You arrive at the Odeon on opening night ready for anything. You're entirely prepared for shadowy monsters stalking the theater, bizarre accidents threatening to set the theater on fire, or the wrath of the royal family. Instead, when you arrive, an hour before even the most eager of audience members can be expected, all seems reasonably calm.
Perhaps too calm. The dress rehearsal the previous evening went off without a snag. That's generally considered to be a terrible omen for the performance itself.
Salar paces in the back of the house until Nichol takes him aside firmly.
"This is your first appearance on an actual stage," Nichol says. "One that does not count farm animals among the audience. Of course you are nervous. Now, you will cease pacing, and you will contemplate your lines until you're certain you remember them." Nichol holds Salar's gaze long enough to make it clear that Nichol is aware of what you and Salar plan. "And contemplate the business that follows them. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Master Nichol," Salar says. He actually seems calmer after that, although he's running his thumb obsessively over the hilt of the dagger he wears at his waist.
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