Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [82]
“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,” he said wearily. “The only known person to require an identity card to prove his species. I’ve watched him mingle with three large sherries.”
“He’s not the only one, though,” said Mr. Bucket. “They’re taking this seriously.”
“Oh, yes,” said Salzella. “If we look over there, for example, we see Sergeant Detritus, who is a troll, and who is wearing what in the circumstances is actually a rather well-fitting suit. It is therefore, I feel, something of a pity he has neglected to remove his helmet. And these, you understand, the Watch has chosen for their ability to blend.”
“Well, they’ll certainly be useful if the Ghost strikes again,” said Bucket, hopelessly.
“The Ghost would have to—” Salzella stopped. He blinked. “Oh, good grief,” he whispered. “What has she found?”
Bucket turned. “That’s Lady Esmerelda…oh.”
Greebo strolled in alongside her with the gentle swagger that makes women thoughtful and men’s knuckles go white. The buzz of conversation was momentarily hushed, and then rose again to a slightly shriller buzz.
“I’m impressed,” said Salzella.
“He certainly doesn’t look like a gentleman,” said Bucket. “Look at the color of that eye!” He set his face into what he hoped was a smile, and bowed.
“Lady Esmerelda!” he said. “How pleasant to see you again! Won’t you introduce us to your…guest?”
“This is Lord Gribeau,” said Granny. “Mr. Bucket, the owner, and Mr. Salzella, who seems to run the place.”
“Haha,” said Salzella.
Gribeau snarled, revealing longer incisors than any that Bucket had seen outside a zoo. And Bucket had never seen such a greenish-yellow eye. The pupil was all wrong…
“Ahaha…” he said. “And may I order you something?”
“He’ll have milk,” said Granny firmly.
“I expect he has to keep up his strength,” said Salzella.
Granny spun around. Her expression would have etched steel.
“Anyone for a drink?” said Nanny Ogg, appearing out of nowhere with a tray and adroitly stepping between them like a very small peacekeeping force. “Got a bit of everything here…”
“Including a glass of milk, I see,” said Bucket.
Salzella looked from one witch to the other. “That’s remarkably foresighted of you,” he said.
“Well, you never know,” said Nanny.
Gribeau took the glass in both hands and lapped at it with his tongue. Then he looked at Salzella.
“What yourrr lookin aat? Neverrr seein mil—uk drun beforr?”
“Never quite…like that, I must admit.”
Nanny winked at Granny Weatherwax as she turned to scurry away.
Granny caught her arm. “Remember,” she whispered, “when we go into the Box…you keep an eye on Mrs. Plinge. Mrs. Plinge knows something. I ain