Maskerade. Part 5

"I'll make another cup of tea, shall I?" said Nanny, relieved that the conversation appeared to be coming to a peaceful end.

"Hmm?" said Granny. She stared at the result and drew two lines under it. "But you enjoyed it, did you?" she called out. "The writin'?"

Nanny Ogg poked her head around the scullery door. "Oh, yes. The money dint matter," she said.

"You've never been very good at numbers, have you?" said Granny. Now she drew a circle around the final figure.

"Oh, you know me, Esme," said Nanny cheerfully. "I couldn't subtract a fart from a plate of beans."

"That's good, 'cos I reckon this Master Goatberger owes you a bit more than you got, if there's any justice in the world," said Granny.

"Money ain't everything, Esme. What I say is, if you've got your health-"

"I reckon, if there's any justice, it's about four or five thousand dollars," said Granny quietly.

There was a crash from the scullery.

"So it's a good job the money don't matter," Granny Weatherwax went on. "It'd be a terrible thing otherwise. All that money, matterin'."

Nanny Ogg's white face appeared around the edge of the door. "He never!"

"Could be a bit more," said Granny.

"It never!"

"You just adds up and divides and that."

Nanny Ogg stared in horrified fascination at her own fingers.

"But that's a-" She stopped. The only word she could think of was "fortune" and that wasn't adequate. Witches didn't operate in a cash economy. The whole of the Ramtops, by and large, got by without the complications of capital. Fifty Fifty dollars was a fortune. A hundred dollars was a, was a, was...well, it was dollars was a fortune. A hundred dollars was a, was a, was...well, it was two two fortunes, that was what it was. fortunes, that was what it was.

"It's a lot of money," she said weakly. "What couldn't I do with money like that?"

"Dunno," said Granny Weatherwax. "What did you do with the three dollars?"

"Got it in a tin up the chimney," said Nanny Ogg.

Granny nodded approvingly. This was the kind of good fiscal practice she liked to see.

"Beats me why people'd fall over themselves to read a cookery book, though," she added. "I mean, it's not the sort of thing that-"

The room fell silent. Nanny Ogg shuffled her boots.

Granny said, in a voice laden with a suspicion that was all the worse because it wasn't yet quite sure what it was suspicious of: "It is is a cookery book, isn't it?" a cookery book, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," said Nanny hurriedly, avoiding Granny's gaze. "Yes. Recipes and that. Yes."

Granny glared at her. "Just recipes?" recipes?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes. And some...cookery anecdotes, yes."

Granny went on glaring.

Nanny gave in.

"Er...look under Famous Carrot and Oyster Pie," she said. "Page 25."

Granny turned the pages. Her lips moved silently. Then: "I see see. Anything else?"

"Er...Cinnamon and Marshmallow Fingers...page 17..."

Granny looked it up.

"And?"

"Er...Celery Astonishment...page 10."

Granny looked that that up, too. up, too.

"Can't say it astonished me me," she said. "And...?"

"Er...well, more or less all of Humorous Puddings and Cake Decoration. That's all of Chapter Six. I done ill.u.s.trations for that."

Granny turned to Chapter Six. She had to turn the book around a couple of times.

"What one you looking at?" said Nanny Ogg, because an author is always keen to get feedback.

"Strawberry Wobbler," said Granny.

"Ah. That one always gets a laugh."

It did not appear to be obtaining one from Granny. She carefully closed the book.

"Gytha," she said, "this is me me askin' you this. Is there any page in this book, is there any single recipe, which does not in some way relate to...goings-on?" askin' you this. Is there any page in this book, is there any single recipe, which does not in some way relate to...goings-on?"

Nanny Ogg, her face red as her apples, seemed to give this some lengthy consideration.

"Porridge," she said, eventually.

"Really?"

"Yes. Er. No, I tell a lie, it's got my special honey mixture in it."

Granny turned a page.

"What about this one? Maids of Honor?"

"Weeelll, they starts out out as Maids of Honor," said Nanny, fidgeting with her feet, "but they ends up Tarts." as Maids of Honor," said Nanny, fidgeting with her feet, "but they ends up Tarts."

Granny looked at the front cover again. The Joye of Snacks The Joye of Snacks.

"An' you actually set out to-"

"It just sort of turned out that way, really."

Granny Weatherwax was not a jouster in the lists of love but, as an intelligent onlooker, she knew how the game was played. No wonder the book had sold like hot cakes. Half the recipes told you how to make them. It was surprising the pages hadn't singed.

And it was by "A Lancre Witch." The world was, Granny Weatherwax modestly admitted, well aware of who the the witch of Lancre was; witch of Lancre was; viz viz, it was her.

"Gytha Ogg," she said.

"Yes, Esme?"

"Gytha Ogg, you look me in the eye."

"Sorry, Esme."

"'A Lancre Witch,' it says here."

"I never thought, Esme."

"So you'll go and see Mr. Goatberger and have this stopped, right? I don't want people lookin' at me and thinkin' about the Bananana Soup Surprise. I don't even believe believe the Bananana Soup Surprise. And I ain't relis.h.i.+n' going down the street and hearin' people makin' cracks about bananas." the Bananana Soup Surprise. And I ain't relis.h.i.+n' going down the street and hearin' people makin' cracks about bananas."

"Yes, Esme."

"And I'll come with you to make sure you do."

"Yes, Esme."

"And we'll talk to the man about your money."

"Yes, Esme."

"And we might just drop in on young Agnes to make sure she's all right."

"Yes, Esme."

"But we'll do it diplomatic like. We don't want people thinkin' we're pokin' our noses in."

"Yes, Esme."

"No one could say I interfere where I'm not wanted. You won't find anyone callin' me me a busybody." a busybody."

"Yes, Esme."

"That was, 'Yes, Esme, you won't find anyone callin' you you a busybody,' was it?" a busybody,' was it?"

"Oh, yes, Esme."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes, Esme."

"Good."

Granny looked out at the dull gray sky and the dying leaves and felt, amazingly enough, her sap rising. A day ago the future had looked aching and desolate, and now it looked full of surprises and terror and bad things happening to people...

If she had anything to do with it, anyway.

In the scullery, Nanny Ogg grinned to herself.

Agnes had known a little bit about the theater. A traveling company came to Lancre sometimes. Their stage was about twice the size of a door, and "backstage" consisted of a bit of sacking behind which was usually a man trying to change trousers and wigs at the same time and another man, dressed as a king, having a surrept.i.tious smoke.

The Opera House was almost as big as the Patrician's palace, and far more palatial. It covered three acres. There was stabling for twenty horses and two elephants in the cellar; Agnes spent some time there, because the elephants were rea.s.suringly larger than her.

There were rooms behind the stage so big that entire sets were stored there. There was a whole ballet school somewhere in the building. Some of the girls were on stage now, ugly in woolly jumpers, going through a routine.

The inside of the Opera House-at least, the backstage inside-put Agnes strongly in mind of the clock her brother had taken apart to find the tick. It was hardly a building. It was more like a machine. Sets and curtains and ropes hung in the darkness like dreadful things in a forgotten cellar. The stage was only a small part of the place, a little rectangle of light in a huge, complicated darkness full of significant machinery...

A piece of dust floated down from the blackness high above. She brushed it off.

"I thought I heard someone up there," she said.

"It's probably the Ghost!!" said Christine. "We've got one, you know! Oh, I said we we!! Isn't this exciting?!"

"A man with his face covered by a white mask," said Agnes.

"Oh?! You've heard about him, then?!"

"What? Who?"

"The Ghost!!"

Blast, thought Agnes. It was always ready to catch her out. Just when she thought she'd put all that behind her. She'd know things without quite knowing why. It upset people. It certainly upset her.

"Oh, I...suppose someone must have told me..." she mumbled.

"He moves around the Opera House invisibly, they say!! One moment he'll be in the G.o.ds, next moment he'll be backstage somewhere!! No one knows how he does it!!"

"Really?"

"They say he watches every performance!! That's why they never sell tickets for Box Eight, didn't you know?!"

"Box Eight?" said Agnes. "What's a Box?"