Read Online Maskerade by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page A

said. “There was one by the organ. A scenery painter spotted him and…nearly had an accident.”
    Bucket sniffed the envelope. It reeked of turpentine.
    The letter inside was on a sheet of the Opera House’s own note paper. In neat, copperplate writing, it said:
Ahahahahaha! Ahahahaha! Aahahaha!
BEWARE!!!!!

Yrs sincerely
The Opera Ghost
    “What sort of person,” said Salzella patiently, “sits down and writes a maniacal laugh? And all those exclamation marks, you notice? Five? A sure sign of someone who wears his underpants on his head. Opera can do that to a man. Look, at least let’s search the building. The cellars go on forever. I’ll need a boat—”
    “A boat ? In the cellar ?”
    “Oh. Didn’t they tell you about the sub-basement?”
    Bucket smiled the bright, crazed smile of a man who was nearing double exclamation marks himself.
    “No,” he said. “They didn’t tell me about the sub-basement. They were too busy not telling me that someone goes around killing the company. I don’t recall anyone saying ‘Oh, by the way, people are dying a lot, and incidentally there’s a touch of rising damp—’”
    “They’re flooded.”
    “Oh, good!” said Bucket. “What with? Buckets of blood?”
    “Didn’t you have a look?”
    “They said the cellars were fine!”
    “And you believed them?”
    “Well, there was rather a lot of champagne…”
    Salzella sighed.
    Bucket took offense at the sigh. “I happen to pride myself that I am a good judge of character,” he said. “Look a man deeply in the eye and give him a firm handshake and you know everything about him.”
    “Yes, indeed,” said Salzella.
    “Oh, blast…Señor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?”
    “Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps.”
    “What? You think so?”
    “How should I know?”
    “What do you want me to do? Close the place? As far as I can see it doesn’t make any money as it is! Why hasn’t anyone told the Watch?”
    “That would be worse ,” said Salzella. “Big trolls in rusty chain mail tramping everywhere, getting in everyone’s way and asking stupid questions. They’d close us down.”
    Bucket swallowed. “Oh, we can’t have that,” he said. “Can’t have them…putting everyone on edge.”
    Salzella sat back. He seemed to relax a little. “On edge? Mr. Bucket,” he said, “this is opera. Everyone is always on edge. Have you ever heard of a catastrophe curve, Mr. Bucket?”
    Seldom Bucket did his best. “Well, I know there’s a dreadful bend in the road up by—”
    “A catastrophe curve, Mr. Bucket, is what opera runs along. Opera happens because a large number of things amazingly fail to go wrong, Mr. Bucket. It works because of hatred and love and nerves. All the time. This isn’t cheese. This is opera. If you wanted a quiet retirement, Mr. Bucket, you shouldn’t have bought the Opera House. You should have done something peaceful, like alligator dentistry.”

    Nanny Ogg was easily bored. But, on the other hand, she was also easy to amuse.
    “Certainly an interestin’ way to travel,” she said. “You do get to see places.”
    “Yes,” said Granny. “Every five miles, it seems to me.”
    “Can’t think what’s got into me.”
    “I shouldn’t think the horses have managed to get faster’n a walk all morning.”
    They were, by now, alone except for the huge snoring man. The other two had got out and joined the travelers on top.
    The main cause of this was Greebo. With a cat’s unerring instinct for people who dislike cats he’d leapt heavily into their laps and given them the “young masser back on de ole plantation” treatment. And he’d treadled them into submission and then settled down and gone to sleep, claws gripping not sufficiently to draw blood but definitely to suggest that this was an option should the person move or breathe. And then, when he was sure they were resigned to the situation, he’d started