books," he said. "And the cost of the etchings, well, it's wicked."

"Everyone I knows buys the Almanack," said Granny. "I reckon everyone in Lancre buys your Almanack. Everyone in the whole Ramtops buys the Almanack, even the dwarfs. That's a lot of half dollars. And Gytha's book seems to be doing very well."

"Well, of course, I'm glad it's so popular, but what with distribution, paying the peddlers, the wear and tear on-"

"Your Almanack will last a household all winter, with care," said Granny. "Providing no one's ill and the paper's nice and thin."

"My son Jason buys two two copies," said Nanny. "Of course, he's got a big family. The privy door never stops swinging-" copies," said Nanny. "Of course, he's got a big family. The privy door never stops swinging-"

"Yes but, you see, the point is...I don't actually have to pay you anything anything," said Mr. Goatberger, trying to ignore this. His smile had the face all to itself now. "You paid me me to print it, and I gave you your money back. In fact I think our accounts department made a slight error in your favor, but I won't-" to print it, and I gave you your money back. In fact I think our accounts department made a slight error in your favor, but I won't-"

His voice trailed away.

Granny Weatherwax was unfolding a sheet of paper. "These predictions for next year..." she said.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I borrowed it. You can have it back if you like-"

"Well, what about them?"

"They're wrong."

"What do you mean, they're wrong? They're predictions! predictions!"

"I don't see there being a rain of curry in Klatch next May. You don't get curry that early."

"You know about the predictions business?" said Goatberger. "You? I've been printing predictions for years."

"I don't do clever stuff for years ahead, like you do," Granny admitted. "But I'm pretty accurate if you want a thirty-second one."

"Indeed? What's going to happen in thirty seconds?"

Granny told him.

Goatberger roared with laughter. "Oh, yes, that's a good one, you should be writing them for us!" he said. "Oh, my word. Nothing like being ambitious, eh? That's better than the spontaneous combustion of the Bishop of Quirm, and that didn't even happen! In thirty seconds, eh?"

"No."

"No?"

"Twenty-one seconds now," said Granny.

Mr. Bucket had arrived at the Opera House early to see if anyone had died so far today.

He made it as far as his office without a single body dropping out of the shadows.

He really hadn't expected it to be like this. He'd liked liked opera. It had all seemed so opera. It had all seemed so artistic artistic. He'd watched hundreds of operas and practically no one had died, except once during the ballet scene in La Triviata La Triviata when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant. when a ballerina had rather over-enthusiastically been flung into the lap of an elderly gentleman in the front row of the Stalls. She hadn't been hurt, but the old man had died in one incredibly happy instant.

Someone knocked at the door.

Mr. Bucket opened it about a quarter of an inch. "Who's dead?" he said.

"N-no one Mr. Bucket! I've got your letters!"

"Oh, it's you, Walter. Thank you."

He took the bundle and shut the door.

There were bills. There were always bills. The Opera House practically runs itself, they'd told him. Well, yes, but it practically ran on money. He rummaged through the let- There was an envelope with the Opera House crest on it.

He looked at it like a man looks at a very fierce dog on a very thin leash.

It did nothing except lie there and look as gummed as an envelope can be.

Finally he disembowelled it with the paper knife and then flung it down on the desk again, as if it would bite.

When it did not do so he reached out hesitantly and withdrew the folded letter. It read as follows: My dear Bucket I should be most grateful if Christine sings the role of Laura tonight. I a.s.sure you she is more than capable.The second violinist is a little slow, I feel, and the second act last night was frankly extremely wooden. This really is not good enough.May I extend my own welcome to Senor Basilica. I congratulate you on his arrival.

Wishing you the very best, The Opera Ghost "Mr. Salzella!"

Salzella was eventually located. He read the note. "You do not intend to accede to this?" he said.

"She does does sing superbly, Salzella." sing superbly, Salzella."

"You mean the Nitt girl?"

"Well...yes...you know what I mean."

"But this is nothing less than blackmail!"

"Is it? He's not actually threatening anything."

"You let her...I mean them, of course...you let them sing last night, and much good it did poor Dr. Undershaft."

"What do you advise, then?"

There was another series of disjointed knocks on the door.

"Come in, Walter," said Bucket and Salzella together.

Walter jerked in, holding the coal scuttle.