The Jochid wing returned to the western road within days, leaving Kiev's smoke to thin itself out behind them. From there the campaign settled back into the rhythm it always found once the fighting ended and the march began again. Days lost their shape. What mattered was what each rider carried into camp, and how much the world had changed beneath those words before anyone finally spoke them aloud.
The reports reached him the same way they always did now, gathered up after passing through half a dozen relay riders.
Sarai kept growing whether Batu stood inside its walls or not.
The workshop district had spread beyond the dry channel Khulgen once marked as its boundary. The granary wing built after Bulgar had filled so quickly that another had to be added. Mahmud's clerks had stopped counting new families because the number no longer meant enough. They counted new streets instead.
