Maskerade

The stone looked old, too. Of course, all stone was old, Agnes told herself, but this had grown old as masonry. Ankh‑Morpork had been here for thousands of years. Where other cities were built on clay or rock or loam, Ankh‑Morpork was built on Ankh‑Morpork. People constructed new buildings on the remains of earlier ones, knocking out a few doorways here and there to turn ancient bedrooms into cellars.

The stairs petered out on damp flagstones, in almost total darkness.

Perdita thought it looked romantic and gothic.

Agnes thought it looked gloomy.

If someone used this place they'd need lights, wouldn't they? And a fumbling search confirmed it. She found a candle and some matches tucked into a niche in the wall.

That was sobering for Agnes and Perdita together. Someone used this prosaic book of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on the cover, and this piece of perfectly ordinary candle. Perdita would have preferred a flaming torch. Agnes didn't know what she would have preferred. It was just that, if a mysterious person came and sang in the walls, and moved around the place like a ghost, and possibly killed people... well, you'd prefer a bit more style than a box of matches with a picture of a grinning troll on it. That was the sort of thing a murderer would use.

She lit the candle and, in two minds about it all, went on into the dark.

Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce was a great success and heading down the little red lane as though hot­wired.

'More, Mr Salzella?' said Bucket. 'This really is first‑class stuff; isn't it? I must congratulate Mrs Clamp.'

'There is a certain piquancy, I must say,' said the director of music. 'How about you, Senor Basilica?'

'Mmmf.'

'Lady Esmerelda?'

'I don't mind if I do,' said Granny, passing her plate across.

'I'm sure I detect a hint of cinnamon,' said the interpreter, a brown ring around his mouth.

'Indeed, and possibly just a trace of nutmeg,' said Mr Bucket.

'I thought... cardamom?' said Salzella.

'Creamy yet spicy,' said Bucket. His eyes unfocused slightly. 'And curiously... warming.'

Granny stopped chewing, and looked down suspiciously at her plate.

Then she sniffed at her spoon.

'Is it, er...is it just me, or is it a trifle... warm in here?' said Bucket.

Salzella had gripped the arms of his chair. His forehead glistened. 'Do you think we could open a window?' he said. 'I feel a little... strange.'

'Yes, by all means,' said Bucket.

Salzella half‑rose, and then a preoccupied expression suffused his features. He sat down suddenly.

'No, I rather believe I'll just sit quietly for a moment,' he said.

'Oh, dear,' said the interpreter. There was a hint of vapour around his collar.

Basilica tapped him politely on the shoulder, grunted hopefully, and made pass‑it‑here motions in the direction of the half‑finished dish of chocolate pudding.

'Mmmf?' he said.

'Oh, dear,'said the interpreter.

Mr Bucket ran a finger around his collar. Sweat was beginning to roll down his face.

Basilica gave up on his stricken colleague and reached across in a businesslike way to hook the dish with his fork.

'Er... Yes,' said Bucket, trying to keep his eyes away from Granny.

'Yes... indeed,' said Salzella, his voice coming from a long way away.

'Oh, dear,' said the interpreter, his eyes watering.

'Ai! Meu Deus! Dio Mio! O Goden! D'zuk f't! Aagorahaa!'

Senor Basilica upended the rest of the Special Secret Sauce on to his plate and carefully scraped out the dish with his spoon, holding it upside‑down to reach the last little bit.

'The weather has been a little... cool of late,' Bucket managed. 'Very cold, in fact.'

Enrico held the sauce‑dish up to the light and regarded it critically in case there was any drop hiding in a corner.

'Snow, ice, frost... that sort of thing,' said Salzella. 'Yes, indeed! Coldness of all descriptions, in fact.'

'Yes! Yes!' said Bucket gratefully. 'And at a time like this I think it is very important to try to remember the names of, say, any number of boring and hopefully chilly things!'

'Wind, glaciers, icicles–'

'Not icicles!'

'Oh,' said the interpreter, and slumped forward into his plate. His head hit a spoon, which cartwheeled into the air and bounced off Enrico's head.

Salzella started to whistle under his breath and pound the arm of his chair.

Bucket blinked. In front of him was the water jug. The cold water jug. He reached out...

'Oh, oh, oh, dear me, what can I say, I seem to have spilled it all over myself,' he said, through the rising clouds of steam. 'What a butterfingers I am, to be sure. I shall ring for Mrs Ogg to bring us another one.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella. 'And perhaps you would care to do it soon? I am also feeling very... accident‑prone.'

Basilica, still chewing, lifted his interpreter's head off the table and carefully tipped the man's unfinished pudding into his own plate.

'In fact, in fact, in fact,' said Salzella, 'I think I shall just... have a brisk... have a nice cold...if you would excuse me a minute...'