Chapter 78
He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to recall small details that might have slipped from his memory.
"Of course I asked where they came from, because it is my duty to record the origins of every guest who wishes to meet Lord Ioannis.
And one of them answered, with a strange Greek accent, not like any Greek accent I have ever heard, that they came from a distant land, a land that had just been colonized by Nesia ton Breton through crusader forces sent there."
Nesia ton Breton.
The land of the Bretons.
In Nirma's mind, those words turned slowly like a whirlpool that pulled her deeper and deeper downward, into a pit of confusion she had never imagined she would face.
England.
That meant England, the land across the sea whose nobles were still busy fighting over the throne, the land whose king had just lost his crown prince in a strange hunting accident, the land whose armies were more concerned with defending their claims in Normandy than thinking about expansion into lands whose names they had never even heard.
And in the year 1101, in the year when England was still bleeding from the civil conflict between the supporters of Robert Curthose and Henry Beauclerc, in the year when William II had only recently died from an arrow in the New Forest in a manner that is still debated even now, in the year when there were no historical records of English expeditions to the east beyond the number of ordinary pilgrims, suddenly there were two strangers claiming to come from a land newly colonized by Nesia ton Breton through crusader forces.
It made no sense.
It made absolutely no sense within any historical framework she had ever studied, within any record she had ever read, within any memory she had kept during her years living under the pursuit of the Linear Time Police.
Nirma's left eye shifted, catching Arya beside her who still stood silent with an expression difficult to interpret, a mixture of confusion and fear restrained with great effort.
She stared sharply, as sharply as she could under the torchlight that had begun to dim in that long corridor, and when Arya finally returned her gaze, Nirma leaned her lips close to her companion's ear, close enough that her warm breath brushed against Arya's skin warmed by the midday air.
"Arya," she whispered, very softly, very low, just enough for the two of them to hear amid the quiet bustle of the soldiers still chatting behind them, "be ready. Draw your weapon if the situation forces you to. I don't know what we will face inside, but after hearing all this, after seeing that Padati and hearing the story about two strangers who claim to come from a land colonized by England, I cannot take any risks. Those agents from the future might already be inside. They might be waiting for us. They might have influenced Ioannis Taronites already, or even threatened him. We must be ready for the worst possibility."
Arya nodded almost imperceptibly, his hand slowly moving toward the folds of his robe, feeling the hilt of the short sword he always carried wherever he went, ensuring that the weapon could be drawn at any moment within seconds.
They continued walking, passing corridor after corridor, passing room after room whose doors were tightly closed, passing the paintings of the Taronites family that hung on the walls with golden frames shining brightly under the scorching sunlight.
The household guard soldiers faithfully accompanied them, some in front, some beside them, some behind them, a neat formation that did not feel threatening, more like an honor guard than guards ready to attack at any moment.
Nirma counted the steps, counted the turns, counted every small detail she passed, building a mental map of this residence inside her head, ensuring that if something happened, if they had to escape in an emergency, she would know which path to take, which door to open, which window might serve as a possible exit.
An old habit deeply embedded within her since the first time she began working as an investigator, a habit that had saved her life many times in the past, a habit that now felt more important than ever before.
And then they stopped.
The captain of the guards ahead of them suddenly halted his steps, raising his hand to signal everyone to remain still, and Nirma and Arya, standing directly behind him, automatically followed, their eyes fixed forward toward a room whose door stood half open, toward the place where voices could be heard, voices that strangely did not match the tense atmosphere of the afternoon.
When the two of them turned, the world seemed to stop spinning in Arya's eyes for a moment.
His foot stepped back half a step automatically, a reflex ingrained since the early years of his training as an investigator, and in less than two seconds his body had already shifted into a stance ready either to attack or defend, his hand reaching for the sword behind the folds of his robe with a movement that was quick yet controlled.
His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widened, and for the first time that afternoon he felt what a mouse might feel when it suddenly realizes it has walked straight into a cat's trap.
Beside him, Nirma reacted differently but with no less intensity.
Her left eye narrowed until it was almost a thin line above her cheek pale under the oil lamp's glow, while her right hand, which had been resting calmly at her waist, now clenched tightly, her knuckles turning white from pressure she could not control.
Larashita Prameswari and Tegara Wicaksana.
Since the first time they met, those two names had never left their memories, two faces that kept returning in their minds ever since the Linear Time Police officially established its young agencies in the mission to hunt Nirmala Surdaya and Arya Wiratama.
Now, beneath the warm glow of oil lamps inside the residence of Ioannis Taronites, those two agents stood with relaxed postures, with smiles blooming across their faces, with eyes that showed not the slightest hint of guilt even though they knew perfectly well that their presence here, in the year 1101, inside the house of a Byzantine official about to be interrogated by Nirma and Arya, was a violation of every rule they were supposed to obey as guardians of time.
Larashita, with her hair neatly tied up and clothing resembling an ordinary travel robe yet cut slightly differently from the fashion of Constantinople, smiled broadly when her eyes met Nirma's.
Tegara beside her, one year younger, with a taller yet thinner posture, raised his hand in a small wave that felt like a subtle mockery in the tension freezing the air inside that room.
Under the warm oil-lamp light, Nirma and Arya could now clearly see the two time agents who had suddenly appeared before them, and every detail of their appearance felt like a direct slap to the face, a slap reminding them that this world was far wider and far stranger than anything they had ever imagined.
Larashita Prameswari, or Ashita as she might be called by those closest to her, stood gracefully on the right side of the room, a long cloth with intricate batik patterns wrapped around her body down to her ankles, patterns Nirma had never seen in any market of Constantinople, patterns that spoke of a land very far away, of the Kingdom of Kediri in East Java that was said to be at the height of its glory in the year 1101.
To be continued…