Korrin had the plan in order before the midday bell stopped ringing. He did not write it down. A plan written down was a plan that a clerk could argue with, and he had learned in the Lantern Ford wardens’ hut that a clerk could argue with anything if he had enough ink.
Four of the Hard Hands stood behind him in the Great Hall. Their names were Dunstan, Hobb, the younger Ferris and a silent lad from the Lowgate mill called Teal, who had got tired of being asked where he had got such a name. They had drilled since dawn in the yard. Their boots were still wet with the wash-pump’s water, and their faces were red and sure, and they were standing in the way Korrin had taught them, with their weight back and their hands at their belts and nothing in their eyes but the next order.
“The granaries are at Lantern Ford,” said Korrin. “Twelve leagues on the Lessary road. Across the ford and up the bank. The Crown keeps its winter there in stone, with a roof on it and a wall round the roof.” He looked at Idrin, who sat at the head of the table with his hands flat on the wood. “We go before the quarter-day. We take the granary. We carry what we can carry and we burn the rest, so it does not go to whoever is hungry enough to buy it.”
