Astonished, Fiddler glanced at Crokus. The Daru shook his head.

‘Apsalar,’ the sapper said slowly, ‘you were but a child when Aren rebelled then fell to the T’lan Imass.’

‘I know that,’ she replied. ‘Yet these memories... they are so clear. I was... sent to Aren ... to see the slaughter. To find out what happened. I... I argued with Surly. No-one else was in the room. Just Surly and ... and me.’

They reached the other end of the square. Fiddler reined in and regarded Apsalar for a long moment.

Crokus said, ‘It was the Rope, the patron god of assassins, who possessed you. Yet your memories are—’

‘Dancer’s.’ As soon as he said it, Fiddler knew it was true. ‘The Rope has another name. Cotillion. Hood’s breath, so obvious! No-one doubted that the assassinations occurred. Both Dancer and the Emperor ... murdered by Laseen and her chosen Clawmasters. What did Laseen do with the bodies? No-one knows.’

‘So Dancer lived,’ Crokus said with a frown. ‘And ascended. Became a patron god in the Warren of Shadow.’

Apsalar said nothing, watching and listening with a carefully controlled absence of expression on her face.

Fiddler was cursing himself for a blind idiot. ‘What House appeared in the Deck of Dragons shortly afterward? Shadow. Two new Ascendants. Cotillion ... and Shadowthrone ...’

Crokus’s eyes widened. ‘Shadowthrone is Kellanved,’ he said. ‘They weren’t assassinated – either of them. They escaped by ascending.’

‘Into the Shadow Realm.’ Fiddler smiled wryly. ‘To nurse their thoughts of vengeance, leading eventually to Cotillion possessing a young fishergirl in Itko Kan, to begin what would be a long, devious path to Laseen. Which failed. Apsalar?’

‘Your words are true,’ she said without inflection.

‘Then why,’ the sapper demanded, ‘didn’t Cotillion reveal himself to us? To Whiskeyjack, to Kalam? To Dujek? Dammit, Dancer knew us all – and if that bastard understood the notion of friendship at all, then those I’ve just mentioned were his friends—’

Apsalar’s sudden laugh rattled both men. ‘I could lie and say he sought to protect you all. Do you really wish the truth, Bridgeburner?’

Fiddler felt himself flushing. ‘I do,’ he growled.

‘Dancer trusted but two men. One was Kellanved. The other was Dassem Ultor, the First Sword. Dassem is dead. I am sorry if this offends you, Fiddler. Thinking on it, I would suggest that Cotillion trusts no-one. Not even Shadowthrone. Emperor Kellanved ... well enough. Ascendant Kellanved – Shadowthrone – ah, that is something wholly different.’

‘He was a fool,’ Fiddler pronounced, gathering up his reins.

Apsalar’s smile was strangely wistful.

‘Enough words,’ Crokus said. ‘Let’s get out of this damned city.’

‘Aye.’