‘To the T-intersection, down the left passage to the two doors. The one to the left takes us into the tower. Top floor.’ Apsalar smiled.

Fiddler stared at her a moment, then nodded. Your borrowed memories . . .

Moby led the way, revealing a return of nerve, and something like possessive pride. Just beyond the intersection, in the left-hand passage, there was an alcove set in the wall, on which hung resplendent scale armour suited to a wearer over ten foot tall and of massive girth. Two double-bladed axes leaned against the niche walls, one to either side. Moby paused there to play a tiny, loving hand over one iron-sheathed boot, before wistfully moving on. Crokus stumbled in passing as it momentarily gripped his full attention.

Upon opening the door, they entered the tower’s ground floor. A stone staircase spiralled up from its centre. At the foot of the saddlebacked steps lay another body, a young, dark-skinned woman who looked as if she had been placed there but an hour before. She was dressed in what were clearly underclothes, though the armour that had once covered them was nowhere to be seen. Vicious wounds crisscrossed her slight form.

Apsalar approached, crouched down and rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘I know her,’ she whispered.

‘Eh?’ Rellock growled.

‘The memory of the one who possessed me, Father,’ she said. ‘His mortal memory—’

‘Dancer,’ Fiddler said.

She nodded. ‘This is Dassem Ultor’s daughter. The First Sword recovered her after Hood was done using her, and brought her here, it seems.’

‘Before breaking his vow to Hood—’

‘Aye, before Dassem cursed the god he once served.’

‘That was years ago, Apsalar,’ Fiddler said.

‘I know.’

They were silent, all studying the frail young woman lying at the foot of the stairs. Mappo shifted Icarium’s weight in his arms, as if uneasy with the echo he knew he had become, even though it was understood that he would not do with his burden what Dassem Ultor had done.

Apsalar straightened and cast her eyes up the staircase. ‘If Dancer’s memory serves, the portal awaits.’

Fiddler swung to the others. ‘Mappo? You will join us?’

‘Aye, though perhaps not all the way – assuming there’s a means to leave that warren when one so chooses—’

‘Quite an assumption,’ the sapper said.

The Trell simply shrugged.

‘Iskaral Pust?’

‘Oh, aye. Of course, of course! Why not, why ever not? To walk the maze back out? Insanity! Iskaral Pust is anything but insane, as you all well know. Aye, I shall accompany you . .. and silently add to naught but myself: perhaps an opportunity for betrayal will yet arise! Betray what? Betray whom? Does it matter? It is not the goal that brings pleasure, but the journey taken to achieve it!’

Fiddler met Crokus’s sharp gaze. ‘Watch him,’ he said.

‘I shall.’