‘We have to get out of here!’ he hissed.

The sapper glanced at Mappo, noted his wry smile as he slowly backed away. ‘Calm down, lad. What is the problem?’

‘The High Priest – he’s of the Shadow Cult, Fiddler. Don’t you see – Apsalar ...’

Something cold slithered along the sapper’s bones. ‘Oh, damn,’ he whispered. ‘I see your point.’ He looked up as the young woman stepped to the foot of the bed, and spoke in a low tone. ‘Your mind still your own, lass?’

‘The little man treats me well,’ she said, shrugging.

‘Well?’ Crokus spluttered. ‘Like the prodigal returned, you mean! What’s to stop Cotillion from possessing you all over again?’

‘You need only ask his servant,’ a new voice said from the doorway. Icarium stood leaning, arms crossed, against the frame. His slitted grey eyes were fixed on the room’s far corner.

From the gloom of the shadows there a figure took shape. Iskaral Pust, seated on a strangely wrought chair, squirmed and flung a glare at the Jhag. ‘I was to remain unseen, fool! What gift shadows when you so clearly divine what they hide? Pah! I am undone!’

Icarium’s thin lips quirked slightly. ‘Why not give them answer, Iskaral Pust? Put them at ease.’

‘Put them at ease?’ The High Priest seemed to find the words awkward. ‘What value that? I must think. At ease. Relaxed. Unmindful of restraint. Careless. Yes, of course! Excellent idea.’ He paused, swung his head to Fiddler.

The sapper watched a smile slide aboard the wizened man’s face, oiled and smooth and pathetically insincere.

‘Everything’s fine, my friends,’ he purred. ‘Be calm. Cotillion is done with possessing the lass. The bane of Anomander Rake’s threat remains. Who wants that crude conveyor of uncivilized mayhem crashing through the temple door? Not Shadowthrone. Not the Patron of Assassins. She is protected still. Besides which, Cotillion finds no further value in using her, and indeed the residue of his talents still within her gives cause for secret concern—’ His face twisted on itself. ‘No, better keep that thought unspoken!’ He smiled again. ‘Cultured conversation has been rediscovered and used with guile and grace. Look upon them, Iskaral Pust, they are won over one and all.’

There was a long silence.

Mappo cleared his throat. ‘The High Priest rarely has company,’ he said.

Fiddler sighed, suddenly exhausted. He leaned back, closed his eyes. ‘My horse? Did it live?’

‘Yes,’ Crokus said. ‘It’s been taken care of, as have the others – those that Mappo had time to tend to, that is. And there’s a servant here, somewhere. We haven’t seen him, but he does good work.’

Apsalar spoke. ‘Fiddler, tell us about Tremorlor.’