A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

one, with the high
walls. I see no lights—'
    'The gate is ajar,' the Adjunct said as they drew closer.
    'Never mind that,' T'amber said. 'Here they come.'
    All three spun round.
    The deadening effect of the Adjunct's unsheathed sword
was far more efficacious than that of Kalam's long-knife,
and its range was revealed as, thirty paces up the street, ten
cloaked figures shimmered into existence. 'Take cover!'
Kalam hissed, ducking down.
    Silvery quarrels flashed, barbed heads flickering in the
faint moonlight as they corkscrewed in flight. Multiple
impacts on the moss-stained wall behind them.
Straightening, Kalam cursed to see T'amber rushing the
killers.
    There's ten of them, you fool!
    He raced forward.
    Five paces from the fast-closing Claws, T'amber drew her
sword.
    There was an old saying, that for all the terror waiting in
the gloved hands of an assassin, it was as nothing against a
professional soldier. T'amber did not even slow down, her
blade weaving to either side in a blur. Bodies sprawled in
her wake, blood splashing out, knives clattering on the
cobbles. A dagger hissed through the air, caught the woman
on the right side of her chest, sinking deep. She ignored it
– Kalam's eyes widened as he saw a severed head tumble
away from what seemed the lightest slash of T'amber's
longsword, and then he joined the fight.
    Two Claws had darted past, out of T'amber's reach, and
set off towards the Adjunct. Kalam shifted to come at them
from their left. The nearer one leapt into his path, seeking
to hold Kalam long enough for the other killer to close on
Tavore.
    A dancing flurry of parries from the Claw had begun
even before Kalam engaged with his own weapons – and he
recognized that form – the Web – 'Gods below, you fool,' he
said in a snarl as he reached both long-knives into the skein
of parries, feinted with minute jabs then, breaking his
timing, evaded the knife-blades as they snapped across, and
neatly impaled both hands.
    The man screamed as Kalam closed in, pushing both
stuck hands out to the sides, and head-butted him. Hooded
head snapped back – and met the point of Kalam's righthand
long-knife as it completed its disengage to come up
behind the Claw. A grating crunch as the point drove
up into the base of his brain. Even as he crumpled Kalam
was stepping over him, into the wake of the last killer.
    The Adjunct watched calmly as the Claw launched himself
at her. Her stop-thrust took him in the cup of his
throat, between the breastbones, the heavy blade punching
through windpipe, then spine, and out the back, stretching
but not cutting the cloak.
    The Claw had thrown both daggers a heartbeat before
spitting himself on the sword, and the Adjunct had lithely
evaded both as she turned her body sideways in extending
the stop-thrust.
    Kalam slowed down, turned round, to see T'amber
walking back towards them.
    Eight dead Claws. Damned impressive. Even if it took a knife
in the lung to do it.
    There was frothy blood trickling onto T'amber's chin.
She had pulled out the knife and more blood soaked her
tunic. Yet her strides were steady.
    'Through the gate, then,' Kalam said.
    They entered the courtyard. Overgrown, filled with
rubbish. A fountain commanded the centre, the pool
entirely sheathed in gleaming algae. Insects rose from it in
a cloud that spun and whirled towards them. Kalam
pointed with one weapon to the far wall. 'That old well.
There was once a natural cistern in the limestone under all
of this. Some enterprising thief broke into it from below.
Stole an entire fortune from the family living here. Left
them destitute. This was long ago – that hoard of wealth
bankrolled Kellanved's early ventures in piracy on the lanes
between here and the Napan Isles.'
    The Adjunct glanced over. 'Kellanved was the enterprising
thief?'
    'More likely Dancer. The estate was Mock's family, and,
accordingly, the hoard was takings from twenty years of
piracy. Not long after, Kellanved usurped Mock and
annexed the whole island. Birth of the Malazan Empire.
Among the few who know about it, this is called
the Well of Plenty.'
    A cough from T'amber, and she spat out a gout of blood.
    Kalam eyed her in the gloom. That perfect face had
grown very pale. He faced the well once more. 'I'll go first.
The drop is about two and half man-heights – if you can,
use the side walls to work your way down as far as possible.
Adjunct, do you hear music?'
    'Yes. Faint.'
    Nodding, Kalam vaulted onto the lip of the well, then
worked