Maskerade. Part 47

"But Walter didn't didn't stab him!" said Agnes. "Why won't anyone listen? Look, the sword isn't even sticking in him! It's just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven's sake!" stab him!" said Agnes. "Why won't anyone listen? Look, the sword isn't even sticking in him! It's just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes," said Nanny. "I s'pose, really, it's a shame he dint notice that." She scratched at her shoulder. "Here, these ballet dresses really tickle..."

"But he's dead!"

"Got a bit overexcited, perhaps," said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap.

"Overexcited?"

"Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course."

"He's really really dead?" said Bucket. dead?" said Bucket.

"Seems to be," said Granny. "One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn't mind betting."

"That's terrible!!" Bucket grabbed the former Salzella by the collar and hauled him upright. "Where's my money? Come on, out with it, tell me what you've done with my money!!! I don't hear hear you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!" you!!!! He's not saying anything!!!"

"That's on account of being dead," said Granny. "Not talkative, the deceased. As a rule."

"Well, you're a witch!!! Can't you do that thing with the cards and the gla.s.ses?"

"Well, yes...we could have a poker game," said Nanny. "Good idea."

"The money is in the cellars," said Granny. "Walter'll show you."

Walter Plinge clicked his heels. "Certainly," he said. "I would be glad to."

Bucket stared. It was Walter Plinge's voice and it was coming out of Walter Plinge's face, but both face and voice were different. Subtly different. The voice had lost the uncertain, frightened edge. The lopsided look had gone from the face.

"Good grief," Bucket murmured, and let go of Salzella's coat. There was a thump.

"And since you're going to be needing a new director of music," said Granny, "you could do worse than look to Walter here."

"Walter?"

"He knows everything there is to know about opera," said Granny. "And everything about the Opera House, too."

"You should see the music he's written-" said Nanny.

"Walter? Musical director?" said Bucket.

"-stuff you can really hum-"

"Yes, I think you might be surprised," said Granny.

"-there's one with lots of sailors dancin' around singin' about how there's no women-"

"This is is Walter, isn't it?" Walter, isn't it?"

"-and then some bloke called Les who's miserable all the time-"

"Oh, this is Walter," said Granny. "The same person."

"-and there's one, hah, with all cats all leapin' around all singin', that was fun," Nanny burbled. "Can't imagine how he thought up that one-"

Bucket scratched his chin. He was feeling lightheaded enough as it was.

"And he's trustworthy," said Granny. "And he's honest honest. And he knows all about the Opera House, as I said. And...where everything is..."

That was enough for Mr. Bucket. "Want to be director of music, Walter?" he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Bucket," said Walter Plinge. "I should like that very much. But what about cleaning the privies?"

"Sorry?"

"I won't have to stop doing them, will I? I've just got them working right."

"Oh? Right. Really?" Mr. Bucket's eyes crossed for a moment. "Well, fine. You can sing while you're doing it, if you like," he added generously. "And I won't even cut your pay! I'll...I'll raise it! Six...no, seven seven s.h.i.+ny dollars!" s.h.i.+ny dollars!"

Walter rubbed his face thoughtfully. "Mr. Bucket..."

"Yes, Walter?"

"I think...you paid Mr. Salzella forty s.h.i.+ny dollars..."

Bucket turned to Granny. "Is he some kind of monster?"

"You just listen to the stuff he's been writin'," said Nanny. "Amazin' songs, not even in foreign. Will you just look at this stuff...'scuse me..."

She turned her back on the audience- -twingtw.a.n.gtwong- -and twirled round again with a wad of music paper in her hands.

"I know good music when I sees it," she said, handing it to Bucket and pointing excitedly at extracts. "It's got blobs and curly bits all over it, see?"

"You have been writing this music?" said Bucket to Walter. "Which is unaccountably warm?" have been writing this music?" said Bucket to Walter. "Which is unaccountably warm?"

"Indeed, Mr. Bucket."

"In my my time?" time?"

"There's a lovely song here," said Nanny, "'Don't cry for me, Genua.' It's very sad. That reminds me, I'd better go and see if Mrs. Plinge has come rou...has woken up. I may have overdone it a bit on the sc.u.mble.' She ambled off, twitching at bits of her costume, and nudged a fascinated ballerina. "This balleting doesn't half make you sweat, don't you find?"

"Excuse me, there's something I didn't quite believe," said Andre. He took Salzella's sword and tested the blade carefully.

"Ow!" he shouted.

"Sharp, is it?" said Agnes.

"Yes!" Andre sucked his thumb. "She caught it in her hand hand."

"She's a witch," said Agnes.

"But it was steel! I thought no one could magic steel! Everyone knows knows that." that."

"I wouldn't be too impressed if I was you," said Agnes sourly. "It was probably just some kind of trick..."

Andre turned to Granny. "Your hand isn't even scratched! How did...you..."

Her stare held him in its sapphire vice for a moment. When he turned away he looked vaguely puzzled, like a man who can't remember where he's just put something down.

"I hope he didn't hurt Christine," he mumbled. "Why isn't anyone seeing to her?"

"Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens," said Perdita, through Agnes.

Andre set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine.

"It'd be terrible if anything happened to her," said Andre.

"Oh...yes."

"Everyone says she's showing such promise..."

Walter stepped up beside him. "Yes. We should get her somewhere," he said. His voice was clipped and precise.

Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. "Yes, but...you know it was me doing the singing." know it was me doing the singing."

"Oh, yes...yes, of course..." said Andre, awkwardly. "But...well...this is opera...you know..."

Walter took her hand.

"But it was me me you taught!" she said desperately. you taught!" she said desperately.

"Then you were very very good," said Walter. "I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words 'star quality'?" good," said Walter. "I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words 'star quality'?"

"Is it the same as talent talent?" snapped Agnes.

"It is rarer."

She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights.

She pulled her hand free. "I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge," she said.

Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax's gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze.

"Er...we ought to get Christine into Mr. Bucket's office," Andre said.

This seemed to break some sort of spell.

"Yes, indeed!!!" said Bucket. "And we can't leave Mr. Salzella corpsing onstage, either. You two, you'd better take him backstage. The rest of you...well, it was nearly over anyway...er...that's it. The...opera is over..."

"Walter Plinge!"

Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs. Plinge. Walter's mother fixed him with a beady gaze. "Have you been a bad boy?"

Mr. Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. "I think you'd better come along to my office, too," he said. He handed the sheaf of music to Andre, who opened it at random.

Andre gave it a glance, and then stared. "Hey...this is good good," he said.

"Is it?"

Andre looked at another page. "Good heavens!"

"What? What?" said Bucket.

"I've just never...I mean, even I can see...tum-ti TUM tum-tum...yes...Mr. Bucket, you do know this isn't opera? There's music and...yes...dancing and singing all right, but it's not opera. Not opera at all. A long way from opera."

"How far? You don't mean..." Bucket hesitated, savoring the idea, "you don't mean that it's just possible that you put music in in and you get money and you get money out out?"

Andre hummed a few bars. "This could very well be the case, Mr. Bucket."

Bucket beamed. He put one arm around Andre and the other around Walter. "Good!!!!!" he said. "This calls for a very lar...for a medium-sized drink!!!!!"

One by one, or in groups, the singers and dancers left the stage. And the witches and Agnes were left alone.

"Is that it it?" said Agnes.

"Not quite yet," said Granny.

Someone staggered onto the stage. A kindly hand had bandaged Enrico Basilica's head, and presumably another kindly hand had given him the plate of spaghetti he was holding. Mild concussion still seemed to have him in its grip. He blinked at the witches and then spoke like a man who'd lost his hold on immediate events and so was clinging hard to more ancient considerations.

"Summon give me some 'ghetti," he said.

"That's nice," said Nanny.

"Hah! 'Ghetti is fine for them as likes it...but not me! Hah! Yes!" He turned and peered muzzily at the darkness of the audience.

"You know what I'm goin' to do? You know what I'm goin' to do now? I'm sayin' goodbye to Enrico Basilica! Oh yes! He's chewed his last tentacle! I'm goin' to go right out now and have eight pints of Turbot's Really Odd. Yes! And probably a sausage ina bun! And then I'm goin' down to the music hall to hear Nellie Stamp sing 'A Winkle's No Use if You Don't Have a Pin'-and if I sing again here it's goin' to be under the proud old name of Henry Slugg, do you hear-?"

There was a shriek from somewhere in the audience. "Henry Slugg?"

"Er...yes?"

"I thought thought it was you! You've grown a beard and stuffed a haystack down your trousers but, I thought, under that little mask, that's my Henry, that was!" it was you! You've grown a beard and stuffed a haystack down your trousers but, I thought, under that little mask, that's my Henry, that was!"

Henry Slugg shaded his eyes from the footlights' glare.

"...Angeline?"

"Oh, no!" said Agnes, wearily. "This sort of thing does not does not happen." happen."