The hall where Kozelsk's rulers had once governed was smaller than Batu had expected, even for a town this size. The walls were plain timber and a single long table, scarred by years of use, dominated the room. At its head sat a simple bench, no finer than the others except for its position.
There was no gold, no carved saints watching from the rafters as they had in Ryazan's church. Whatever authority had ruled here had done so from a room that a prosperous merchant in Sarai would have considered modest.
Through the open doorway, smoke still rose above the rooftops in scattered pillars. Most of the day's fires had burned down to glowing embers, though one deeper in the town continued to feed a thicker plume into the pale morning sky.
The battle itself had ended hours ago. Now came the work that always followed victory, what had been spent against what had actually been gained.
