The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10)

The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10) Page 150

‘Of course, sir. How soon—’

‘You are to set aside a company’s supply of water, Quartermaster. Initial the barrels with my sigil. They are to be breached only upon my personal command, and the portions will be allotted to the names on the list you will be given. No deviation.’

Pores’s gaze had narrowed. ‘A company’s allotment, Fist?’

‘Yes.’

‘And should I assume, sir, that your extra guards will be taking extra care in guarding those barrels?’

‘Are my instructions clear, Quartermaster?’

‘Aye, Fist. Perfectly clear. Now, as to disposition. How many extra guards will you be assigning?’

‘Ten should do, I think.’

‘Ten? In a single shift of rounds they’d be hard pressed to keep an eye on five wagons, sir, much less the scores and scores—’

‘Redistribute your other guards accordingly, then.’

‘Yes sir. Very good, sir.’

‘I am trusting to your competence, Pores, and your discretion. Are we understood?’

‘We are, Fist Blistig.’

Satisfied, he left the tent, paused outside the flap to glower at the dozen or so soldiers still lingering. ‘First soldier caught trying to buy water gets tried for treason, and then executed. Now, you still got a reason to see the quartermaster? No, didn’t think so.’

Blistig set out for his tent. The heat was building. She’s not going to kill me. I ain’t here to die for her, or any other fucking glory. The real ‘unwitnessed’ are the ones who survive, who come walking out of the dust when all the heroes are dead. They did what they needed to live .

Pores understands. He’s cut from the same cloth as me. Hood himself knows that crook’s got his own private store squirrelled away somewhere. Well, he’s not the only smart bastard in this army .

You ain’t getting me, Tavore. You ain’t .

Frowning, Pores rose and began pacing, circling the folding table and the three-legged stool. Thrice round and then he grunted, paused and called out, ‘Himble Thrup, you out there?’

A short, round-faced but scrawny soldier slipped in. ‘Been waiting for your call, sir.’

‘What a fine clerk you’ve become, Himble. Is the list ready?’

‘Aye, sir. What did Lord Knock-knees want, anyway?’

‘We’ll get to that. Let’s see your genius, Himble – oh, here, let me unfold it. You know, it’s amazing you can write at all.’

Grinning, Himble held up his hands. The fingers had been chopped clean off at the knuckles, on both hands. ‘It’s easy, sir. Why, I never been a better scriber than I am now.’

‘You still have your thumbs.’

‘And that’s it, sir, that’s it indeed.’

Pores scanned the parchment, glanced at his clerk. ‘You certain of this?’

‘I am, sir. It’s bad. Eight days at the stretch. Ten days in pain. Which way do we go?’

‘That’s for the Adjunct to decide.’ He folded up the parchment and handed it back to Himble. ‘No, don’t deliver it just yet. The Fist is sending us ten handpicked thugs to stand guard over his private claim – a company’s supply – and before you ask, no, I don’t think he means to share it with anyone, not even his lackeys.’

‘Just like y’said, sir. That it weren’t gonna be just regulars snivelling for a sip. Is he the first?’

‘And only, I should think, at least of that rank. We’ll get a few lieutenants in here, I expect. Maybe even a captain or two, looking out for the soldiers under them. How are the piss-bottles going?’

‘Being d’sturbeted right now, sir. You’d think they’d make faces, but they don’t.’

‘Because they’re not fools, Himble. The fools are dead. Just the wise ones left.’

‘Wise, sir, like you ’n’ me.’

‘Precisely. Now, sit yourself down here and get ready to scribe. Tell me when you’re set.’ Pores resumed pacing.

Himble drew out his field box of stylus, wax tablets and wick lamp. From a sparker he lit the lamp and warmed the tip of the stylus. When this was done he said, ‘Ready, sir.’

‘Write the following: “Private missive, from Lieutenant Master-Sergeant Field Quartermaster Pores, to Fist Kindly. Warmest salutations and congratulations on your promotion, sir. As one might observe from your advancement and, indeed, mine, cream doth rise, etc. In as much as I am ever delighted in corresponding with you, discussing all manner of subjects in all possible idioms, alas, this subject is rather more official in nature. In short, we are faced with a crisis of the highest order. Accordingly, I humbly seek your advice and would suggest we arrange a most private meeting at the earliest convenience. Yours affectionately, Pores.” Got that, Himble?’