In his study, Baruk cradled his head in his hands. Mammot's death had come like a knife to his own heart, and he still felt its stabbing pain. He was alone in the chamber, having dismissed Roald earlier.

Rake had suspected. He'd refused to speak of it, considering it too sensitive a matter. The alchemist had wearily to admit that the Tiste Andii had been correct. Would he even have believed Rake? Undoubtedly, the power possessing Mammot had shielded itself, defying detection. Rake had anticipated Baruk's anger at such a suggestion, and had, wisely and with compassion, chosen to say nothing.

And now Mammot was dead, even as was the Jaghut Tyrant. Had it been Rake who had killed his old friend? If so, he hadn't used his sword, yet another mercy granted both Mammot and Baruk – the alchemist had sensed, if anything, a kind of relief in Mammot's death cry.

A soft cough at the door alerted him. Baruk rose swiftly and turned. His brows rose. 'Witch Derudan!'

Her face was pale, her smile wan. 'I thought of you, upon Mammot's end. I am here, so. Alas,' she said, as she strode to a chair by the fireplace and set her water-pipe down on the floor beside it, 'my servant has taken the rest of the evening off.' She removed the ash-cup and tapped its contents into the unlit hearth. 'Such mundane exertions,' she said, sighing.

At first, Baruk resented her intrusion. He preferred to mourn alone. But as he watched her, the supple grace of her movements, his thoughts changed. Her Warren was Tennes, ancient and bound to the cycles of seasons; and among the handful of deities she could call upon was Tennerock, the Boar of Five Tusks. Derudan's greatest power – the one she shared, in any case – was the Tusk named Love. He chastised himself. Slow had the realization come that she was bringing him a gift.

Derudan replaced the ash-cup and packed it with leaves. She closed a hand around it, and the contents glowed with sudden heat. A moment later the witch sat heavily in the chair. She drew deeply on the mouthpiece.

Baruk strode to the other chair. 'Rake believes it isn't yet over,' he said, sitting.

She nodded. 'I was witness to Mammot's end, yes? He was opposed by myself ... and a most remarkable wizard. The flesh that was Mammot was destroyed by a Moranth incendiary. The Jaghut spirit survived but was taken ... by an Azath.' Her heavy-lidded eyes appraised him.

'Azath? Here, in Darujhistan?'

'Indeed, such mysterious conjurings, known for their hunger for mages, will impose upon our efforts ... a certain caution, yes?'

'Where has it arisen?'

'In the garden of Simtal's estate. Did I not also mention a Moranth incendiary? Lady Simtal's Fête had some unusual guests, yes?'

'Malazans?'

'Twice my life saved – the wizard of whom I spoke, who commands within him seven Warrens—'