Maskerade by Terry Pratchett Page A

itself to her eyeballs without her brain intervening.
    She was used to traveling by broomstick. Long-distance ground travel was a novelty to her, so she’d prepared with some care.
    “…lessee now…book of puzzles for long journeys…cushion…foot powder…mosquito trap…phrase book…bag to be sick into…oh dear…”
    The audience, which against all probability had managed to squeeze itself farther away from Nanny during the litany, waited with horrified interest.
    “What?” said Granny.
    “How often d’you reckon this coach stops?”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “I should’ve gone before we left. Sorry. It’s the jolting. Anyone know if there’s a privy on this thing?” she added brightly.
    “Er,” said the probable spy, “we generally wait until the next stop, or—” He stopped. He had been about to add “there’s always the window,” which was a manly option on the bumpier rural stretches, but he stopped himself in the horrible apprehension that this ghastly old woman might seriously consider the possibility.
    “There’s Ohulan just a bit further on the road,” said Granny, who was trying to doze. “You just wait.”
    “This coach doesn’t stop at Ohulan,” said the spy helpfully.
    Granny Weatherwax raised her head.
    “Up until now, that is,” said the spy.

    Mr. Bucket was sitting in his office trying to make sense of the Opera House’s books.
    They didn’t make any kind of sense. He reckoned he was as good as the next man at reading a balance sheet, but these were to bookkeeping what grit was to clockwork.
    Seldom Bucket had always enjoyed opera. He didn’t understand it and never had, but he didn’t understand the ocean either and he enjoyed that, too. He’d looked upon the purchase as, well, something to do, a sort of working retirement. The offer had been too good to pass up. Things had been getting pretty tough in the wholesale cheese-and-milk-derivatives business, and he’d been looking forward to the quieter climes of the world of art.
    The previous owners had put on some good operas. It was only a shame that their genius hadn’t run to bookkeeping as well. Money seemed to have been taken out of the accounts when anyone needed it. The financial-record system largely consisted of notes on torn bits of paper saying: “I’ve taken $30 to pay Q. See you Monday. R.” Who was R? Who was Q? What was the money for? You wouldn’t get away with this sort of thing in the world of cheese.
    He looked up as the door opened.
    “Ah, Salzella,” he said. “Thank you for coming. You don’t know who Q is, by any chance?”
    “No, Mr. Bucket.”
    “Or R?”
    “I’m afraid not.” Salzella pulled up a chair.
    “It’s taken me all morning, but I’ve worked out we pay more than fifteen hundred dollars a year for ballet shoes,” said Bucket, waving a piece of paper in the air.
    Salzella nodded. “Yes, they do rather go through them at the toes.”
    “I mean, it’s ridiculous! I’ve still got a pair of boots belonging to my father!”
    “But ballet shoes, sir, are rather more like foot gloves,” Salzella explained.
    “You’re telling me! They cost seven dollars a pair and they last hardly any time at all! A few performances! There must be some way we can make a saving…?”
    Salzella gave his new employer a long, cool stare. “Possibly we could ask the girls to spend more time in the air?” he said. “A few extra grands jetés ?”
    Bucket looked puzzled. “Would that work?” he said suspiciously.
    “Well, their feet wouldn’t be on the ground for so long, would they?” said Salzella, in the tones of one who knows for a fact that he’s much more intelligent than anyone else in the room.
    “Good point. Good point. Have a word with the ballet mistress, will you?”
    “Of course. I am sure she will welcome the suggestion. You may well have halved costs at a stroke.”
    Bucket beamed.
    “Which is perhaps just as well,” said Salzella. “There is, in fact, another