Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [81]
Granny closed her eyes and waved a hand.
There was a yowl from under the kitchen’s dresser and a sound of frantic scrabbling. Then, his claws scoring tracks in the floor, Greebo came out backward, fighting all the way.
“Mind you, a lot of cruelty does the trick as well,” Nanny conceded. “You’ve never been much of a cat person, have you, Esme?”
Greebo would have hissed at Granny, except that even his cat brain was just bright enough to realize this was not the best move he could make.
“Give him his fish eggs,” Granny said. “He might as well have them now as later.”
Greebo inspected the dish. Oh, this was all right, then. They wanted to give him food.
Granny nodded at Nanny Ogg. They held out their hands, palm up.
Greebo was halfway through the caviar when he felt It happening.
“Wrrroowlllll—” he wailed, and then the voice went deeper as his chest expanded, and rose physically as his back legs lengthened under him.
His ears flattened against his head, and then crept down the sides.
“—lllllwwaaaa—”
“The jacket’s a forty-four-inch chest,” said Nanny. Granny nodded.
“—aaaaoooo—”
His face flattened. His whiskers spread out. Greebo’s nose developed a life of its own.
“—oooooss…sshit!”
“He certainly gets the hang of it quicker these days,” 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