Maskerade

'What about him?'

'He's... all right, is he?'

'Oh, he's got his... funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage‑hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him... you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail‑holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?'

'Oh... I just wondered. Silly, really.'

'I suppose he is, technically.'

'No, I meant‑ Oh, it doesn't matter...'

Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat.

Every thirty seconds she'd say, 'How much was that again?'

'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence,' said Granny. She was looking thoughtful.

'I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,' said Nanny. 'Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?'

'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence.'

'I've never had seventy dollars before,' said Nanny.

'I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said–'

'Yes, I know. But I'm working my way up to it gradual. I'll say this about money. It really chafes.'

'I don't know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,' said Granny.

'It's the last place anybody would look.' Nanny sighed. 'How much did you say it was?'

'Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence.'

'I'm going to need a bigger tin.'

'You're going to need a bigger chimney.'

'I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg.' She nudged Granny. 'You're going to have to be polite to me now I'm rich,' she said.

'Yes, indeed,' said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. 'Don't think I'm not considering that.'

She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie.

The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them.

'We've got to get back in there,' Granny said. 'And into Box Eight.'

'Crowbar,' said Nanny, firmly. 'A No. 3 claw end should do it.'

'We're not your Nev,' said Granny. 'Anyway, breaking in wouldn't be the same thing. We've got to have a right to be there.'

'Cleaners,' said Nanny. 'We could be cleaners, and... no, 's not right me being a cleaner now, in my position.'

'No, we can't have that, with you in your position.'

Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. 'O' course,' she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, 'we could always buy Box Eight.'

'Wouldn't work,' said Nanny. People were hurry­ing down the steps with the cuff‑adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. 'They're scared of selling it.'

'Why not?' said Granny. 'There's people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone's prepared to sell his own grandmother if he'd make enough money.'

'It'd cost a fortune, anyway,' said Nanny.

She looked at Granny's triumphant expression and groaned. 'Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!' She thought for a moment. 'Any­way, it still wouldn't work. I mean, look at us, we don't look like the right kind of people...'

Enrico Basilica got out of the coach.

'But we know the right kind of people,' said Granny.

'Oh, Esme!'

The shop bell tinkled in a refined tone,, as if it were embarrassed to do something as vulgar as ring. It would have much preferred to give a polite cough.

This was Ankh‑Morpork's most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available.

This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place.

'Shop!' yelled Nanny.

A lady appeared from behind a curtain and observed the visitors, quite possibly with her nose.

'Have you come to the right entrance?' she said. Madame Dawning had been brought up to be polite to servants and tradespeople, even when they were as scruffy as these two old crows.

'My friend here wants a new dress,' said the dumpier of the two. 'One of the nobby ones with a train and a padded bum.'

'In black,' said the thin one.

'And we wants all the trimmings,' said the dumpy one. 'Little handbag onna string, pair of glasses onna stick, the whole thing.'

'I think perhaps that might be a leetle more than you're thinking of spending,' said Madame Dawning.

'How much is a leetle?' said the dumpy one.

'I mean that this is rather a select dress shop.'

'That's why we're here. We don't want rubbish. My name's Nanny Ogg and this here is... Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax.'

Madame Dawning regarded Lady Esmerelda quizzically. There was no doubt that the woman had a certain bearing. And she stared like a duchess.

'From Lancre,' said Nanny Ogg. 'And she could have a conservatory if she liked, but she doesn't want one.'