The lamp oil in the administrative building smelled different from the mosque's, cheaper and cutting. It was a building that ran on purpose.
The garrison rider had found the room and confirmed it with the darughachi's office before sunset, and when Batu arrived through the building's southern entrance two of the Khar Kheshig riders took their positions at the door without instruction.
Both men were already inside.
The Persian was standing near the table with his document case open and its contents arranged, specific documents fanned out in a specific order, the preparation of a man who had decided that organization was its own argument. He was perhaps fifty, broad through the jaw, with the posture of someone who had learned to hold chronic anxiety in place.
When Batu entered he bowed in the Persian form, deep and extended, and said something in Persian before the garrison rider had positioned himself.
