Falathar is waiting for you in the lobby, looking up with interest at the backstage buildings where they're visible over the admissions gate. He's even more simply dressed than the night before, wearing a black scholar's robe over sensible boots. If you didn't know who he was, you'd take him for a university student hoping to reserve a place in the cheaper seats.
"Master Osberht," he says. "I hope I haven't interrupted your work. I intended to leave a message for you, but was told that you might have a few minutes to spare."