The onstage rebels broke through the wall and the Silastians retreated across the lake to the upper city, the audience oohing and ahhing over the clever portrayal of Darfri magic, with wispy silks on hidden sticks simulating the wind that had diverted our arrows and hidden the rebels’ movements. But I found myself searching the dark corners of the theater again. I felt unsettled, like the uneasy feeling on waking knowing some dreaded task or event awaited before being awake enough to remember what it was. I didn’t like it.
The feeling persisted through Tain’s onstage poisoning, Kalina’s brave escape from the city under the water gate, and even several of Jovan’s most significant scenes: finding a cure for the poison, confronting the traitor and poisoner, Marco. I barely followed any of it.
“Is something the matter, Uncle?” Dija whispered at last.
“It’s nothing. I just need a little air,” I whispered, and ducking awkwardly I edged to the aisle, grateful we had come in late and were seated near the end of the bench. I leaned against the heavy drapes, my eyes averted from the bright stage, hands squeezing alternately into fists as I counted silently in my head. Shadowy figures moved at the edges of the theater; someone in an alcove near the front was operating a remote pulley system to work the fake catapults on the stage, several musicians were playing instruments at key moments to enhance the atmosphere, and the occasional audience member slipped in or out of their seats, moving slowly in the dark.
When a creepy, echoing windy sound erupted right next to me, I started, one hand flying into my paluma to reach for the concealed pouches there, before I realized there was a young man on a perch above, concealed by the curtain, playing a long, tubular instrument that created the eerie sound of wind. Rather than releasing the tension it only looped it tighter inside me.
And then I saw him. Perhaps he moved, or was caught in a bit of reflected light from the stage, or maybe my restless gaze simply happened on the right place at the right time, but I looked up, and in the shadows of the ceiling, balanced on a support beam in the center back of the room, there he was. A man—or a figure, anyway, but already my brain was filling in the rough shape, barely lit in reflected stage light—crouched above the audience, utterly still. Not moving ropes or directing lights, he might have been part of the structure itself if I hadn’t seen the gleam of brown skin, an unmistakable curl of hair against a cheek. Already the ceiling had fallen into darkness again and there was nothing to see but indistinct blackness.
A cool, hard sensation filled my chest. There was no pleasure in being right. It was him, the man I’d glimpsed following the Chancellor over the past few months, a man with unremarkable features and the studied air of normalcy only a fellow practitioner could identify. Every time I’d seen him he had disappeared before I could point him out to the blackstripes, and I suspected even they thought I was imagining things. But this time he was here, ready to act, and so was I. Staying tight against the curtains, I moved slowly up the aisle, my eyes fixed on the mass of black, trying to find him again. My heart pounded. Of course it could be someone from the production staff. But almost all the people I cared about most in the world were sitting below, clumped together and vulnerable, and I wouldn’t risk their safety for the sake of my pride.
I glanced behind at the blackstripes. The two on the nearest door weren’t looking in my direction; one had her back half-turned, eyes roaming the audience, while the other seemed to be watching the play, his posture bored and languid. I started toward them, but had only taken a few steps when someone opened the door at the other side of the theater and the dim light leaking in illuminated the ceiling for a moment. My head snapped up and I saw him again, crouching like a statue on a wall, something drawn to his face—a thin stick of some kind—and instinct took over.
“Assassin!” I yelled.
In the temporary quiet, my cry rang out, explosive. The door slapped shut and patrons leapt to their feet, the crowd erupting into chaos in the darkness. Someone screamed. Panicked voices swept the room. On the stage, the performance stopped and someone swung one of the big focused-beam lamps in our direction, so the writhing black mess of bodies disappeared in an explosion of white across my eyes. When it cleared I could no longer make out the figure on the beams above. And from behind, someone strong seized my arms and hauled me backward.
I struggled to turn, to pull free, but no sooner had I yanked one arm loose than a thick forearm was around my neck. Terror filled me. How many were there? I’d been so focused on the person above I hadn’t stopped to think they might have accomplices. My vision was streaked with spots and stripes, obscuring my view of the crowd now struggling to escape their rows, so I could not make out Tain, or Dija, or Lini, or anyone. People were streaming past me, pushing for the exits, too many for the blackstripes to contain. Someone shoved into us and the grip around my neck tightened. Dizziness closed in around my head.
Then, “Uncle Jovan! Let him go!”
“Let him go, by the fortunes! That’s Credo Jovan.”
The pressure around my neck released abruptly, and I half-stepped, half-slid away. It was one of Tain’s blackstripes, the man by the door, who’d had me. Dija pushed her way over, her glasses askew and her eyes frightened, but apparently unhurt. I patted her shoulder weakly as I scanned the room. The high lamps on the walls were stuttering and starting, and though I searched out the interlocking beams on the ceiling, there was no sign anyone had ever been there. Tain appeared a moment later, his hand on my shoulder to steady me as I sagged with relief to see him safe.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
I shook my head and massaged my throat, scanning the crowd, looking for the man whose ordinary face I would surely recognize. Half the theater had already emptied, and those who had stayed were standing, staring, their alarm fading. Most of the half-lit figures were people I knew, and none looked suspicious, merely confused. Hot frustration doused me. “There was someone there. On the beams in the ceiling.”
“What did you see, Credo?” the blackstripe asked politely. Tain’s brows were drawn in concern, and Kalina joined us, breathing heavily.
“Someone was crouched on the beam, there, above the Chancellor,” I said, gesturing to the ceiling. “I saw them put something to their mouth. I thought—” My voice faded. It would be too specific to say they’d had some kind of projectile, perhaps a poison dart like the Marutian one that had killed Chancellor Ardana eighty years ago. Kalina was frowning, following my gaze; she knew what I had suspected of the man who had been watching Tain. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I only saw them for a moment when the light from the door came in.”
“And you got out of your seat?”
“No. I was already in the aisle, I—” Again, I dropped off, not wanting to admit it had only been a feeling that something was wrong. Already the expressions of the people listening were changing, growing skeptical. I cleared my throat. “I was going to go out for some air. I saw movement and noticed the person on the ceiling.”
“It was very dark,” the other blackstripe offered, her voice not quite disbelieving. She stared up at the obviously empty beams. “You might have been mistaken?”
“I suppose,” I said, unable to keep the stiffness from my reply.