Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [31]
“You were very fortunate,” said the thin man primly. “Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Señor Basilica—”
“—probably waiting for him to finish his dinner—” a voice muttered.
“—in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.”
“—hah, I can do that, I don’t see there’s anything special about that—”
Granny’s eyes hadn’t left Henry “Señor Basilica” Slugg’s face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn’t last very long.
“Señor Basilica’s fame has spread far and wide,” said the manager primly.
“—just like Senior Basilica,” muttered Nanny. “On other people’s pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he’s the only man you could find on an atlas—Ow!”
“Well, well,” said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. “It’s nice and warm in Genua. I expect Señor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?”
“I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma’am.”
“Yes, indeed.” Granny nodded.
“We have some good singers where we come from, too,” said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously.
“Really?” said the manager. “And where do you ladies come from?”
“Lancre.”
The man politely endeavored to position Lancre on his mental map of great centers of music. “Do you have a conservatory there?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, “You should see the size of my tomatoes.”
Granny rolled her eyes. “Gytha, you haven’t got a conservatory. It’s just a big windowsill.”
“Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day—Ow…”
“I expect Señor Basilica is going to Ankh-Morpork?” said Granny.
“We,” said the manager, primly, “have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season—”
His voice faltered. He’d looked up at the luggage rack. “What’s that?”
Granny glanced up. “Oh, that’s Greebo,” she said.
“And Mister Basilica’s not to eat him,” said Nanny.
“What is it?”
“He’s a cat.”
“It’s grinning at me.” The manager shifted uneasily. “And I can smell something,” he said.
“’S funny,” said Nanny. “I can’t smell a thing.”
There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed.
“Ah,” said the manager awkwardly, “I…er…I see we’re stopping to change horses. It’s a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there’s room on the seats outside.”
He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn’t come back.
“Well, well,” said Granny, as they lurched away again, “it seems there’s just you and me, Gytha. And Señor Basilica, who doesn’t speak our language. Does he, Mr. Henry Slugg?”
Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity’s sake…”
“Have you done anything bad, Mr. Slugg?” said Nanny. “Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn’t miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?”
“No!”
“He tellin’ the truth, Esme?”
Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax’s stare.
“Yes.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” said Nanny. “I understand. I don’t have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin’ to.”
“Oh, it’s not that, I assure you,” said Henry. “I have people to pay my taxes for me…”
“That’s a good trick,” said Nanny.
“Mr. Slugg’s got a different trick,” said Granny. “I reckon I know the trick. It’s like sugar and water.”
Henry waved his hands uncertainly. “It’s just that if they knew…” he began.
“Everything’s better if it comes from a long way away. That’s the secret,” said Granny.
“It’s…yes, that’s part of it,” said Henry. “I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.”
“Where’re you from, Henry?” said Nanny.
“Really from,” said Granny.
“I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They’re in Ankh-Morpork,” said Henry. “It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.