Maskerade. Part 6

"Boxes! You know? That's where you get the best people?! Look, I shall show you!"

Christine marched to the front of the stage and waved a hand grandly at the empty auditorium.

"The Boxes!" she said. "Over there! And right up there, the G.o.ds!"

Her voice bounced back from the distant wall.

"Aren't the best people in the G.o.ds? It sounds-"

"Oh, no! The best people will be in Boxes! Or possibly in the Stalls!"

Agnes pointed.

"Who's down there? They must get a good view-"

"Don't be silly!! That's the Pit!! That's for the musicians!!"

"Well, that makes sense, anyway. Er. Which one's Box Eight?"

"I don't know! But they say if ever they sell seats in Box Eight there'll be a dreadful tragedy!! Isn't that romantic?!"

For some reason Agnes's practical eye was drawn to the huge chandelier that hung over the auditorium like a fantastic sea monster. Its thick rope disappeared into the darkness near the ceiling.

The gla.s.s chimes tinkled.

Another flare of that certain power which Agnes did her best to suppress at every turn flashed a treacherous image across her mind.

"That looks like an accident waiting to happen if ever I saw one," she mumbled.

"I'm sure it's perfectly perfectly safe!!" trilled Christine. "I'm safe!!" trilled Christine. "I'm sure sure they wouldn't allow-" they wouldn't allow-"

A chord rolled out, shaking the stage. The chandelier tinkled, and more dust came down.

"What was that?" said Agnes.

"It was the organ!! It's so big it's behind the stage!! Come on, let's go and see!!"

Other members of the staff were hurrying toward the organ. There was an overturned bucket nearby, and a spreading pool of green paint.

A carpenter reached past Agnes and picked up an envelope that was lying on the organ seat.

"It's for the boss," he said.

"When it's my my mail, the postman usually just knocks," said a ballerina, and giggled. mail, the postman usually just knocks," said a ballerina, and giggled.

Agnes looked up. Ropes swung lazily in the musty darkness. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of white, and then it was gone.

There was a shape, just visible, tangled in the ropes.

Something wet and sticky dripped down and splashed on the keyboard.

People were already screaming when Agnes reached past, dipped her finger in the growing puddle, and sniffed.

"It's blood!" said the carpenter.

"It's blood, isn't it?" said a musician.

"Blood!!" screamed Christine. "Blood!!"

It was Agnes's terrible fate to keep her head in a crisis. She sniffed her finger again.

"It's turpentine," said Agnes. "Er. Sorry. Is that wrong?"

Up in the tangle of ropes, the figure moaned.

"Shouldn't we get him down?" she added.

Cando Cutoff was a humble woodcutter. He wasn't humble because because he was a woodcutter. He would still have been quite humble if he'd owned five logging mills. He was just naturally humble. he was a woodcutter. He would still have been quite humble if he'd owned five logging mills. He was just naturally humble.

And he was unpretentiously stacking some logs at the point where the Lancre road met the main mountain road when he saw a farm cart rumble to a halt and unload two elderly ladies in black. Both carried a broomstick in one hand and a sack in the other.

They were arguing. It was not a raised-voice argument, but a chronic wrangle that had clearly been going on for some time and was set in for the rest of the decade.

"It's all very well for you, but it's my my three dollars so I don't see why I can't say how we go." three dollars so I don't see why I can't say how we go."

"I likes flying."

"And I'm telling you it's too draughty on broomsticks this time of year, Esme. The breeze gets into places I wouldn't dream of talking about."

"Really? Can't imagine where those'd be, then."

"Oh, Esme!"

"Don't 'Oh, Esme' me. It weren't me me that come up with the Amusing Wedding Trifle with the Special Sponge Fingers." that come up with the Amusing Wedding Trifle with the Special Sponge Fingers."

"Anyway, Greebo don't like it on the broomstick. He's got a delicate stomach."

Cutoff noticed that one of the sacks was moving in a lazy way.

"Gytha, I've seen him eat half a skunk, so don't tell me about his delicate stomach," said Granny, who disliked cats on principle. "Anyway...he's been doing It again."

Nanny Ogg waved her hands airily.

"Oh, he only does It sometimes, when he's really in a corner," she said.

"He did It in ole Mrs. Grope's henhouse last week. She went in to see what all the ruckus was, and he did It right in front of her. She had to have a lie-down."

"He was probably more frightened than she was," said Nanny defensively.

"That's what comes of getting strange ideas in foreign parts," said Granny. "Now you've got a cat who-Yes, what is it?"

Cutoff had meekly approached them and was hovering in the kind of half-crouch of someone trying to be noticed while also not wanting to intrude.

"Are you ladies waiting for the stagecoach?"

"Yes," said the taller of the ladies.

"Um, I'm afraid the next coach doesn't stop here. It doesn't stop until Creel Springs."

They gave him a couple of polite stares.

"Thank you," said the tall one. She turned to her companion.

"It gave her a nasty shock, anyway. I dread to think what he'll learn this this time." time."

"He pines when I'm gone. He won't take food from anyone else."

"Only 'cos they try to poison him, and no wonder."

Cutoff shook his head sadly and wandered back to his log pile.

The coach turned up five minutes later, coming around the corner at speed. It drew level with the women- -and stopped. That is, the horses tried to stand still and the wheels locked.

It wasn't so much a skid as a spin, and the whole thing gradually came to rest about fifty yards down the road, with the driver in a tree.

The women strolled toward it, still arguing.

One of them poked the driver with her broomstick. "Two tickets to Ankh-Morpork, please."

He landed in the road.

"What do you mean, two tickets to Ankh-Morpork? The coach doesn't stop here!"

"Looks stopped to me me."

"Did you do do something?" something?"

"What, us?"

"Listen, lady, even if I was was stopping here the tickets are forty d.a.m.n dollars each!" stopping here the tickets are forty d.a.m.n dollars each!"

"Oh."

"Why've you got broomsticks?" shouted the driver. "Are you witches?"

"Yes. Have you got any special low terms for witches?"

"Yeah, how about 'meddling, interfering old baggages'?"

Cutoff felt that he must have missed part of the conversation, because the next exchange went like this: "What was that again, young man?"

"Two complimentary tickets to Ankh-Morpork, ma'am. No problem."

"Inside seats, mind. No traveling on the top."

"Certainly, ma'am. Excuse me while I just kneel in the dirt so's you can step up, ma'am."

Cutoff nodded happily to himself as the coach pulled away again. It was nice to see that good manners and courtesy were still alive.

With great difficulty and much shouting and untangling of ropes far above, the figure was lowered to the stage.

He was soaked in paint and turpentine. The swelling audience of off-duty staff and rehearsal truants crowded in around him.

Agnes knelt down, loosened his collar and tried to unwind the rope that had caught around arm and neck.

"Does anyone know him?" she said.

"It's Tommy Cripps," said a musician. "He paints scenery."

Tommy moaned, and opened his eyes.

"I saw him!" he muttered. "It was horrible!"

"Saw what?" said Agnes. And then she had a sudden feeling that she'd intruded on some private conversation. Around her there was a babble of voices.

"Giselle said she saw him last week!"

"He's here!"

"It's happening again!"

"Are we all doomed doomed?!" squeaked Christine.

Tommy Cripps gripped Agnes's arm.

"He's got a face like death!"

"Who?"

"The Ghost!"