Free Maskerade by Terry Pratchett

on the stage.”
    “Yes. We can see,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “No, I meant—”
    The coach stopped. Gravel crunched as people climbed down. The door was pulled open.
    Granny saw a crowd of people peering excitedly through the doorway, and reached up automatically to straighten her hat. But several hands reached out for Henry Slugg, who sat up, smiled nervously, and let himself be helped out. Several people also shouted out a name, but it wasn’t the name of Henry Slugg.
    “Who’s Enrico Basilica?” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Don’t know,” said Granny. “Maybe he’s the person Mr. Slugg’s afraid of.”
    The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies traveling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadn’t.

    Mr. Bucket looked pained.
    “I may just be a big man in cheese to you,” he said, “you may think I’m just some hard-headed businessman who wouldn’t know culture if he found it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of the opera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole of—”
    “I am sure you’ve seen a lot of opera,” said Salzella. “But…how much do you know about production?”
    “I’ve been behind the scenes in lots of theaters—”
    “Oh, theater ,” said Salzella. “Theater doesn’t even approach it. Opera isn’t theater with singing and dancing. Opera’s opera . You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but it’s a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side won’t talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and that’s only the start of it, because what is really—”
    There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard.
    “Come in, Walter,” said Salzella.
    Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. “Come to fill your coal scuttle Mr. Bucket!”
    Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. “You were saying?”
    Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time.
    “Salzella?”
    “What? Oh. I’m sorry…what was I saying?”
    “Something about it being only the start?”
    “What? Oh. Yes. Yes…you see, it’s fine for actors. There’s plenty of parts for old men. Acting’s something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing…Time creeps up behind you, all the…” He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for “Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you’ll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone’s on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That’s why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so’s green. And real jewelry worn onstage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling onstage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting onstage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don’t ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that’s worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.”
    Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully.
    “Good grief,” said Bucket, at last. “I thought it was tough in cheese.”
    He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. “I