Yes."
"When the tar dries."
Daidalos appeared on the stairs. His bandaged hands were black with tar. He looked at the ground below the wall.
"Three days," he said. "Then the tar cracks. The sun dries it. The rain washes it. Three days of effectiveness. Maybe less."
Hector looked at Lysander.
"Three days. Then they come with everything."
"Yes."
Hector turned and walked toward the stairs. His armour was dented again. A new cut on his cheek. He did not touch it.
Lysander stood on the wall. The tar held. For now.
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Two days. No attack.
Lysander stood on the northern wall at dawn and watched the Greek camp. The platforms were visible — eight of them, lined up behind the palisade. Men were working on them. Repairing. Modifying.
But they were not moving.
"He is waiting," Lysander said.
Hector was beside him. "For what."
