Fylon came after the eighth hour.
Late. The hour when Fylon came without being summoned meant the information had waited as long as it could.
He sat. He put a folded note on the table.
"The oldest councillor," he said. "Rethon."
Lysander looked at the note but did not reach for it yet.
"Tell me first," he said.
"He has been meeting with a merchant. Twice in the past three weeks. The merchant's name is Teles — he runs grain and olive oil through the southern ports. Legitimate business. But Teles has a brother in Corinth who has been in the Mycenaean commercial network for fifteen years."
"What does Rethon give him."
"I do not know the content. What I know is the pattern. Rethon meets Teles. Teles sends a letter south. The letter goes through the Corinthian network." He paused. "The timing of the meetings aligns with three events. The wave. The Mycenaean refusal. The council document."
"He is sending information."
"I believe so."
"To whom."
