Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [108]
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 onto one knee, got unsteadily to his feet again, and staggered into the center 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—Ah-argh…”
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 toward 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 endeavoring 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?”
Salzella stared at her while swaying back and forth. His mouth opened and shut once or twice, as if he were trying out unfamiliar words.
“Leave?” he managed. “Leave? Leave the opera?…Argh argh argh…”
He hit the floor again.
André prodded the fallen director. “Is he dead yet?” he said.
“How can he be dead?” said Agnes. “Good grief, can’t anyone see that—?”
“You know what really gets me down,” said Salzella, rising to his knees, “is the way that in opera everyone takes such a long!!!!!…time!!!!!…to!!!!!…argh…argh…argh…”
He keeled over.
The company waited for a while. The audience held its collective breath.
Nanny Ogg poked him with a boot. “Yep, that’s about it. Looks like he’s gone down for the last curtain call,” she said.
“But Walter didn’t stab him!” said Agnes. “Why won’t anyone listen? Look, the sword isn’t even sticking in him! It’s just tucked between his body and his arm, for heaven’s sake!”
“Yes,” said Nanny. “I s’pose, really, it’s a shame he dint notice that.” She scratched at her shoulder. “Here, these ballet dresses really tickle…”
“But he’s dead!”
“Got a bit overexcited, perhaps,” said Nanny, fidgeting with a strap.
“Overexcited?”
“Frantic. You know these artistic types. Well, you are one, of course.”
“He’s really dead?” said Bucket.
“Seems to be,” said Granny. “One of the best operatic deaths ever, I wouldn’t mind betting.”
“That’s terrible!!