‘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?’
‘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.
Steven Erikson - The Crippled God
Kick ass moment #10