Chapter 84
"However, before we enter the matter of the investigation that has brought Mrs. Nirma and Mr. Arya here, allow me to say something first, Mrs. Ashita and Mr. Tegar."
He paused for a moment, letting his words settle, then continued in a tone that sounded slightly more formal, slightly more diplomatic.
"I know that you come from a land very far away, from the Island of Nesia ton Breton, a place whose existence perhaps not many people in this city even know about.
But I want you to understand that Emperor Alexios, our wise ruler, greatly appreciates every foreign guest who comes to Constantinople with good intentions.
And because of that, I wish to inform you that even though I must answer the interests of the investigation currently conducted by Mr. Arya and Mrs. Nirma, your arrival will not escape the Emperor's attention.
He will receive you personally, at a time and place to be determined later.
I hope you are willing to wait patiently until that moment arrives."
Ashita and Tegar simply nodded, accepting the information with unchanged expressions, as if they had already expected that their visit to Constantinople would not escape the empire's radar.
Yet in Nirma's heart, something stirred—something uneasy, something that told her Ioannis Taronites was playing a larger game than they had imagined.
By openly promising an imperial audience to Ashita and Tegar, he was granting them legitimacy, acknowledging their presence in this city, turning them into pieces on the chessboard he controlled.
And Nirma did not know whether that was a clever move or a dangerous one—whether it would help their investigation or make everything even more complicated.
And then, without warning, without any clear transition, Ioannis Taronites' gaze shifted.
Now he looked directly at Nirma and Arya, his narrow eyes suddenly sharper, more piercing, more dangerous than before.
His tone changed—more relaxed, lighter—but Nirma knew that behind that politeness lay a very serious question, one that would determine the direction of their conversation.
"Well then, Mr. Arya and Mrs. Nirma, now that the matter of welcoming our guests from distant lands is settled, I believe it is time we get to the heart of the issue."
He leaned slightly back in his chair, his fingers tapping softly on the table, creating a rhythm that strangely felt threatening.
"May I ask what exactly the connection is between your investigation and the reason it has entangled me, Ioannis Taronites, an old bureaucrat who is only busy with documents and parchment scrolls, in the murder case of Étienne d'Arques?
What made you come to my house on this exhausting afternoon, with a warrant issued directly by the Emperor, with dozens of Prefect's soldiers behind the door, with all the formalities usually reserved for dangerous criminals and traitors to the state?"
Arya's eyes caught the signal even before Nirma had time to move her index finger.
A small nod, almost invisible, one that could only be recognized by someone who had spent years operating under the command of Nirmala Surdaya.
His hand moved swiftly into the folds of his robe, reaching into the cloth pouch that had long been hidden behind his belt.
His fingers met two small objects they had examined all night at the headquarters—two pieces of a puzzle that still refused to reveal their true face.
The first item he produced was a piece of white linen cloth folded neatly, and when Arya unfolded it on the teakwood table belonging to Ioannis Taronites, two drops of wax appeared, frozen in the passage of time.
The wax was different.
Not the pale red wax typical of Kapeleion commonly used by middle-class merchants, nor the brownish-yellow wax produced by monasteries on the outskirts of the city.
This wax was deep red.
Red like a ripe pomegranate, red like freshly pressed wine, a shade that could only be produced by dyes imported from lands far away.
In Constantinople, only one place used such wax regularly, only one place considered that deep crimson part of its identity.
Foreign embassies.
The buildings on the second hill that served as temporary homes for envoys from lands unwilling to be outshone by the grandeur of Byzantium.
Nirma observed Ioannis's reaction from beneath her half-lowered lashes.
She saw how the old man lowered his head slightly, how a beam of afternoon light slipping through the curtain illuminated his face, and for a moment she caught something moving at the corner of his lips.
Not fear.
Not surprise.
But something closer to recognition—a recognition that he knew exactly where that wax had come from, that he had seen that shade of red before, perhaps in this very room, perhaps in one of the meetings never recorded in any official document.
Yet before Ioannis could open his mouth, Arya had already brought out the second piece of evidence.
White powder.
Not quicklime commonly used by builders to coat newly erected walls, nor wheat flour drifting through the city markets.
This powder was finer, lighter, almost like mist frozen in the air.
Arya sprinkled a small amount onto the table, right beside the fold of cloth where he had found it several days earlier—the very same kind of fold discovered on the belt of Adrianos, the personal assistant of Ioannis Taronites.
The difference was that the powder found on Adrianos had already been identified as a mixture of incense ash and clay.
This powder was different.
It did not burn when they tested it with a small flame, did not dry when they dripped water onto it, did not react to anything they attempted.
It was like a secret that locked itself away, refusing to speak, refusing to give answers.
"Six seconds," Ioannis Taronites suddenly murmured, his voice breaking the silence that had begun to thicken in the room.
His slender fingers stopped tapping on the table, and for the first time that afternoon his diplomatic smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious, sharper expression—like a chess player who had suddenly realized that his opponent had moved a piece in a way he had never anticipated.
"You gave me six seconds to examine these two pieces of evidence, and within those six seconds I can already see at least three possibilities as to why these items could be linked to me.
But you did not come here merely to show possibilities, did you?"
Arya opened his mouth.
The air in his lungs was already preparing to form the first words—the opening sentence that would explain to Ioannis Taronites why the two small pieces of evidence on the table were enough to direct the entire investigation straight to the threshold of his home.
He had already arranged it all in his mind, carefully assembling the explanation during the journey from headquarters to the residence of the high official.
Every word had been chosen, every pause calculated, every possible rebuttal anticipated.
But before any sound could escape his throat, before the first vibration of his vocal cords could cut through the silence, he felt something against his left thigh.
A tap.
A gentle yet firm tap from Nirma's fingers.
Arya turned his head instinctively.
His eyes met Nirma's left eye—the eye he had always relied on to read orders amid chaos, the eye that could speak more than a thousand spoken words.
And in the seconds that followed, that eye spoke.
To be continued…