‘Are you rationing?’
‘Of course, sir. But it’s difficult, since we don’t seem to have any reliable information on how many days it will take to cross this desert. Or, rather, nights.’ Pores hesitated, and then he leaned forward. ‘Sir, if you were to approach the Adjunct. The rumour is, she has a map. She knows how wide this damned desert is, and she’s not telling. Why is she not telling? Because—’
‘Because it’s too far,’ Blistig growled.
Lifting his hands in a just-so gesture, Pores leaned back. ‘My carefree days are over, sir. This is now in deadly earnest.’
‘You have the right of that.’
‘Did the Adjunct send you, Fist? Have you been requested to make a report on our provisions? If so, I have a tally here—’
‘How many days before we’re out of water?’ Blistig demanded.
‘At fullest rationing, and allowing for the beasts of burden, about five.’
‘And without the animals?’
‘Without the oxen at least, we’d end up having to pull the wagons ourselves – hard work, thirsty work. I cannot be certain, but I suspect any gains would be offset by the increased consumption among the pull-crews—’
‘But that would diminish over time, would it not? As the barrels emptied.’
‘True. Fist, is this the Adjunct’s command? Do we slaughter the oxen? The horses?’
‘When that order comes, soldier, it will not be going through you. I am prepared to strengthen the guard around the wagons, Pores.’
‘Excellent—’
‘Reliable guards,’ Blistig cut in, fixing Pores with his eyes.
‘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?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Please read it back to me.’
Himble cleared his throat, squinted at the tablet. ‘“Pores to Kindly meet in secret when?”’
‘Excellent. Dispatch that at once, Himble.’
‘Before or after the one to the Adjunct?’
‘Hmm, before, I think. Did I not say “a crisis of the highest order”?’
Himble squinted again at the tablet and nodded. ‘So you did, sir.’
‘Right, then. Be off with you, Corporal.’
Himble packed up his kit, humming under his breath.
Pores observed him. ‘Happy to be drummed out of the heavies, Himble?’
The man paused, cocked his head and considered. ‘Happy, sir? No, not happy, but then, get your fingers chopped off an’ what can y’do?’
‘I have heard of one of your companions getting a special leather harness made—’
‘Only one hand was done with ’im, sir. I lost the shield side in the first stand, and then the sword one in the fourth push.’
‘And now you’re a clerk.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Pores studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘On your way, Himble.’
Once he’d left, Pores continued pacing. ‘Note to self,’ he muttered, ‘talk to the armourer and weaponsmith. See if we can rig up something. Something tells me Himble’s old talents will become necessary before too long. With respect to the well-being and continued existence of one Pores, humble, most obedient officer of the Bonehunters.’ He frowned. Eight at the stretch. Ten in pain. May the gods above help us all.
Fist Kindly ran a hand over his head as if smoothing down hair. For a brief instant Lostara Yil found the gesture endearing. The moment passed when she reminded herself of his reputation. In any case, the man’s worried expression was troubling, and she could see quiet dismay in his eyes.