‘I would have thought spices the least of their concerns right now,’ muttered Lorius.
As rain began to fall, footsteps could be heard behind them. Running fast. Olmaat stopped and turned, ready in an instant. Jarinn turned too and smiled.
‘Hithuur,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re safe.’
The tall gaunt scripture scholar lived at Aryndeneth, rarely travelling to the city. He had come to the temple a broken ula. His family lost to the Garonin. Only in Yniss had he found solace and he was a fervent student. Jarinn suspected his aspirations went further than a reader of the Aryn Hiil, the core text of the Ynissul faith.
Hithuur had never said but surely he wanted to be accepted as one of the Silent. There was a passion in his eyes and a determination in the set of his body and the questions he asked. And he did not seek the love of another iad. He clung to the belief that his family was still alive, one day to be found and freed.
‘I had to know you would be safe,’ said Hithuur, trotting up while gathering his shirt collar against the rain.
‘I am with Olmaat. How much safer can I get?’
Hithuur did not smile. ‘You’re running into trouble if you go through the spice market. I have a safe place just to the north.’
The rain fell in stair rods, bouncing from the cobbles and setting up a roar on domed and steep-pitched roofs all around them. Olmaat set himself between Jarinn and Hithuur.
‘What’s the problem beyond the market?’ asked Olmaat.
‘We’ve had information that-’ Hithuur looked briefly at Lorius ‘-elves of other threads want to kidnap you. Use you as currency in a power struggle. They all know the limited ways you can leave the city from the Gardaryn. You should lie low, High Priest Jarinn. We can move again when passions falter.’
‘It makes sense, Olmaat,’ said Jarinn, feeling the edge of anxiety and the full force of sadness filling him. ‘See, Lorius? Your plans are poorly thought out.’
‘Where is this place?’ asked Olmaat.
‘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.