Chapter 85
Five quick blinks, lined up like bullets fired from the corridor of time.
Two moderate blinks, slower yet still certain.
Three slow blinks, like the dots at the end of a sentence that no longer wishes to be debated.
Arya did not need to translate.
The language had already been embedded within him since the very first day he was placed under Nirma's command, since the first moment he realized that his captain sometimes spoke more with her eyes than with her mouth.
Let Ashita and Tegar explain.
We record every word that comes out of Ioannis's mouth.
We document every rebuttal.
And most importantly, we watch how they explain everything without us ever telling them the real reason these objects might be connected to the man standing before us.
Arya nodded slowly.
A single nod.
No more. No less.
Enough to say I understand and I will obey at the same time.
Nirma's fingers lifted from her thigh and folded once again upon her lap, and that thin smile remained perfectly carved on her face, as though no silent conversation had ever taken place between them, as though no order had been sent through the blinking of eyes in the middle of a room filled with enemy spies.
And then Ashita moved.
The woman stood gracefully, the hem of her robe sweeping across the marble floor without a sound, and for a brief moment Nirma caught a flash of something in her eyes.
Not victory. Not satisfaction.
But something closer to readiness—the readiness to take over a stage that had long been controlled by someone else.
"Permission to speak, Mr. Ioannis, Mrs. Nirma, Mr. Arya."
Her voice flowed softly like honey, sweet on the surface, yet Nirma knew that within honey could hide the deadliest poison.
"Since Mr. Arya and Mrs. Nirma have agreed to accept our assistance in this investigation, allow me to explain the connection between these two pieces of evidence and the great name of Mr. Ioannis Taronites.
I promise my explanation will not be long-winded."
Ioannis merely nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the foreign woman who had suddenly taken control of the conversation.
Ashita smiled, and then—unnoticed by untrained eyes—her feet began to move.
Two steps to the right, slowly, as if searching for a more comfortable position.
Four steps to the left, almost rhythmic, as if following music that only she could hear inside her head.
And then eight steps, alternating right and left, steady like the pendulum of a clock, like a metronome setting the tempo.
Nirma saw it. Arya saw it.
And in the corner of the room, Tegar—who had been sitting like stone until now—suddenly lifted his head, his eyes flashing, and Nirma knew exactly what had just happened.
Ashita had just spoken with her feet.
I have taken the opportunity. Now it is your turn, Tegar. Prepare yourself.
Silence floated in the room for several seconds, heavy and thick, before it was finally broken by Ashita's voice flowing once more—gentle yet full of confidence.
"Mr. Ioannis, allow me to begin with this drop of dark red wax."
Tegar did not wait long.
The moment the cue emerged from Ashita's foot signal, he immediately stood up, his tall figure rising before the teakwood table like a shadow that had suddenly detached itself from the wall.
His voice was deep, vibrating at a frequency that made every word feel heavier than it should have been.
"This drop of dark red wax, Mr. Ioannis.
Not Kapeleion wax. Not the wax commonly used by merchants or priests in this city.
This wax is ruby red—the red of embassies—the red that comes only from candles specially commissioned by foreign representatives who wish to leave an impression at every meeting."
His finger pointed toward the frozen droplets upon the white cloth, then his eyes shifted directly to the face of Ioannis Taronites, whose diplomatic smile had begun to fade.
"The problem is, in all of Constantinople, there is only one man who possesses unlimited access to embassy documents, only one man who can enter and leave foreign archives without needing to explain his reasons, only one man whose name appears in every permit related to diplomatic correspondence.
You, Mr. Ioannis. You yourself."
Arya wrote quickly inside his small notebook, recording every word that came from Tegar's mouth while his eyes never left Ioannis's face.
He saw the man swallow.
He saw the veins on his neck pulse slightly faster.
He saw how the fingers that had once been tapping the table were now frozen upon the wine cup.
Tegar continued, his voice leaving no space for interruption.
"We found these drops on the floor of the Kapeleion, directly beneath the table where Étienne d'Arques was discovered dead with his waist hissing.
Not under the next table. Not in the corner of the room.
Beneath his table. And that is the great question.
Why would droplets of embassy wax fall beneath the table of an ordinary courier in a public tavern?
The most reasonable possibility is that the victim received a letter from someone.
A letter delivered secretly. A letter that had to be read in the dark with candlelight. A letter that, once finished, vanished without a trace.
But the wax was forgotten. The wax remained there, waiting to be found, waiting to speak."
Nirma observed the way Ashita listened to Tegar's explanation.
There was something in the woman's eyes—something resembling pride, or at least satisfaction that her partner spoke exactly as they had planned.
And when Tegar finished, when that deep voice stopped and left its echo in the room that suddenly felt smaller, Ashita immediately took over with a grace that never failed to make Nirma slightly amused.
"Thank you, Tegar. A very clear explanation. Very helpful."
She bowed politely toward her colleague, then turned to Ioannis with an entirely new smile—a smile that said now it is my turn.
"Now allow me to explain the second piece of evidence. This white powder."
Her slender fingers took a pinch of the powder, then sprinkled it back onto the table with a gentle motion, like someone feeding birds in a garden.
"Nirma and Arya have conducted an analysis. The result is quite interesting, Mr. Ioannis.
This powder does indeed contain quicklime, just like the substance found in the folds of Adrianos's belt—your personal assistant.
But there is a difference.
This powder is mixed with pure calcium carbonate, a base ingredient that is unusual, an ingredient used for only one purpose throughout this empire."
She paused for a moment, allowing the tension to thicken, then continued in a tone almost like a whisper.
"Byzantine secret ink. Ink that can only be read in a certain way. Ink used for documents that must never be seen by ordinary eyes.
And only one man in this city masters the formula for that ink.
Only one man who keeps the recipe within his head, passing it down from generation to generation within the same office.
You, Mr. Ioannis. You yourself."
The air inside the room changed.
Nirma could feel it—the strange shift of pressure, the sudden weight pressing upon the shoulders of everyone present. Ioannis Taronites was no longer sitting casually.
His back was straight, his eyes sharp, and for the first time that afternoon he looked like prey cornered by hunters, even though he still tried to hide it behind the mask of an untouchable high official.
Ashita and Tegar began speaking in turns, their voices linking like two rivers meeting at an estuary—neither dominating, neither yielding, everything flowing within a rhythm practiced thousands of times before.
To be continued…