Maskerade

Bucket?”
    Seldom Bucket did his best. “Well, I know there’s a dreadful bend in the road up by—”
    “A catastrophe curve, Mr. Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr. Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn’t cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr. Bucket, you shouldn’t have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry.”

    Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse.
    “Certainly an interestin’ way to travel,” she said. “You do get to see places.”
    “Yes,” said Granny. “Every five miles, it seems to me.”
    “Can’t think what’s got into me.”
    “I shouldn’t think the horses have managed to get faster’n a walk all morning.”
    They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travelers on top.
    The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat’s unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he’d leapt heavily into their laps and given them the “young masser back on de ole plantation” treatment. And he’d treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he’d started to smell.
    No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes’ doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets.
    He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn’t working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill.
    The snores reverberated around the coach.
    “Wouldn’t like to come between him and his pudding,” said Nanny Ogg.
    Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity.
    “Gytha?”
    “Yes, Esme?”
    “Mind if I ask you a question?”
    “You don’t normally ask if I mind,” said Nanny.
    “Doesn’t it ever get you down, the way people don’t think properly?”
    Oh-oh, thought Nanny. I reckon I got her out just in time. Thank goodness for literature.
    “How d’you mean?” she said.
    “I means the way they distracts themselves.”
    “Can’t say I ever really thought about it, Esme.”
    “Like…s’pose I was to say to you, Gytha Ogg, your house is on fire, what’s the first thing you’d try to take out?”
    Nanny bit her lip. “This is one of them personality questions, ain’t it?” she said.
    “That’s right.”
    “Like, you try to guess what I’m like by what I say…”
    “Gytha Ogg, I’ve known you all my life, I knows what you’re like. I don’t need to guess. But answer me, all the same.”
    “I reckon I’d take Greebo.”
    Granny nodded.
    “’Cos that shows I’ve got a warm and considerate nature,” Nanny went on.
    “No, it shows you’re the kind of person who tries to work out what the right answer’s supposed to be,” said Granny. “Untrustworthy. That was a witch’s answer if ever I heard one. Devious.”
    Nanny looked proud.
    The snores changed to a blurt-blurt noise and the handkerchief quivered.
    “…treacle pudding, with lots of custard…”
    “Hey, he just said something,” said Nanny.
    “He talks in his sleep,” said Granny Weatherwax. “He’s been doing it on and off.”
    “I never heard him!”
    “You were out of the coach.”
    “Oh.”
    “At the last stop he was going on about pancakes with lemon,” said Granny. “And mashed potatoes with butter.”
    “Makes me feel hungry just listening to that,” said Nanny. “I’ve got a pork pie in the bag somewhere—”
    The snoring stopped abruptly. A hand came up and moved the handkerchief aside. The face beyond was friendly, bearded and small. It gave the witches a shy smile which turned inexorably toward the pork pie.
    “Want a slice, mister?” said Nanny. “I’ve got some mustard here, too.”
    “Oo, would you, dear lady?” said the man, in a squeaky voice. “Don’t know when I last had a pork pie—oh, dear…”
    He grimaced as if he’d just said something wrong, and then relaxed.
    “Got a bottle of beer if you want a drop, too,” said Nanny. She was