The supply office was quiet in the grey light before dawn. Lysander had been there since the middle of the night, unable to sleep, his mind turning over the same questions. The fire ships were being built. The militia had taken their oath. The sulfur was secured. But he could not shake the feeling that something was missing. A connection he hadn't made. A piece of the puzzle he hadn't placed.
He lit the lamp and pulled a fresh clay tablet toward him. Then another. And another. By the time the sky began to pale, he had covered the entire table with tablets, each one marked with names and lines and notations.
Fylon. The eyes and ears of the city. His network of watchers, his contacts in the harbour, his quiet, patient gathering of secrets.
Arsini. The schools. The knowledge catalogue. The children who were learning to read and calculate and think, who would one day run this city.
