After the dinner, Ulrich retreated to his office.
He did not light more than one lamp. He sat behind the broad oak desk with the half-finished training schedule still lying face down where he had left it that afternoon, and for a while he did not turn it over.
He was thinking.
Not about the Sea Lords, or the winter term, or the thousand men Fabian would have to find on the rolls. Those were problems with edges. He knew where to take hold of them.
He was thinking about the dinner.
