“Robertson!” the mer snapped. “Wake up!”

“Whah?” the messenger said, sitting up and looking around blearily.

“Wake up and get ready to take a message,” the mer said.

“Yes, sir,” the private replied, turning up the oil lamp on his table and fumbling out writing materials and instruments.

“When you’ve delivered the message, go wake up the rest of the messengers; we’re going to have a busy day.”

“Yes, sir,” the messenger repeated. As the mer dictated, the pen of the messenger trembled and his face, too, turned stark white in the red lamplight.

“As you can see,” the young man said, drawing another line on the chalkboard. “Subedei used indirect methods in each of his campaigns. And in each of his major battles, although often heavily outnumbered by equally trained forces, he was able to overcome them by destroying their will to fight or their means.”

The instructor was, if anything, younger than most of his students, which were a young crowd. He was barely twenty, but eyes were cold and old and his hard face was lined with scars, as was the hand that wielded the chalk. His other hand ended in a complex hook and clamp prosthetic. That was currently hooked in the belt of his undress uniform, a gray kimonolike tunic with an undershirt of unbleached cosilk, a heavy cosilk scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into the tunic, blue pants with a light blue seam down the trouser-leg and heavy, rough-leather boots. The uniform was somewhat faded with use and washings and the boots had seen heavy use too. But it was clearly comfortable wear to the young man, clothes that he had worn for enough days and years to consider them normal wear. Besides being young, he was also a large man. Very large. The chalk looked like a stubby twig in his hand.

“Now,” he said, turning to the class that was rapidly trying to repeat his sketches. “Can anyone tell me of a strategic use of the indirect approach?”