‘The Hausolis Playhouse.’
‘A major public building,’ said Olmaat. ‘Surely you could have found something a little more obvious? The lawn of the temple piazza perhaps.’
Hithuur’s face darkened a shade. ‘It has significant benefits. Not least that it is closed during the grieving period for Jilad Kantur. And from the rear, no one overlooks those arriving or leaving. It is secure.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Olmaat. ‘Tai. A hundred paces ahead. Left and right. Quick and silent.’
Olmaat’s Tai turned north. At the corners of a side street, they swarmed up the sides of houses as fast as most elves could run. Scaling tiled roofs designed to channel the heaviest of rainfall into gully, gutter and storm drain as if they were climbing an easy flight of stairs. Jarinn watched them go, a smile on his lips despite the situation, the rain and the pain in his joints.
‘They are something to behold,’ he said to Hithuur, looking across at the adept. Hithuur turned to him, his expression one Jarinn could easily mistake for worry. ‘Something wrong?’
Hithuur tried a smile. ‘No, no. Just regret that I am not good enough to be one of them.’
‘But you will make a fine addition to another order,’ said Jarinn. ‘You are meant for great things.’
Olmaat gestured his charges before him and followed along behind. The front of the playhouse bordered an area of gardens. They were a popular gathering place where people ate, drank and watched entertainment provided by a legion of jugglers, singers and minstrels before the main event.
With the theatre dark while they grieved for their principal actor, the lawns were empty of the revellers who would shelter under leathers when the heaviest rains fell. Jarinn approached at a half-trot; it was as much as his arthritis would allow. He saw Olmaat’s Tai emerge from the shadows on either flank and disappear to the left and right of the playhouse. Olmaat held up a hand. Jarinn, Lorius and Hithuur stopped.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jarinn.
‘Nothing,’ said Olmaat. ‘I need to be sure we aren’t observed.’
He moved on at some signal Jarinn did not see, heading to the left of the main doors, whose great double latches were carved in the shape of masked dancers. The shadows were deep here. Behind the playhouse were its workshops and stores. Timber stacks rose against high wooden walls beyond which was cleared waste ground, ear-marked for warehousing and a new marketplace for fine wooden and stone goods.
Hithuur was right: the rear access was secure. But you had to get there unseen too. Olmaat stopped in the yard, in the lee of the playhouse and spoke to his Tai. One of them scaled the gates and headed into the waste ground. The other pulled open the rear door and vanished inside. Olmaat gestured the others to him. The rain battered against the playhouse and drummed high from the stone flags that paved the yard.
Jarinn wiped his face. A pointless reflex. More rain ran down his face. He shifted his bare feet to keep them warm in the puddles in which he stood.
‘Hithuur,’ said Olmaat. ‘What will my Tai find inside? What will I see?’
Hithuur nodded. ‘The staging area is behind this door. It is clear and empty. Directly ahead is the auditorium. The curtains are drawn, and beyond them steps up to the stage. We’ll be safe here. There is food and others are coming to ensure we get to Aryndeneth safely.’
‘High Priest Jarinn does not need greater numbers,’ said Olmaat. ‘He has the TaiGethen.’
The door to the playhouse edged open. Olmaat’s Tai emerged.
‘It is empty,’ she said. ‘The auditorium is silent.’
Olmaat nodded and led them inside. Jarinn had never been back-stage at the Hausolis Playhouse though he had been on the stage a number of times, normally called from the audience to take prayers or speak from the Aryn Hiil. Here, the space echoed. Parts of sets were leant against walls and there were a few chairs and a couple of tables looking lost in the middle of the floor.
Directly ahead, the curtains were closed and still. Beyond them, the oval stage was surrounded by benches on the ground floor and two tiers of balcony seating above. It was a wonderful place. Warm and light and full of emotion. Much of the emotion hung in the air even now. But that wasn’t what Olmaat was sensing. The TaiGethen was sniffing at the air. He gestured his Tai towards the curtains.
‘Olmaat?’
Olmaat raised a hand. ‘A moment, my priest. Something smells wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is something in here not of the rainforest.’
‘Hithuur?’ Jarinn turned to his adept.
Hithuur spread his hands. ‘I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.’
‘Olmaat?’
‘Something is not right.’
Jarinn felt suddenly tired. ‘Do what you must. I’m going to sit down. Lorius?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
The two priests walked towards chairs and a table a few yards to the right of the curtains.
‘Hithuur?’ Jarinn beckoned his adept.
‘It’s more comfortable in the auditorium.’
He moved towards the curtains. Olmaat tensed. Jarinn felt suddenly vulnerable and frightened but still couldn’t place why.
‘Olmaat?’ he said a third time.
Olmaat’s Tai stepped back through the curtains.
‘The floor of the playhouse is empty,’ she said, moving back to Olmaat.
Hithuur broke into a run. There was noise behind the curtains. Slapping impacts like people landing after a jump. Olmaat’s head snapped round. The curtains were dragged aside. Six figures stood in the space. Not elves. Strangers. Blink-lives. Jarinn stopped, halfway to his seat. The blink-lives had no weapons but spread their hands, palms up. He could hear murmuring.
‘Takaar betrayed us!’ yelled Hithuur, standing by the strangers. ‘He killed my family. The harmony is dead.’
Olmaat’s Tai launched herself at the blink-lives. A jaqrui throwing crescent whispered out and chopped deep into the neck of one,who toppled back grabbing at his ruined throat as his life bled away. She took a sword from her back and thrashed it through the waist of another. An arrow from the depths of the auditorium took her through the throat.
Olmaat did not attack. Instead he turned and began sprinting towards Jarinn.
‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Get out, get out!’
Jarinn gaped. More figures were rushing up behind the line of strangers. There was a tightness in the air. Hithuur’s words hung in his mind, a blade to the heart.
‘The new order will sweep Takaar’s law away,’ shouted Hithuur. ‘You are the old way, Jarinn. And Lorius will be the first martyr of the Tuali.’
Jarinn backed away. Olmaat was nearly on him, still shouting at him to go. There was a whine in his ears and his body felt as if it had been plunged into hot water. There was a rush of energy, like his soul flaring. He felt confused. He stared at the strangers. The four remaining moved their hands together.
Heat. And soul-scourging light.
Chapter 10
Respect those you kill in battle for we are all brothers in the eyes of Shorth. Takaar couldn’t control the nausea. He twisted out of his hammock, flopped onto the ground four feet below and vomited. Green and brown flecked with red. His head pounded and his stomach twisted. He vomited again, helpless as the constriction in his gut intensified. He hauled himself up onto his hands and knees, his whole body convulsing.
He was aware of a roaring sound. He assumed it was the blood rushing around his head but it was more distant than that. As his body calmed a little, and the breaths he gasped ceased to bring more convulsions, he found he could focus outside himself.
The roaring and growling was a panther. More than one. The guttural sounds echoed his own pain and were a
