Maskerade

A pointy hat appeared slowly, followed by the rest of Granny Weatherwax, with her arms folded. She glared at Salzella as the floor clicked into place. Her foot stopped tapping on the boards.

“Well, well,” he said. “Lady Esmerelda, eh?”

“I'm stoppin' bein' a lady, Mr Salzella.”

He glanced up at the pointy hat. “So you are a witch instead?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“A bad witch, no doubt?”

“Worse.”

“But this,” said Salzella, “is a sword. Everyone knows witches can't magic iron and steel. Get out of my way!!!”

The sword hissed down.

Granny thrust out her hand. There was a blur of flesh and steel and…

…she held the sword, by the blade.

“Tell you what, Mr Salzella,” she said, levelly, “it ought to be Walter Plinge who finishes this, eh? It's him you harmed, apart from the ones you murdered, o' course. You didn't need to do that. But you wore a mask, didn't you? There's a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes out in darkness. I bet you could do just what you liked, behind a mask…?”

Salzella blinked at her. He pulled on his sword, tugged hard on a sharp blade held in an unprotected hand.

There was a groan from several members of the chorus. Granny grinned. Her knuckles whitened as she redoubled her grip.

She turned her head towards Walter Plinge. “Put your mask on, Walter.”

Everyone looked down at the crumpled cardboard on the stage.

“Don't have one any more Mistress Weatherwax!”

Granny followed his gaze. “Oh deary, deary me,” she said. “Well, I can see we shall have to do something about that. Look at me, Walter.”

He did as he was told. Granny's eyes half?closed. “You… trust Perdita, don't you, Walter?”

“Yes Mistress Weatherwax!”

“That's good, because she's got a new mask for you, Walter Plinge. A magic one. It's just like your old one, d'you see, only you wear it under your skin and you don't have to take it off and no one but you will ever need to know it's there. Got it, Perdita?”

“But I—” Agnes began.

“Got it?”

“Er… oh, yes. Here it is. Yes. I've got it in my hand.” She waved an empty hand vaguely.

“You're holding it the wrong way up, my girl!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Well? Give it to him, then.”

“Er. Yes.”

Agnes advanced on Walter.

“Now you take it, Walter,” said Granny, still gripping the sword.

“Yes Mistress Weatherwax…”

He reached out towards Agnes. As he did so, she was sure that, just for a moment, there was a faint pressure on her fingertips.

“Well? Put it on!”

Walter looked uncertain.

“You do believe there's a mask there, don't you, Walter?” Granny demanded. “Perdita's sensible and she knows an invisible mask when she sees one.”

He nodded, slowly, and raised his hands to his face.

And Agnes was sure that he'd somehow come into focus. Almost certainly nothing had happened that could be measured with any kind of instrument, any more than you could weigh an idea or sell good fortune by the yard. But Walter stood up, smiling faintly.

“Good,” said Granny. She stared at Salzella.

“I reckon you two should fight again,” she said. “But it can't be said I'm unfair. I expect you've got a Ghost mask somewhere? Mrs Ogg saw you waving it, see. And she's not as gormless as she looks—”

“Thank you,” said a fat ballerina.

“?so she thought, how could people still say afterwards that they'd seen the Ghost? “Cos that's how you recognize the Ghost, by his mask. So there's two masks.”

Under her gaze, telling himself that he could resist any time he wanted to, Salzella reached into his jacket and produced his own mask.

“Put it on, then.” She let go of the sword. “Then who you are can fight who he is.”

Down in the pit, the percussionist stared as his sticks rose and began a drum roll.

“Are you doing that, Gytha?” said Granny Weatherwax.

“I thought you were.”

“It's opera, then. The show must go on.”

Walter Plinge raised his sword. The masked Salzella glanced from him to Granny, and then lunged.

The swords met.

It was, Agnes realized, stage?fighting. The swords clashed and rattled as the fighters danced back and forth across the stage. Walter wasn't trying to hit Salzella. Every thrust was parried. Every opportunity to strike back, as the director of music grew more angry, was ignored.

“This isn't fighting!” Salzella shouted, standing back. “This is'

Walter thrust.

Salzella staggered away, until he cannoned into Nanny Ogg. He lurched sideways. Then he staggered forward, dropped on to one knee, got unsteadily to his feet again, and staggered into the centre of the stage.

“Whatever happens,” he gasped, wrenching off his mask, “it can't be worse than a season of opera!!!! I don't mind where I'm going so long as there are no fat men pretending to be thin boys, and no huge long songs which everyone says are so beautiful just because they don't understand what the hell they're actually about!!!! Ah? Ahargh…”

He slumped to the floor.

“But Walter didn't—” Agnes began.

“Shut up,” said Nanny Ogg, out of the corner of her mouth.

“But he hasn't—” Bucket began.

“Incidentally, another thing I can't stand about opera,” said Salzella, rising to his feet and reeling crabwise towards the curtains, “are the plots. They make no sense!! And no one ever says so!!! And the quality of the acting? It's nonexistent!! Everyone stands around watching the person who's singing. Ye gods, it's going to be a relief to put that behind… ah… argh…”

He slumped to the floor.

“Is that it?” said Nanny.

“Shouldn't think so,” said Granny Weatherwax.

“As for the people who attend opera,” said Salzella, struggling upright again and staggering sideways, “I think I just possibly hate them even worse!!! They're so ignorant!!! There's hardly a one of them out there who knows the first thing about music!!! They go on about tunes!!! They spend all day endeavouring to be sensible human beings, and then they walk in here and they leave their intelligence on a nail by the door—”

“Then why didn't you just leave?” snapped Agnes. “If you'd stolen all this money why didn't you just go away somewhere, if you hated it so much?”