Fylon came to the supply office after dark, which was not unusual, but the way he closed the door behind him—slowly, deliberately, with the care of a man who did not want to be overheard—told Lysander that something had changed.
"I found him," Fylon said.
Lysander set down his stylus. The militia supply lists could wait. "The intermediary."
"Yes. The one who carries messages between Rethon and Teles." Fylon sat, uninvited, which he almost never did. His face was drawn, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had been a week ago. "It's not a servant. It's not a merchant. It's a guard."
"Where."
"The council chamber. He's one of the door guards. Third watch, every third night." Fylon paused. "His name is Echelos. He's been in the palace guard for six years. Before that, he served in the lower town garrison."
