Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
"It can't go wrong this time," Zhao purred. "There are no brothels, and," he glanced smugly outside at his ex-garrison leader's head on a pike, "no idiot garrison leaders who don't check out where they station or book troops."
He allowed himself a moment of smugness. "They're stationed in our camp, next to the sigil-bearers. It's perfect. Nothing can possibly go wrong."
In the distance, he heard an explosion, the sounds of several dozen drunk and nude archers and 3 sigil-bearers running by screaming and giggling soon followed. Zhao poked his head out of the tent and quite nearly got a face full of nudie-bits as a slightly more sober archer made a spectacular leap over an over-turned barrel of blasting jelly.
Zhao was flabbergasted.
"I stand corrected," he muttered, retreating to his tent once more.
He gnawed on the tip of his brush, then began writing.
"No… more… sake… tents…"