Maskerade: A Novel of Discworld
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The Ghost in the bone-white mask who haunts the Ankh-Morpork Opera House was always considered a benign presence—some would even say lucky—until he started killing people. The sudden rash of bizarre backstage deaths now threatens to mar the operatic debut of country girl Perdita X. (nee Agnes) Nitt, she of the ample body and ampler voice.
Perdita's expected to hide in the chorus and sing arias out loud while a more petitely presentable soprano mouths the notes. But at least it's an escape from scheming Nanny Ogg and old Granny Weatherwax back home, who want her to join their witchy ranks. Once Granny sets her mind on something, however, it's difficult—and often hazardous—to dissuade her. And no opera-prowling phantom fiend is going to keep a pair of determined hags down on the farm after they've seen Ankh-Morpork.
course there may be some delayed shock.” “Brandy is very good for that, isn’t it?” said Tommy. “Perhaps you could try forcing some between my lips?” “Thank you, Perdita. The rest of you, go back to what you were doing,” said Salzella. “Big dark holes,” said Mr. Pounder. “Big ones.” “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pounder. Help Ron with Mr. Cripps, will you? Perdita, you come here. And you, Christine.” The two girls stood before the director of music. “Did you see anything?” said Salzella. “I saw a
this, Esme?” said Nanny. “We might have a lot to do tonight,” said Granny. “Maybe we could do with an extra pair of hands.” “Paws.” “At the moment, yes.” It was Walter. Agnes knew it. It wasn’t knowledge in her mind, exactly. It was practically something she breathed. She felt it as a tree feels the sun. It all fitted. He could go anywhere, and no one took any notice of Walter Plinge. In a way he was invisible, because he was always there. And, if you were someone like Walter Plinge,
a Ghost that can be caught. And the best thing is that everyone will believe it. They’ll feel bad about themselves, maybe, but they’ll believe it. Even Walter Plinge won’t be certain, ’cos his mind’s all tangled up.” Granny took a deep breath. “It’s tangled, but it ain’t twisted.” There was a sigh. “Well, matters will have to resolve themselves. There’s nothing else for it.” She removed her hat and fished around in the point. “I don’t mind tellin’ you this, Walter,” she said, “because you won’t
said Granny. She stared at Salzella. “I reckon you two should fight again,” she said. “But it can’t be said I’m unfair. I expect you’ve got a Ghost mask somewhere? Mrs. Ogg saw you waving it, see. And she’s not as gormless as she looks—” “Thank you,” said a fat ballerina. “—so she thought, how could people still say afterward that they’d seen the Ghost? ’Cos that’s how you recognize the Ghost, by his mask. So there’s two masks.” Under her gaze, telling himself that he could resist any time he
in the way of his cheerful progress as the first Counter-Renaissance man. Shortly after building the famous Collapsed Tower of Quirm he turned his attention to the world of music, particularly large organs and mechanical orchestras. Examples of his handiwork still occasionally come to light in sales, auctions, and quite frequently, wreckage. * It was central to Nanny Ogg’s soul that she never considered herself an old woman, while of course availing herself of every advantage that other