Chapter 65
Then, in a synchronized motion, Nirma and Arya offered a salute—the same salute soldiers give to their commander, the salute reserved for someone who has proven worthy of respect.
"We take our leave, Commander. There is still much we must do, many doors we must knock on, many people we must speak to. Pray that we succeed in uncovering the truth before too many lives are lost in vain."
Konstantinos Dalassenos, who had been standing patiently all this time, suddenly spoke just as Nirma and Arya were about to turn away, his voice slicing through the silence that had only just begun to settle after their long conversation.
"Wait, Lady Nirma, Sir Arya," he said, his tone no longer defensive but inquisitive—the tone of a soldier accustomed to ensuring there are no gaps in his defenses before an enemy truly departs from his sight.
"Before you go any further, before you return to this labyrinth of deception called Constantinople, allow me to ask something.
Will you not pose any further questions to me?
Is everything I have said sufficient to satisfy you, or do you still hold something back—other questions you did not have the chance to voice?"
His sharp eyes shifted from Nirma to Arya, then back to Nirma, attempting to read what lay hidden behind those calm faces—faces that had witnessed too many lies and too many bitter truths.
"I offer myself to answer more, if necessary.
I do not wish for you to leave this residence with half-truths, with questions settling in your minds only to turn into suspicion later on.
The sea has taught me that it is better to face the storm now than to wait for it to arrive when we are unprepared."
Arya, who had been gazing at Konstantinos without blinking, his eyes like two still lakes undisturbed by wind, finally yielded to a natural human need; his eyelids fell and rose in a nearly imperceptible blink—one that somehow felt like a door opening after having long been tightly shut.
Beside him, Nirma shook her head gently, a movement soft yet firm, a gesture declaring that the decision had been made and would not change.
"No, Commander Konstantinos," Nirma's voice emerged with the same gentleness she had used moments earlier, yet beneath it lay an unshakable conviction—the certainty of someone long immersed in the world of investigation, who knows when to press further and when to stop.
"Everything we require regarding the investigation connected to you, Commander, we have already obtained.
There is no need for further questions, no need for additional explanations.
What you conveyed earlier—rebuttal after rebuttal, explanation after explanation—has all been carefully recorded and will serve as material for our consideration as we construct a complete picture of what truly occurred on the morning when Étienne d'Arques met his end."
As proof of her words, Nirma lifted the wax tablet still open in her hand.
Her slender fingers moved across its surface, searching for a particular entry among the many notes etched into the wax.
When she found it, she slowly turned the tablet toward Konstantinos Dalassenos, revealing the stylus marks she had carved only minutes earlier.
Upon the still-soft wax, written in neat Greek script pressed deeply into its surface, was a brief note summarizing Nirma's provisional conclusion about the man standing before her.
'Konstantinos Dalassenos, third potential suspect.
All of his rebuttals appear logical and consistent with the events in the field.
Nevertheless, his duplicitous nature still cannot fully conceal what occurred on site.'
Konstantinos Dalassenos stared at the open wax tablet in Nirma's hand, rereading the words that named him the third potential suspect, noting the acknowledgment that the evidence against him was weak and impossible to substantiate.
Across his stern face appeared an expression difficult to interpret—a mixture of relief he did not wish to show too clearly and deep gratitude that the accusations once hovering above his head were beginning to fade like morning mist struck by sunlight.
He exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like releasing a burden he had carried without realizing it—the burden of being a suspect in a murder investigation involving the Emperor's name and the crusading forces, a burden capable of destroying his career and family in an instant if the evidence had been strong enough to cast him into the palace's underground prison.
Yet then, in a calm tone still imbued with unintentional authority, Konstantinos spoke again, his voice flowing like a deep ocean current—unhurried, yet filled with power that needed no display.
"Lady Nirma, I have seen your notes, and I am grateful that you are objective enough to acknowledge that the evidence against me is weak and impossible to prove.
However, there is one matter that troubles me—one sentence that has been circling in my mind since I read it.
You mention that my duplicitous nature still cannot conceal what occurred in the field.
What do you mean by that, Lady Nirma?
Do you still regard me as an enemy beneath a blanket, someone who pretends to cooperate while secretly planning something contrary to this investigation?
I want you to clarify the meaning of that line, because if I must live with the shadow of suspicion in the future, I would rather understand it now than wait for it to become a blade that strikes from behind."
Nirma met Konstantinos' gaze without change—calm like the surface of a lake at dawn.
There was no guilt at being caught writing something that perhaps should have been concealed, no fear of having to answer for her words before an admiral who could crush her with a single command.
Slowly, without haste, she turned toward Arya at her side and gave a nearly imperceptible signal—a gesture understood only by two people who had endured too much together.
Arya nodded, then opened the small bag he always carried, the worn leather satchel that had accompanied them through six investigation sites, a bag holding more secrets than anyone could imagine.
His deft hand reached inside, searching among stacks of notes, fragments of evidence, and various investigative tools.
When he withdrew his hand, he held an empty glass in his palm—a typical Byzantine glass from the year 1101 A.D., with simple engravings along its rim, a glass never mentioned among the twenty pieces of evidence they had gathered during the investigation.
Nirma accepted the glass carefully from Arya, holding it with both hands as though it were something precious.
For the first time, Konstantinos noticed that the glass was not intact.
It had once been shattered into fragments, yet someone had patiently pieced it back together, assembling shard by shard until it regained its original form—though the lines of fracture remained clearly visible across its surface, like a map of roads telling the story of destruction and reunion.
To be continued…