Fylon was at his door before the light.
Not at first light — before it. The corridor was still dark when Lysander heard the quiet knock, the specific three-tap of someone who had learned that this particular door's occupant was a light sleeper and had calibrated accordingly.
He was already awake.
He had been awake for an hour, running vocabulary in the dark the way he did when his mind woke before his body was ready to do anything with it. Five hundred and forty words now — he had added nine before sleeping and was already reaching for the next cluster, the agricultural register he had been meaning to drill since the ship and hadn't fully gotten to.
He opened the door.
Fylon had a lamp.
He said: "Ready."
"Yes," Lysander said. "Show me."
The north stores were built into the hillside below the palace's eastern wall — a series of connected chambers cut from the living rock, cool and dark, the kind of storage that Bronze Age palaces used for exactly this purpose. Lysander had walked past the entrance twice and noted it without investigating. He was cataloguing it now, in the lamp's moving light, as Fylon led him through the first two chambers toward the third.
The smell told him before the light did.
Not overwhelming — not the full rot-smell of something completely gone. The early smell. The smell of something that had started wrong and was continuing in the same direction without anyone paying attention.
Fylon held the lamp low.
The lower third of the grain jars on the north wall of the third chamber — large clay storage vessels, sealed with cloth and clay stoppers — had a dark discoloration around their bases. Moisture coming up from the floor, Lysander assessed. The stone was weeping — groundwater seeping through a crack somewhere below, drawn up by capillary action, sitting against the clay long enough to begin breaking down what was inside.
He crouched.
He pressed his fingers against the base of the nearest jar.
Damp. Not wet — damp. The moisture was slow and consistent, which meant it had been happening for a while and would continue to happen indefinitely unless the source was addressed.
He said: "How — many — jars."
Fylon said: "In — this — chamber — maybe — thirty. In — the — next — chamber — I — am — not — sure. I — have — not — been — allowed — to — check."
"Not — allowed."
"The — supply — manager — said — the — stores — were — his — responsibility. That — a — servant — had — no — business — inspecting — them."
Lysander looked at the jar.
He said: "Open — this — one."
Fylon hesitated.
"The — supply — manager—"
"Is — not — here," Lysander said. "And — this — is — the — food — supply — of — the — palace. Open — it."
Fylon set down the lamp and worked the clay stopper loose.
The smell that came out was enough.
The top layer of grain was fine — dry, clean, the normal smell of stored barley. But below the top layer, where the moisture had been working, the grain had clumped. And below the clumped layer, at the bottom third of the jar, the smell of something actively fermenting wrong.
Not all of it. Not even most of it. But enough.
He put the stopper back.
He said: "How — long — has — the — supply — manager — known."
"He — has — known — since — the — summer. Two — months — at — least."
"And — he — told — you — it — was — not — his — concern."
"He — said — it — was — a — small — problem — that — would — resolve — itself."
Lysander stood.
He looked at the row of jars along the wall. Thirty in this chamber. He didn't know how many in the next. He didn't know how many other chambers had similar issues.
It will not resolve itself, he thought. Moisture problems do not resolve themselves. They get worse until something is done.
He had read enough agricultural history to know: grain store failures were one of the factors that had destabilized palace economies in this period. Not the only factor, not the primary factor, but one of the threads in the web. A city with compromised food stores going into a period of disruption was a city that was more fragile than it needed to be.
Fix it, he thought. Fix it now, before Priam, before anything else.
He said: "Fylon. I — need — two — things — from — you. First — I — need — to — know — every — person — who — works — in — these — stores. Every — one — who — has — access. Their — names — and — what — they — do."
"I — can — do — that."
"Second — I — need — to — know — where — the — supply — manager — is — this — morning."
Fylon said: "He — attends — the — morning — allocation — meeting. In — the — east — courtyard. Every — day — at — the — second — hour."
"Good," Lysander said. "Come — back — to — me — before — the — second — hour."
He spent the time between Fylon leaving and Fylon returning doing what he could with what he had.
He went back into the third chamber with the lamp and examined every jar in the north row. Thirty-one jars. Of those, eleven showed definite moisture damage at the base. Of those eleven, he opened four and found active spoilage in all four at varying stages.
The math was uncomfortable.
If eleven jars were damaged in this chamber and similar conditions existed in the adjacent chamber, they were looking at a significant fraction of the northern store capacity compromised. Not catastrophic — not yet. But getting there.
He noted everything.
Then he looked at the floor.
The crack was not hard to find once he was looking for it — a hairline fracture in the stone floor running along the base of the north wall, barely visible, the kind of thing that looked like nothing until you understood what it was doing. Water was moving through it from somewhere in the hillside above, emerging as slow seepage against the base of the wall, wicking upward through the stone and the clay of the jars sitting against it.
Move the jars, he thought. Away from the wall. Seal the crack. Inspect everything and remove what's already spoiled before it spreads to what isn't.
Simple. Obvious. The kind of thing that should have been done two months ago.
He put the lamp down and sat on the floor of the grain store and thought about the supply manager.
The man had known. Had been told by Fylon and had dismissed it. Had chosen, for whatever reason — laziness, politics, the particular blindness of someone who did not want to see a problem because seeing it would require doing something about it — to label it not-his-concern and wait for it to go away.
He was going to have to deal with the supply manager.
He did not yet have the standing to simply override him. He was a third son with one treaty to his name, back from a voyage three weeks ago, not yet formally acknowledged by Priam for what he had done in Sparta.
He needed to be careful about how he did this.
Not confrontation, he thought. Not yet. Not until I have the standing to back it up. Something else.
He sat with it until he heard Fylon's footsteps.
Fylon came back with names.
Seven workers in the stores — five full-time, two part-time. Their roles, their schedules, who reported to whom. Fylon delivered it with the precision of a man who had been collecting this kind of information his whole life because the people above him had never thought to ask for it and the people below him had always needed it.
He is a network all by himself, Lysander thought. He just needs someone to use it.
He said: "The — supply — manager. His — name — is — Telamon."
"Yes."
"Does — he — report — to — anyone — other — than — Priam."
"He — reports — to — the — senior — steward. A — man — named — Doros."
Lysander paused.
"Doros — the — senior — steward. Not — Doros — the — Spartan — official."
"No. A — different — Doros. Older. He — has — been — senior — steward — for — fifteen — years."
"What — is — Doros — the — steward — like."
Fylon thought for a moment.
He said: "Careful. He — does — not — like — problems — that — reach — Priam. He — prefers — things — to — be — handled — below — that — level."
"So — if — the — grain — problem — were — to — reach — Priam — directly — Doros — would — be — uncomfortable."
"Very."
"And — if — someone — were — to — bring — it — to — Doros — first — and — give — him — the — opportunity — to — handle — it — himself—"
"He — would — handle — it," Fylon said. "Quickly. And — Telamon — would — suffer — for — it."
Lysander looked at him.
"You — have — thought — about — this — before."
Fylon said: "I — have — thought — about — it — for — two — months. I — did — not — have — anyone — to — bring — it — to."
He said it simply. Not accusatory — just accurate.
"You — have — me — now," Lysander said.
"Yes," Fylon said. "I — am — beginning — to — understand — that."
He went to Doros the steward before the second hour.
The senior steward was a large man, slow-moving in the way of people whose authority was so established they no longer needed to demonstrate it through speed. He received Lysander in his working room — a space full of tablets organized with the obsessive neatness of someone whose entire self-worth was connected to administrative order.
He looked at Lysander with mild surprise — not at the visit, at the age. The third prince in his working room at this hour was not a thing that had happened before.
Lysander said: "I — want — to — tell — you — something — that — I — think — you — will — want — to — know — before — it — reaches — Priam."
He had chosen those words carefully.
Before it reaches Priam.
Doros's expression did exactly what Fylon had predicted: a subtle sharpening, a closing of the mild surprise into something more focused.
He said: "Tell — me."
Lysander told him.
The crack in the floor. The eleven jars. The moisture damage. The four opened jars with active spoilage. The two months that Telamon had known and not acted.
He told it factually, without drama, without accusation. Just: here is what is there, here is how long it has been there, here is who knew.
When he finished Doros was quiet.
He said: "You — inspected — the — stores — yourself."
"This — morning. Before — coming — here."
"The — jars — are — sealed — by — Telamon's — order. You — opened — them."
"Four — of — them. Yes."
Doros looked at him.
"You — have — no — authority — to — open — sealed — stores."
"No," Lysander said. "I — don't. I — was — concerned — about — the — palace's — food — supply — and — acted — on — that — concern. If — that — was — incorrect — I — understand. But — the — information — is — still — true — regardless — of — how — I — obtained — it."
A silence.
Doros looked at his tablets.
He said: "The — crack — in — the — floor. You — are — certain — it — is — the — source."
"I — am — not — a — builder. But — the — evidence — points — that — way. A — builder — should — look — at — it."
"Yes," Doros said. "He — should."
He picked up a stylus.
He said: "I — will — handle — this."
"I — know — you — will," Lysander said. "That — is — why — I — came — to — you."
Doros looked at him again — the assessing look of a man recalibrating who he was talking to.
He said: "You — are — back — from — Sparta."
"Yes."
"With — a — treaty."
"With — Ampelos. Yes."
"Ampelos — is — a — good — man."
"He — is."
"He — does — not — give — credit — easily."
Lysander said nothing.
Doros said: "He — sent — a — message — from — the — last — port. Before — you — arrived. He — said — the — treaty — was — well — made."
"He — was — generous."
"As — I — said," Doros said, "Ampelos — does — not — give — credit — easily."
He returned to his tablets.
"I — will — handle — the — stores," he said. "Thank — you — for — bringing — this — to — me."
Lysander stood.
At the door he said: "The — jars — that — are — already — spoiled — should — be — removed — completely. Not — just — the — bottom — layer — the — whole — jar. The — spoilage — spreads — upward — given — time."
Doros said, without looking up: "I — am — aware — of — how — spoilage — works."
"Of — course," Lysander said. "I — mention — it — only — because — Telamon — apparently — was — not."
He went out.
He found Cassandra in the library that afternoon.
She was there when he came in — the same position she had been in every time he had found her in this room, back against the shelves, tablet in her lap, the quality of stillness that was hers specifically. As if she had been there all morning and would be there all evening and the day's events were things that happened around her rather than to her.
She looked up when he came in.
She said: "You — are — back."
"Yes."
"Sit — down."
He sat.
She looked at him for a moment — the specific looking, the kind that saw more than faces.
She said: "You — went — to — Sparta."
"Yes."
"Paris — came — home — without — her."
"Yes."
She was quiet.
He waited.
She said: "I — saw — the — ship — leaving. Three — weeks — ago. And — I — saw—" she paused, the pause of someone choosing how much to say. "I — saw — two — possibilities. After — you — left."
"What — possibilities."
"In — one — Paris — came — home — with — her. The — rest — followed."
She said it flat. She did not describe the rest.
She did not need to.
"And — the — other."
"Paris — came — home — without — her. And — something — else — came — with — him. Something — I — had — not — seen — before."
"What — something."
She looked at him.
"A — document," she said. "I — saw — a — document. With — many — names. I — did — not — understand — what — it — was."
The treaty.
She had seen the treaty.
He said: "It — is — an — agreement. Between — Troy — and — Sparta. A — formal — one. With — protections — for — both — sides."
She absorbed that.
She said: "Does — it — help."
"I — think — so. I — am — not — certain."
"You — are — never — certain."
"No," Lysander said. "I — am — not. Is — that — a — problem."
She said: "Most — people — who — are — always — certain — are — certain — about — the — wrong — things. Uncertainty — that — still — acts — is — better."
He looked at her.
"You — saw — two — possibilities," he said. "And — one — of — them — happened. Does — that — mean—"
"That — I — controlled — it? No."
"That — what — I — did — mattered."
She was quiet for a moment.
She said: "I — have — been — seeing — things — since — I — was — nine — years — old. Most — of — what — I — see — happens. I — have — learned — not — to — think — of — what — I — see — as — fixed."
"Because — it — changes."
"Because — sometimes — it — changes. Not — often. Rarely."
She looked at him.
"You — change — things — more — than — anyone — I — have — ever — seen."
She said it without drama. Observation.
"How — much — more."
"I — do — not — know — how — to — measure — it. I — only — know — that — since — you — became — what — you — are — the — things — I — see — shift — more — than — they — used — to."
Since you became what you are. Not: since the fall. Not: since you changed. The careful phrasing of someone who had her own understanding of what had happened and was not saying it all.
He said: "Cassandra."
"Yes."
"You — know — what — I — am."
"I — know — that — you — are — not — who — you — were."
"Do — you — know — more — than — that."
She considered.
She said: "I — know — that — you — come — from — somewhere — that — is — not — here. Not — another — city. Another — time."
He sat very still.
"I — have — known — since — the — corridor," she said. "The — first — night. When — you — asked — me — who — I — was — instead — of — pretending — to — know."
"And — you — did — not — tell — anyone."
"Who — would — I — tell," she said. "No — one — believes — me — about — the — things — I — actually — see. Why — would — they — believe — me — about — this."
The flatness of it. Not bitterness — she was past bitterness. Just the settled, accurate statement of a woman who had made complete peace with her situation.
He said: "Are — you — afraid — of — what — I — am."
She said: "I — am — afraid — of — the — things — I — see — that — have — not — changed. The — things — that — are — still — there — despite — you."
He said: "Tell — me."
She shook her head.
"Not — yet. You — are — not — ready — to — hear — them — yet. You — need — to — build — first."
"Build — what."
"Everything — you — are — planning — to — build. The — things — on — your — list."
He stared at her.
She looked at him with the dark eyes.
"I — told — you," she said. "I — see — things."
He walked back to his room in the evening.
The palace was settling into its night rhythms — the sounds of the kitchen dying down, the lamps being lit in the corridors, the shift change of the guards at the outer wall.
He sat on his mat.
He thought about Cassandra's face when she had said: the things that are still there despite you.
He thought about what that meant.
He thought about the grain stores and Doros and the list of eight priorities.
He thought about Hector waiting to talk tomorrow, and Priam, and everything that needed to happen in the next weeks and months and years.
He picked up his shard.
He ran his vocabulary.
Five hundred and forty words.
Not enough, he thought. Still not enough. Keep going.
He kept going.