Maskerade

said Nanny.
    “You put some clothes on right now, my lad,” said Granny, who had shut her eyes.
    Not that this made much difference, she had to admit later. Greebo fully clothed still managed to communicate the nakedness beneath. The insouciant mustache, the long sideburns and the tousled black hair combined with the well-developed muscles to give the impression of the more louche kind of buccaneer or a romantic poet who’d given up on the opium and tried red meat instead. He had a scar running across his face, and a black patch now where it crossed the eye. When he smiled, he exuded an easy air of undistilled, excitingly dangerous lasciviousness. He could swagger while asleep. Greebo could, in fact, commit sexual harassment simply by sitting very quietly in the next room.
    Except as far as the witches were concerned. To Granny a cat was a damn cat whatever shape it was, and Nanny Ogg always thought of him as Mister Fluffy.
    She adjusted the bow tie and stood back critically. “What do you think?” she said.
    “He looks like an assassin, but he’ll do,” said Granny.
    “Oh, what a nasty thing to say!”
    Greebo waved his arms experimentally and fumbled with the ebony cane. Fingers took a bit of getting used to, but cat reflexes learned fast.
    Nanny waved a finger playfully under his nose. He took a half hearted swipe at it.
    “Now you just stay with Granny and do what she tells you like a good boy,” she said.
    “Yess, Nan-ny,” said Greebo reluctantly. He managed to grip the stick properly.
    “And no fighting.”
    “No, Nan-ny.”
    “And no leaving bits of people on the doormat.”
    “No, Nan-ny.”
    “We’ll have no trouble like we did with those robbers last month.”
    “No, Nan-ny.”
    He looked depressed. Humans had no fun . Incredible complications surrounded the most basic activities.
    “And no turning back into a cat again until we say.”
    “Yess, Nan-ny.”
    “Play your cards right and there could be a kipper in this for you.”
    “Yess, Nan-ny.”
    “What’re we going to call him?” said Granny. “He can’t just be Greebo, which I’ve always said was a damn silly name for a cat.”
    “Well, he looks aristocratic—” Nanny began.
    “He looks like a beautiful brainless bully,” Granny corrected her.
    “Aristocratic,” repeated Nanny.
    “Same thing.”
    “We can’t call him Greebo, anyway.”
    “We’ll think of something.”

    Salzella leaned disconsolately against the marble banister of the foyer’s grand staircase and stared gloomily into his drink.
    It had always seemed to him that one of the major flaws in the whole business of opera was the audience. They were quite unsuitable. The only ones worse than the ones who didn’t know anything at all about music, and whose idea of a sensible observation was “I liked that bit near the end when her voice went wobbly,” were the ones who thought they did…
    “Want a drink do you Mister Salzella? There’s lots you know!”
    Walter Plinge ambled by, his black suit making him look like a very good class of scarecrow.
    “Plinge, you just say ‘Drink, sir?’” said the director of music. “And please take off that ridiculous beret.”
    “My mum made it for me!”
    “I’m sure she did, but—”
    Bucket sidled up to him. “I thought I told you to keep Señor Basilica away from the canapés!” he hissed.
    “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a big enough crowbar,” said Salzella, waving away Walter and his beret. “Anyway, isn’t he supposed to be communing with his muse in his dressing room? The curtain goes up in twenty minutes!”
    “He says he sings better on a full stomach.”
    “Then we’re in for a big treat tonight.”
    Bucket turned and surveyed the scene. “It’s going well, anyway,” he said.
    “I suppose so.”
    “The Watch are here, you know. In secret. They’re mingling.”
    “Ah…let me guess…”
    Salzella looked around at the crowds. There was, indeed, a very short man in a suit intended for a rather larger man; this was especially the case with the opera cloak, which actually trailed on the floor behind him to give the overall impression of a superhero who had spent too much time around the Kryptonite. He was wearing a deformed fur hat and trying surreptitiously to smoke a cigarette.
    “You mean that little man with the words ‘Watchman in Disguise’ flashing on and off just above his head?”
    “Where? I didn’t see that!”
    Salzella sighed. “It’s Corporal Nobby Nobbs,”