Chapter 50
He touched the object in Nirma's hand with the tip of his index finger, indicating a nearly invisible point on its surface.
"Its range covers the entire territory of this Byzantine City.
All of it.
From the edge of Blachernae in the north to the Theodosian Walls in the west, from the Great Palace in the east to the harbors in the south.
Wherever they arrive, wherever they appear, this device will be able to reach them."
Nirma stared at the object with barely concealed curiosity.
Her single eye shifted from the projection device in her hand to the control unit in Arya's hand, then back again.
"Its function?" she whispered, though she could already guess the answer.
Arya gave a faint smile, a smile that rarely appeared on his ever-watchful face.
"Its function is simple, yet brilliant.
This device generates an illusionary screen whose network connects directly to the user's brain.
Not the eyes, Nirma, but the brain.
Whatever the eyes see will be processed by the brain according to the illusion we create.
We can deceive the perception of thousands at once, make them see what we want them to see, not what truly stands before them."
He raised the control device in his left hand, revealing a row of tiny buttons nearly invisible to the eye.
"With this, I can manipulate the illusion. Alter it as needed. Adjust it to the situation."
Nirma nodded slowly.
Arya pressed the small control device against Nirma's temple with swift precision.
For a brief moment, she felt a strange sensation, as though thousands of fine needles pierced her brain.
The sensation vanished almost instantly, replaced by an unusual clarity, as if she could suddenly perceive a spectrum of colors she had never known existed.
She blinked, testing her vision, and found that the world around her appeared the same yet different.
It was as if a thin layer lay between her eyes and reality, a layer ready to be reshaped at any moment by Arya through the device in his left hand.
Nirma nodded faintly, signaling that she was ready.
That the transfer of illusion control to her brain had succeeded.
That they were now connected within the same network, prepared to face whatever would emerge from the relentless line of time pursuing them.
But before Nirma could say anything further, Arya suddenly leaned toward the carriage window concealed by silk curtains.
He parted the curtain slightly, glanced outside, then turned back with a face transformed.
Panic—something rarely seen upon Arya's composed and calculating expression—was now unmistakable in his widened eyes, in the tension of his jaw, in the faint tremor of his lips.
He grasped the handle on the carriage wall to steady himself against the jolting speed, then shouted toward the driver's seat ahead, his voice loud and urgent, utterly unlike the whisper from moments before.
"Prefect's soldiers! You who are driving this carriage, listen! Change the route! Now!"
His voice cut through the grinding wheels and pounding hooves.
"Do not take the main road toward Psamathia!
Avoid densely populated settlements!
Find a quieter route, farther from the crowds, even if it means we arrive later!"
He paused to draw breath, then continued in the same pressing tone.
"Whatever the risk, whatever the consequence, we cannot pass through crowded districts now.
Not with what we are about to face.
You must trust me. For our safety, for yours, for the safety of everyone living in those settlements, change the route now!"
From outside came the clipped exchanges of the Prefect's soldiers.
The crack of whips grew sharper.
The horses neighed and shifted direction abruptly.
The carriage lurched left, then right, before stabilizing on a new path, leaving the busy main road and entering narrower back streets—quieter, darker, farther from the bustling heart of Constantinople beneath the blazing sun.
Arya exhaled slowly.
His tense body eased, though his eyes remained vigilant, scanning through the slits of silk curtain.
One of the Prefect's soldiers, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke in a low voice.
"Psamathia?" he asked.
"We are heading there? To the residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos?"
Arya nodded without turning.
His gaze remained fixed on the swiftly passing scenery.
"He is our third prospective suspect.
The Doux of the Armada. Commander of the navy.
And conveniently enough, according to the information we gathered before all this began, he is currently on leave for several days."
An hour and a half had passed since the carriage left Blachernae.
During those ninety minutes that felt like ninety years, neither Nirma nor Arya relaxed their vigilance even once.
Seated facing each other inside the speeding carriage, they divided their watch silently—without words, without gestures—only through glances and eye movements practiced thousands of times together.
Nirma monitored the east and south through the slits of silk curtain on the right side.
Arya watched the west and north from the left.
Their heads moved slowly yet deliberately, scanning every stretch of sky, every gap between ancient buildings, every suspicious shadow in the distance.
Their fingers never fully left the triggers of the concealed weapons hidden within the folds of their robes.
At times they pressed slightly, feeling the cold metal, then eased again when it proved to be nothing more than shadow, drifting cloud, or passing birds.
The grinding of wheels over cobblestones filled their ears—a constant rhythm that never soothed them.
For beneath that sound they always anticipated another—one that did not belong to the year 1101 AD.
The sound of a time engine piercing through layers of reality.
The sound that would mark the beginning of chaos they had no desire to witness.
Nirma felt cold sweat run down her back.
Her heart beat faster than usual.
Every muscle in her body tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Not because she feared the Linear Time Police.
Not because she feared the battle that might come.
But because she feared what the people of Constantinople would see if that battle erupted in the middle of the city.
She imagined a mother hanging laundry in her courtyard suddenly looking up to see a massive flying vessel hovering low overhead.
She imagined merchants in the forum watching strange uniformed figures descend from the sky with weapons emitting light.
She imagined children running in terror while their parents fell to their knees, believing the apocalypse foretold in sacred scripture had arrived.
That was Nirma's greatest fear now.
A fear that kept her vigilant even as her eyes stung from staring too long into the increasingly blazing eastern sky.
Nirma drew a long breath, attempting to steady herself though she knew calm was a luxury she could not afford.
Her fingers, which had rested constantly on the trigger of her weapon, loosened slightly.
She let her hands fall to her lap, though her eyes remained alert, watching the four directions in turn.
To be continued…