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.
