Maskerade

trying to look at her feet.
    “Oh? Not the one who wrote the book?” said André. “I’ve heard people talking about—”
    “No! I’m much worse than her, understand?”
    “She is,” mumbled Agnes.
    André gave Granny a long look, like a man weighing up his chances. He must have decided that they were bobbing along the ceiling.
    “I…hang around in dark places looking for trouble,” he said.
    “Really? There’s a nasty name for people like that,” snapped Granny.
    “Yes,” said André. “It’s ‘policeman.’”

    Nanny Ogg climbed out of the cellars, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Musicians and singers were still milling around, uncertain about what was going to happen next. The Ghost had had the decency to be chased and killed during the interval. In theory that meant there was no reason why there shouldn’t be a third act, as soon as Herr Trubelmacher had scoured the nearby pubs and dragged the orchestra back. The show must go on.
    Yes, she thought, it has to go on. It’s like the buildup to a thunderstorm…no…it’s more like making love. Yes. That was a far more Oggish metaphor. You put everything you’ve got into it, so sooner or later there’s a point where it’s got to go on, because you can’t imagine stopping. The stage manager could dock a couple of dollars from their wages and they’d still go on, and everyone knew it. And they would still go on.
    She reached a ladder and climbed slowly into the flies.
    She hadn’t been certain. She needed to be certain now.
    The fly loft was empty. She walked carefully along the catwalk until she was over the auditorium. The buzz of the audience came through the ceiling beneath her, slightly muffled.
    Light shone up at the point where the thick cable for the chandelier disappeared into the hole. She stepped out over the creaking trapdoor and peered down.
    Terrific heat almost frizzled her hair. A few yards below her hundreds of candles were burning.
    “Dreadful if that lot fell down,” she said quietly. “I ’spect this place’d go up like a haystack…”
    She let her gaze travel up and up the cable to the point, at just about waist-height, where it was half-cut through. You’d never see it, if you weren’t expecting to find it.
    Then her gaze dropped again, and moved across the gloomy, dusty floor until it found something half-hidden in the dust.
    Behind her, a shadow among the shadows rose to its feet, balanced itself carefully, and started to run.

    “I knows about policemen,” said Granny. “They’ve got big helmets and big feet and you can see them a mile off. There’s a couple lurching around backstage. Anyone can see they’re policemen. You don’t look like one.” She turned the badge over and over in her hands. “I ain’t happy with the idea of secret policemen,” she said. “Why do you need secret policemen?”
    “Because,” said André, “sometimes you have secret criminals.”
    Granny almost smiled. “That’s a fact,” she said. She peered at the small engraving on the back of the badge. “Says here ‘Cable Street Particulars’…”
    “There aren’t many of us,” said André. “We’ve only just started. Commander Vimes said that, since we can’t do anything about the Thieves’ Guild and the Assassins’ Guild, we’d better look for other crimes. Hidden crimes. That need Watchmen with…different skills. And I can play the piano quite well…”
    “What kind of skills have that troll and that dwarf got?” said Granny. “Seems to me the only thing they’re really good at is standing around looking obvious and stupi—Hah! Yes…”
    “Right. And they didn’t even need much training,” said André. “Commander Vimes says they’re the most obvious policemen anyone could think of. Incidentally, Corporal Nobbs has got some papers to prove he’s a human being.”
    “Forged?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Granny Weatherwax put her head on one side. “If your house was on fire, what’s the first thing you’d take out of it?”
    “Oh, Granny—” Agnes began.
    “Hmm. Who set fire to it?” said André.
    “You’re a policeman, right enough.” Granny handed him his badge. “You come to arrest poor Walter?” she said.
    “I know he didn’t murder Dr. Undershaft. I was watching him. He was trying to unblock the privies all afternoon—”
    “I’ve had proof that Walter isn’t the Ghost,” said Agnes.
    “I was almost sure it was Salzella,” said André. “I know he creeps off