Fylon came to his office on a Wednesday morning.
He knocked his three soft knocks and came in and stood near the window. He had the quality he sometimes had when carrying information he had been thinking about — not reluctant, but considered. He had been deciding how to present it before he came.
He said: *"Doron."*
Lysander knew the name. Doron was a senior palace councillor — one of the three he had noticed at the feast in the autumn, the group that managed their own interests before the palace's. He had been watching all three of them at intervals since then. He had found nothing actionable about two of them.
He had been watching Doron more carefully than the others.
