Maskerade

behind the stage, in the orchestra’s room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle.
    The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The trom had been pulled right out of a trombone.
    He looked up into someone’s face.
    “But…why are you— ”
    The half-moon spectacles tumbled over and over, and smashed on the boards.
    Then the attacker lowered his mask, as smooth and white as the skull of an angel, and stepped forward purposefully…

    Dr. Undershaft blinked.
    There was darkness. A cloaked figure raised its head and looked at him through bony white sockets.
    Dr. Undershaft’s recent memories were a little confused, but one fact stood out.
    “Aha,” he said. “Got you! You’re the Ghost!”
    Y OU KNOW, YOU’RE RATHER AMUSINGLY WRONG .
    Dr. Undershaft watched another masked figure pick up the body of…Dr. Undershaft, and drag it into the shadows.
    “Oh, I see . I’m dead.”
    Death nodded.
    S UCH WOULD APPEAR TO BE THE CASE .
    “That was murder! Does anyone know?”
    T HE MURDERER . A ND YOU, OF COURSE .
    “But him ? How can—?” Undershaft began.
    W E MUST GO , said Death.
    “But he just killed me! Strangled me with his bare hands!”
    Y ES . C HALK IT UP TO EXPERIENCE .
    “You mean I can’t do anything about it?”
    L EAVE IT TO THE LIVING . G ENERALLY SPEAKING, THEY GET UNEASY WHEN THE DECEASED TAKES A CONSTRUCTIVE ROLE IN A MURDER INVESTIGATION . T HEY TEND TO LOSE CONCENTRATION .
    “You know, you do have a very good bass voice.”
    T HANK YOU .
    “Are there going to be…choirs and things?”
    W OULD YOU LIKE SOME ?

    Agnes slipped out through the stage door and into the streets of Ankh-Morpork.
    She blinked in the light. The air felt slightly prickly, and sharp, and too cold.
    What she was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. And all her life she’d done things that were right.
    Go on, said Perdita.
    In fact, she probably wouldn’t even do it. But there was no harm in just asking where there was an herbal shop, so she asked.
    And there was no harm in going in, so she went in.
    And it certainly wasn’t against any kind of law to buy the ingredients she bought. After all, she might get a headache later on, or be unable to sleep.
    And it would mean nothing at all to take them back to her room and tuck them under the mattress.
    That’s right, said Perdita.
    In fact, if you averaged out the moral difficulty of what she was proposing over all the little activities she had to undergo in order to do it, it probably wasn’t that bad at all, really—
    These comforting thoughts were arranging themselves in her mind as she headed back. She turned a corner and nearly walked into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax.
    She flung herself against the wall and stopped breathing.
    They hadn’t seen her, although Nanny’s foul cat leered at her over its owner’s shoulder.
    They’d take her back! She just knew they would!
    The fact that she was a free agent and her own mistress and quite at liberty to go off to Ankh-Morpork had nothing to do with it. They’d interfere . They always did.
    She scurried back along the alley and ran as fast as she could to the rear of the Opera House.
    The stage-doorkeeper took no notice of her.

    Granny and Nanny strolled through the city toward the area known as the Isle of Gods. It wasn’t exactly Ankh and it wasn’t exactly Morpork, being situated where the river bent so much it almost formed an island. It was where the city kept all those things it occasionally needed but was uneasy about, like the Watch-house, the theaters, the prison and the publishers. It was the place for all those things which might go off bang in unexpected ways.
    Greebo ambled along behind them. The air was full of new smells, and he was looking forward to seeing if any of them belonged to anything he could eat, fight or ravish.
    Nanny Ogg found herself getting increasingly worried. “This isn’t really us , Esme,” she said.
    “Who is it, then?”
    “I mean the book was just a bit of fun. No sense in making ourselves unpopular, is there?”
    “Can’t have witches being done down, Gytha.”
    “I don’t feel done down. I felt fine until you told me I was done down,” said Nanny, putting her finger on a major sociological point.
    “You’ve been exploited,” said Granny firmly.
    “No I ain’t.”
    “Yes you have. You’re a