Maskerade

'See, company? This is your luck!!! This is your Ghost!!! Without his mask he's just an idiot who can hardly tie his shoelaces!!! Ahahaha!!!! Ahem. It's all your fault, Walter Plinge...'

'Yes Mr Salzella!'

'No .'

Salzella looked around.

'No one would believe Walter Plinge. Even Walter Plinge gets confused about the things Walter Plinge sees. Even his mother was afraid he might have murdered people. People could accept just about anything of a Walter Plinge.'

There was a steady tapping noise.

The trapdoor opened beside Salzella.

A pointy hat appeared slowly, followed by the rest of Granny Weatherwax, with her arms folded. She glared at Salzella as the floor clicked into place. Her foot stopped tapping on the boards.

'Well, well,' he said. 'Lady Esmerelda, eh?'

'I'm stoppin' bein' a lady, Mr Salzella.'

He glanced up at the pointy hat. 'So you are a witch instead?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'A bad witch, no doubt?'

'Worse.'

'But this,' said Salzella, 'is a sword. Everyone knows witches can't magic iron and steel. Get out of my way!!!'

The sword hissed down.

Granny thrust out her hand. There was a blur of flesh and steel and...

...she held the sword, by the blade.

'Tell you what, Mr Salzella,' she said, levelly, 'it ought to be Walter Plinge who finishes this, eh? It's him you harmed, apart from the ones you murdered, o' course. You didn't need to do that. But you wore a mask, didn't you? There's a kind of magic in masks. Masks conceal one face, but they reveal another. The one that only comes out in darkness. I bet you could do just what you liked, behind a mask... ?'

Salzella blinked at her. He pulled on his sword, tugged hard on a sharp blade held in an unprotected hand.

There was a groan from several members of the chorus. Granny grinned. Her knuckles whitened as she redoubled her grip.

She turned her head towards Walter Plinge. 'Put your mask on, Walter.'

Everyone looked down at the crumpled cardboard on the stage.

'Don't have one any more Mistress Weatherwax!'

Granny followed his gaze. 'Oh deary, deary me,' she said. 'Well, I can see we shall have to do something about that. Look at me, Walter.'

He did as he was told. Granny's eyes half‑closed. 'You... trust Perdita, don't you, Walter?'

'Yes Mistress Weatherwax!'

'That's good, because she's got a new mask for you, Walter Plinge. A magic one. It's just like your old one, d'you see, only you wear it under your skin and you don't have to take it off and no one but you will ever need to know it's there. Got it, Perdita?'

'But I–' Agnes began.

'Got it?'

'Er... oh, yes. Here it is. Yes. I've got it in my hand.' She waved an empty hand vaguely.

'You're holding it the wrong way up, my girl!'

'Oh. Sorry.'

'Well? Give it to him, then.'

'Er. Yes.'

Agnes advanced on Walter.

'Now you take it, Walter,' said Granny, still gripping the sword.

'Yes Mistress Weatherwax...'

He reached out towards Agnes. As he did so, she was sure that, just for a moment, there was a faint pressure on her fingertips.

'Well? Put it on!'

Walter looked uncertain.

'You do believe there's a mask there, don't you, Walter?' Granny demanded. 'Perdita's sensible and she knows an invisible mask when she sees one.'

He nodded, slowly, and raised his hands to his face.

And Agnes was sure that he'd somehow come into focus. Almost certainly nothing had happened that could be measured with any kind of instrument, any more than you could weigh an idea or sell good fortune by the yard. But Walter stood up, smiling faintly.

'Good,' 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 afterwards 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 wanted to, Salzella reached into his jacket and produced his own mask.

'Put it on, then.' She let go of the sword. 'Then who you are can fight who he is.'

Down in the pit, the percussionist stared as his sticks rose and began a drum roll.

'Are you doing that, Gytha?' said Granny Weatherwax.

'I thought you were.'

'It's opera, then. The show must go on.'

Walter Plinge raised his sword. The masked Salzella glanced from him to Granny, and then lunged.

The swords met.

It was, Agnes realized, stage‑fighting. The swords clashed and rattled as the fighters danced back and forth across the stage. Walter wasn't trying to hit Salzella. Every thrust was parried. Every opportunity to strike back, as the director of music grew more angry, was ignored.