The guard's name was Echelos, and he had no idea he was being watched.
Lysander sat in the small room above the wine shop near the eastern gate, the same room where Fylon had first told him about the intermediary. The walls were thin, the window shuttered against the cold, and the only light came from a single oil lamp that burned with a low, steady flame. Fylon stood near the door, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. They had been waiting for an hour.
"He comes off duty at the tenth hour," Fylon said. "He takes the same route every night. Through the lower market, past the pottery kilns, then up the back stairs to his quarters in the guard barracks. He's alone for most of it. The stretch between the kilns and the stairs is the quietest."
"We take him there."
"Yes. Quietly. No struggle. No noise." Fylon paused. "He's not a fighter. He's a courier. He carries messages and takes bribes. When we confront him, he'll either break immediately or try to run. If he runs—"
