Chapter 81
His posture leaned slightly forward, a habit formed from hours spent reading documents with his head bowed.
His shoulders were somewhat rounded, unlike the generals he usually met in the palace with broad chests and straight backs.
His skin was pale, very pale, white with a faint grayish hue from rarely being touched by sunlight, a striking contrast to the soldiers outside whose skin had been burned by the harsh sun of Constantinople.
But his eyes, ah, his eyes.
They were small, narrow, and extremely sharp, very different from his frail body and hunched posture.
When Ioannis Taronites looked at the four of them, Nirma felt something strange creeping along her spine, the same sensation she experienced when being interrogated by the most experienced Prefect officials, the feeling that she was being read, being measured, her strengths and weaknesses calculated within seconds.
The color of his eyes was a pale gray, almost blue, an odd contrast with his pale skin, and behind those eyes Nirma could see a dangerous glimmer of intelligence, an intelligence sharpened through years of palace intrigue and international diplomacy.
His nose was sharp and slightly crooked by nature, not from being broken.
His lips were thin with a small permanent smile, the smile of a diplomat that never reached the eyes, a smile that suggested friendliness yet never true sincerity.
His hair was white streaked with gray, thin at the top, carefully combed to the side in an effort to conceal the baldness that had begun to consume his head.
It reached his shoulders, the style of senior bureaucrats who no longer needed to follow military fashion.
His beard was long and well kept, pure white, neatly combed along his jawline, a symbol of wisdom and status he had painstakingly built over the years.
On his head, as a sign that he was receiving official guests this afternoon, he wore a red skaranikon with gold embroidery along its edges.
It was the hat of a bureaucrat, indicating his rank within the imperial hierarchy, with a thin veil at the back that fell softly onto his shoulders.
His robe, a sticharion made from expensive Antiochian silk, was deep purple.
Not the imperial purple that was too dark, but dark enough to show that he was a high official with access to such a rare color.
Gold embroidery around the collar and sleeves formed intricate geometric patterns.
Over it he wore a sakkos, a loose outer robe without sleeves also made of silk, with even richer embroidery, cleverly designed to conceal his protruding belly with elegance.
A soft leather belt with a gold buckle studded with precious stones circled his waist.
From a small pouch hanging on the belt, Nirma could see a slight bulge which she believed to be his personal seal, the most important tool of a logothetes like Ioannis Taronites.
His fingers were slender and well cared for, his nails clean.
On his ring finger rested a gold signet ring undoubtedly used to sign important state documents.
His silk trousers and soft leather shoes were hidden beneath the long robe.
Yet Nirma was certain that beneath those robes, Ioannis Taronites dressed according to the highest standards of a bureaucrat who understood perfectly that appearance was half of diplomacy.
Arya followed Nirma and sat in the chair to the left, feeling the soft cushion sink slightly beneath his weight, a luxury he rarely experienced in ordinary interrogation rooms.
Across from them, Ashita and Tegar chose seats on the right side.
Ashita sat closer to the desk while Tegar remained slightly behind her, the same position they had maintained while standing earlier, a pattern that seemed to have become their habit.
Ashita as the leader.
Tegar as the loyal protector watching from behind.
Ioannis Taronites himself sat in the chair facing them all, behind the polished teakwood desk that served as a boundary between himself and the four guests seated before him.
It was a position that subtly affirmed his authority as host, as a high official, as the man who controlled this conversation.
Silence once again settled over the room.
This silence, however, was different from before.
There was no explosive tension, no dark history hanging heavily in the air.
Instead, it was a silence filled with calculation, a silence in which everyone was observing, evaluating, and quietly forming strategies.
Ashita's eyes were fixed on Ioannis Taronites, yet occasionally she glanced toward Nirma, quick glances followed by a thin smile.
A smile that lasted just long enough to be noticed but not long enough to be interpreted.
A smile that suggested she was enjoying the situation, that she knew something others did not, that she was playing on a level different from everyone else.
Nirma, on the other hand, was far more focused on Ashita.
Her eyes moved slowly from Ashita's face to her slender fingers.
From those fingers to the way she sat gracefully in the chair.
From her posture to every small movement that might escape the attention of ordinary people.
She was studying her enemy.
Because that was what she always did.
Because that was what had allowed her to survive for so long in a world filled with betrayal and danger.
"The Byzantine city welcomes your arrival, Lady Ashita and Lord Tegar."
The voice of Ioannis Taronites gently broke the silence, like a small stone dropped into a still pond.
His narrow eyes were directed at the two time agents, his diplomatic smile still perfectly arranged, never changing, never revealing what he truly thought.
"This small city may not be as great as Rome nor as magnificent as Baghdad.
But we always strive to be good hosts to guests from distant lands.
Especially guests who arrive with such a unique vehicle, a vehicle that has kept my guards wondering for the past several hours."
He paused briefly, allowing his words to settle.
Then without changing his tone in the slightest, he continued, his eyes now shifting to Nirma and Arya.
"However, amidst the warm welcome for these distant guests, my heart is also filled with sorrow, Lady Nirma and Lady Arya.
Sorrow for the death of a man.
A death that should never have happened.
A death carried out with a brutality I cannot accept."
Nirma and Arya exchanged glances, a silent dialogue that required only a fraction of a second to convey thousands of words.
Behind that glance lay admiration mixed with suspicion.
Admiration for how smoothly Ashita and Tegar played their roles as foreign guests from distant lands.
And suspicion about what their true purpose was behind the diplomatic masks they wore so perfectly.
Because it was impossible.
Impossible that two time agents who arrived with an ox cart from Nusantara and claimed to be envoys from the English colonial mainland truly cared about Ioannis Taronites's warm welcome or the death of a crusader they had never known.
There had to be something deeper.
Something larger.
Something they had not yet revealed.
And Nirma was determined to discover it before it was too late.
Tegar was the first to move.
His voice emerged deep and steady, very different from the silence he had maintained until now.
"Master Ioannis, on behalf of King Henry Beauclerc and all the people of Nesia ton Breton, we extend our deepest gratitude for the warm welcome you have given us."
He bowed slightly, a gesture of respect that appeared sincere, even though Nirma knew that behind that sincerity were layers of deception she could not possibly count.
To be continued…