Free Maskerade by Terry Pratchett

damp—”’
    â€˜They’re flooded.’
    â€˜Oh, good!’ said Bucket. ‘What with? Buckets of blood?’
    â€˜Didn’t you have a look?’
    â€˜They said the cellars were fine!’
    â€˜And you believed them?’
    â€˜Well, there was rather a lot of champagne …’
    Salzella sighed.
    Bucket took offence 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.’
    â€˜Yes, indeed,’ said Salzella.
    â€˜Oh, blast … Señor Enrico Basilica will be here the day after tomorrow. Do you think something might happen to him?’
    â€˜Oh, not much. Cut throat, perhaps.’
    â€˜What? You think so?’
    â€˜How should I know?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜That would be worse ,’ said Salzella. ‘Big trolls in rusty chainmail 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—’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Certainly an interestin’ way to travel,’ she said. ‘You do get to see places.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Granny. ‘Every five miles, it seems to me.’
    â€˜Can’t think what’s got into me.’
    â€˜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 travellers 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 to smell.
    No one knew where it came from. It was not associated with any known orifice. It was just that, after five minutes’ doze, the air above Greebo had a penetrating smell of fermented carpets.
    He was now trying it out on the very large man. It wasn’t working. At last Greebo had found a stomach too big for him. Also, the continuing going up and down was beginning to make him feel ill.
    The snores reverberated around the coach.
    â€˜Wouldn’t like to come between him and his pudding,’ said Nanny Ogg.
    Granny was staring out of the window. At least, her face was turned that way, but her eyes were focused on infinity.
    â€˜Gytha?’
    â€˜Yes, Esme?’
    â€˜Mind if I ask you a question?’
    â€˜You don’t normally ask if I mind,’ said Nanny.
    â€˜Doesn’t it ever get you down, the way people don’t think