Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [86]
She stared muzzily at the bottle. “Year of the Insulted Goat,” she mumbled. “’S a good year.”
Then consciousness gained the upper hand.
She grinned as she galloped after the retreating figure. In Mrs. Plinge’s place she’d have done exactly the same thing, except a good deal harder.
Agnes waited with the others for the curtain to go up. She was one of the crowd of fifty or so townspeople who would hear Enrico Basilica sing of his success as a master of disguise, it being a vital part of the entire process that, while the chorus would listen to expositions of the plot, and even sing along, they would suffer an instant lapse of memory afterward so that later unmaskings would come as a surprise.
For some reason, without any word being spoken, as many people as possible seemed to have acquired very broad-brimmed hats. Those who hadn’t were taking every opportunity to glance upward.
Beyond the curtain, Herr Trubelmacher launched the overture.
Enrico, who had been chewing a chicken leg, carefully put the bone on a plate and nodded. The waiting stagehand dashed off.
The opera had begun.
Mrs. Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting.
The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either.
She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back.
“Coo-ee, Mrs. Plinge!”
Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already traveling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve…
…which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg’s response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downward and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman.
Mrs. Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue.
“You don’t want to try and outrun me, Mrs. Plinge,” Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs. Plinge’s mouth. “You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don’t go thinking I’m nice. I’m only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic’ly everyone…”
“Mmf!”
With one hand tightly around Mrs. Plinge’s arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off.
Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he’d taken fright. Perhaps Mrs. Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he’d decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that…
At this rate the first act would be over before—
A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear.
“Y’see,” said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, “the thing about Esme is, she’s stupid…”
“Mmf?”
“…so she thinks that the most obvious way, d’y’see, for the Ghost to get in and out of the Box is through the door. If you can’t find a secret panel, she reckons, it’s because it ain’t there. A secret panel that ain’t there is the best kind there is, the reason bein’, no bugger can find it. That’s where you people all think too operatic, see? You’re all cooped up in this place, listening to daft plots what don’t make sense, and I reckon it does something to your minds. People can’t find a trapdoor so they say, oh, deary me, what a hidden trapdoor it must be. Whereas a normal person, e.g., me and Esme, we’d say: Maybe there ain’t one, then. And the best way for the Ghost to get around the place without being seen is for him to be seen and not noticed. Especially if he’s got keys. People don’t notice Walter. They looks the other way.”
She gently released her grip.