Free Maskerade by Terry Pratchett Page A

paid thirty thousand for this place,” he said. “It’s in the center of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!”
    “They’d have probably accepted twenty-five.”
    “And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?”
    “The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes.”
    “How does he get in?”
    “No one knows. We’ve searched and searched for secret entrances…”
    “He really doesn’t pay?”
    “No.”
    “It’s worth fifty dollars a night!”
    “There will be trouble if you sell it,” said Salzella.
    “Good grief, Salzella, you’re an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?”
    “I told you: the show must go on.”
    “ Why? We never said ‘the cheese must go on’! What’s so special about the show going on?”
    Salzella smiled. “As far as I understand it,” he said, “the…power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that’s gone into it, call it what you will…it leaks out and spills everywhere. That’s why they burble about ‘the show must go on.’ It must go on. But most of the company wouldn’t even understand why anyone should ask the question.”
    Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House’s financial records.
    “They certainly don’t understand bookkeeping! Who does the accounts?”
    “All of us, really,” said Salzella.
    “ All of you?”
    “Money gets put in, money gets taken out…” said Salzella vaguely. “Is it important?”
    Bucket’s jaw dropped. “Is it important ?”
    “Because,” Salzella went on, smoothly, “opera doesn’t make money. Opera never makes money.”
    “Good grief, man! Important ? What’d I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I’d like to know, if I’d said that money wasn’t important?”
    Salzella smiled humorlessly. “There are people out on the stage right now, sir,” he said, “who’d say that you would probably have made better cheeses.” He sighed, and leaned over the desk. “You see,” he said, “cheese does make money. And opera doesn’t . Opera’s what you spend money on .”
    “But…what do you get out of it?”
    “You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,” said Salzella wearily.
    “There’s no profit ?”
    “Profit…profit,” murmured the director of music, scratching his forehead. “No, I don’t believe I’ve come across the word.”
    “Then how do we manage?”
    “We seem to rub along.”
    Bucket put his head in his hands. “I mean,” he muttered, half to himself, “I knew the place wasn’t making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I’m told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don’t even make any money!”
    Salzella beamed. “Ah, opera ,” he said.

    Greebo stalked over the inn’s rooftops.
    Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal’s mind off where the walls actually are .
    But Greebo traveled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirt box.
    He dropped heavily onto an outhouse roof and padded toward a small open window.
    Greebo also had a cat’s approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people.
    From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped onto the pantry shelf.
    Of course, sometimes he got caught. At least, sometimes he got discovered…
    There was cream. He settled down.
    He was halfway down the bowl when the door opened.
    Greebo’s ears flattened. His one good eye sought