Maskerade

kind of religion. It was not a problem in Agnes's case, at least in the way they meant, but for someone like Christine… They said love always found a way and, of course, so did a number of associated activities.

Oh, good grief. She felt the blush start. In darkness! What kind of a reaction was that?

Agnes's life unrolled in front of her. It didn't look as though it were going to have many high points. But it did hold years and years of being capable and having a lovely personality. It almost certainly held chocolate rather than sex and, while Agnes was not in a position to make a direct comparison, and regardless of the fact that a bar of chocolate could be made to last all day, it did not seem a very fair exchange.

She felt the same feeling she'd felt back home. Sometimes life reaches that desperate point where the wrong thing to do has to be the right thing to do.

It doesn't matter what direction you go. Sometimes you just have to go.

She gripped the bedclothes and replayed in her mind the way her friend spoke. You had to have that little gulp, that breathless tinkle in the tone that people got whose minds played with the fairies half the time. She tried it out in her head, and then delivered it to her vocal cords.

“Yes?! Who's there?!”

“A friend.”

Agnes pulled the bedclothes up higher. “In the middle of the night?!”

“Night is nothing to me. I belong to the night. And I can help you.” It was a pleasant voice. It seemed to be coming from the mirror.

“Help me to do what?!”

“Don't you want to be the best singer in the opera?”

“Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!”

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: “But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.”

Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.

“Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly…”

Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well?dressed, thin little man.

“Well, here we are again, then,” said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously.

“That was some good singing last night,” Nanny went on.

Henry's face set in a good?natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag.

“I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn't speak Morporkian, ma'am,” said the thin man. “But I will translate for you, if you like.”

“What?” said Nanny. “Then how come— Ow!”

“Sorry,” said Granny Weatherwax. “My elbow must have slipped.”

Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. “I was saying,” she said, “that he was— Ow!”

“Dear me, I seem to have done it again,” said Granny. “This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn't speak our language, Gytha.”

“Eh? But — What? Oh. But? Ah. Really? Oh. All right,” said Nanny. “Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when— Ow!”

“Excuse my friend, it's her time of life. She gets confused,” said Granny. “We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.”

“You were very fortunate,” said the thin man primly. “Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica—”

“?probably waiting for him to finish his dinner—” a voice muttered.

“?in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.”

“?hah, I can do that, I don't see there's anything special about that—”

Granny's eyes hadn't left Henry 'Senor Basilica' Slugg's face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn't last very long.

“Senor Basilica's fame has spread far and wide,” said the manager primly.

“—just like Senior Basilica,” muttered Nanny. “On other people's pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he's the only man you could find on an atlas—Ow!”

“Well, well,” said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. “It's nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?”

“I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma'am.”

“Yes, indeed.” Granny nodded.

“We have some good singers where we come from too,” said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously.

“Really?” said the manager. “And where do you ladies come from?”

“Lancre.”

The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. “Do you have a conservatory there?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, “You should see the size of my tomatoes.”

Granny rolled her eyes. “Gytha, you haven't got a conservatory. It's just a big windowsill.”

“Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day — Ow…”

“I expect Senor Basilica is going to Ankh?Morpork?” said Granny.

“We,” said the manager, primly, “have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season —”

His voice faltered. He'd looked up at the luggage rack. “What's that?”

Granny glanced up. “Oh, that's Greebo,” she said.

“And Mister Basilica's not to eat him,” said Nanny.

“What is it?”

“He's a cat.”

“It's grinning at me.” The manager shifted uneasily. “And I can smell something,” he said.

“ 'S funny,” said Nanny. “I can't smell a thing.”

There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed.

“Ah,” said the manager awkwardly, “I… er…I see we're stopping to change horses. It's a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there's room on the seats outside.”

He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn't come back.

“Well, well,” said Granny, as they lurched away again, “it seems there's just you and me, Gytha. And Senor Basilica, who doesn't speak our language. Does he, Mr Henry Slugg?”

Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity's sake…”

“Have you done anything bad, Mr Slugg?” said Nanny. “Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn't miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?”

“No.!”

“He tellin' the truth, Esme?”

Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax's stare.

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, that's all right, then,” said Nanny. “I understand. I don't have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin' to.”

“Oh, it's not that, I assure you,” said Henry. “I have people to pay my taxes for me…”