Maskerade

And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two people just to hold your trousers up.

The huge, be‑columned, gargoyle‑haunted face of Ankh­-Morpork's Opera House was there, in front of Agnes Nitt.

She stopped. At least, most of Agnes stopped. There was a lot of Agnes. It took some time for outlying regions to come to rest.

Well, this was it. At last. She could go in, or she could go away. It was what they called a life choice. She'd never had one of those before.

Finally, after standing still for long enough for a pigeon to consider the perching possibilities of her huge and rather sad black floppy hat, she climbed the steps.

A man was theoretically sweeping them. What he was in fact doing was moving the dirt around with a broom, to give it a change of scenery and a chance to make new friends. He was dressed in a long coat that was slightly too small for him, and had a black beret perched incongruously on spiky black hair.

'Excuse me,' said Agnes.

The effect was electric. He turned around, tangled one foot with the other, and collapsed on to his broom.

Agnes's hand flew to her mouth, and then she reached down.

'Oh, I'm so sorry!'

The hand had that clammy feel that makes a holder think longingly of soap. He pulled it away quickly, pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes and gave her a terrified smile; he had what Nanny Ogg called an underdone face, its features rubbery and pale.

'No trouble miss!'

'Are you all right?'

He scrambled up, got the broom somehow tangled between his knees, and sat down again sharply.

'Er... shall I hold the broom?' said Agnes helpfully.

She pulled it out of the tangle. He got up again, after a couple of false starts.

'Do you work for the Opera House?' said Agnes.

'Yes miss!'

'Er, can you tell me where I have to go for the auditions?'

He looked around wildly. 'Stage‑door!' he said. 'I'll show you!' The words came out in a rush, as if he had to line them up and fire them all in one go before they had time to wander off.

He snatched the broom out of her hands and set off down the steps and towards the corner of the building. He had a unique stride: it looked as though his body were being dragged forward and his legs had to flail around underneath it, landing wherever they could find room. It wasn't so much a walk as a collapse, indefinitely postponed.

His erratic footsteps led towards a door in the side wall. Agnes followed them in.

just inside was a sort of shed, with one open wall and a counter positioned so that someone standing there could watch the door. The person behind it must have been a human being because walruses don't wear coats. The strange man had disappeared somewhere in the gloom beyond.

Agnes looked around desperately.

'Yes, miss?' said the walrus man. It really was an impressive moustache, which had sapped all the growth from the rest of its owner.

'Er... I'm here for the... the auditions,' said Agnes. 'I saw a notice that said you were auditioning–'

She gave a helpless little smile. The doorkeeper's face proclaimed that it had seen and been unimpressed by more desperate smiles than even Agnes could have eaten hot dinners. He produced a clipboard and a stub of pencil.

'You got to sign here,' he said.

'Who was that...person who came in with me?'

The moustache moved, suggesting a smile was buried somewhere below. 'Everyone knows our Walter Plinge.'

This seemed to be all the information that was likely to be imparted.

Agnes gripped the pencil.

The most important question was: what should she call herself? Her name had many sterling qualities, no doubt, but it didn't exactly roll off the tongue. It snapped off the palate and clicked between the teeth, but it didn't roll off the tongue.

The trouble was, she couldn't think of one with great rotational capabilities.

Catherine, possibly.

Or... Perdita. She could go back to trying Perdita. She'd been embarrassed out of using that name in Lancre. It was a mysterious name, hinting of darkness and intrigue and, incidentally, of someone who was quite thin. She'd even given herself a middle initial–X–which stood for 'someone who has a cool and exciting middle initial'.

It hadn't worked. Lancre people were depressingly resistant to cool. She had just been known as 'that Agnes who calls herself Perditax'.

She'd never dared tell anyone that she'd like her full name to be Perdita X Dream. They just wouldn't understand. They'd say things like: if you think that's the right name for you, why have you still got two shelves full of soft toys?

Well, here she could start afresh. She was good. She knew she was good.

Probably no hope for the Dream, though.

She was probably stuck with the Nitt.

Nanny Ogg usually went to bed early. After all, she was an old lady. Sometimes she went to bed as early as 6 a. m.