Maskerade Read Free Page A

whispering. Words like “timbre” emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn’t surprised to hear, came “impressive build.” She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn’t have to feel good about it.
    The voice spoke up.
    “You haven’t had much training, have you, dear?”
    “No.” Which was true. Lancre’s only other singer of note was Nanny Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your voice at the end of the verse and went for it.
    Whisper, whisper.
    “Sing us a few scales, dear.”
    The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling acres…
    “Scales?”
    Whisper. Muffled laugh.
    “Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?”
    “Oh. Yes.”
    As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched her voice as low as she could and went for it.
    She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upward from sea-level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere and several bats fell out of the roof.
    There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass.
    “Is…is that your full range, lass?”
    People were clustering in the wings and staring at her.
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “If I go any higher people faint,” said Agnes. “And if I go lower everyone says it makes them feel uncomfortable.”
    Whisper, whisper. Whisper, whisper , whisper.
    “And, er, any other—?”
    “I can sing with myself in thirds. Nanny Ogg says not everyone can do that.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Like…Do-Mi. At the same time.”
    Whisper, whisper .
    “Show us, lass.”
    “ Laaaaaa ”
    The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly.
    Whisper, whisper.
    The voice from the darkness said: “Now, your voice projection—”
    “Oh, I can do that ,” snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up. “Where would you like it projected?”
    “I’m sorry? We’re talking about—”
    Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she’d show them…
“To here?”
“Or there?”
“Or here?”
    It wasn’t that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the traveling showmen did, but you couldn’t pitch it far away and still manage to fool a whole audience.
    Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out people turning around in their seats, bewildered.
    “What’s your name again, dear?” The voice, which had at one point shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound.
    “Ag—Per…Perdita,” said Agnes. “Perdita Nitt. Perdita X…Nitt.”
    “We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.”

    Granny Weatherwax’s door opened by itself.
    Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. People’d told him this sort of thing happened.
    He didn’t like it. But he didn’t like his back, either, especially when his back didn’t like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up on you.
    He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.
    The witch was sitting in a rocking chair, facing away from the door.
    Jarge hesitated.
    “Come on in, Jarge Weaver,” said Granny Weatherwax, “and let me give you something for that back of yours.”
    The shock made him try to stand upright, and this made something white-hot explode somewhere in the region of his belt.
    Granny Weatherwax rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Can you sit down?” she said.
    “No, miss. I can fall over on a chair, though.”
    Granny produced a small black bottle from an apron pocket and shook it vigorously. Jarge’s eyes widened.
    “You got that all ready for me?” he said.
    “Yes,” said Granny truthfully. She’d long ago been resigned to the fact that people expected a bottle of something funny-colored and sticky. It wasn’t the medicine that did