Chapter 86
"Head of diplomats and spies," said Tegar.
"A position that grants you access to every secret," Ashita continued.
"And through the testimony of the soldiers guarding your household," Tegar went on.
"We received information that the victim had once been caught intercepting confidential correspondence," Ashita added.
"Correspondence between Byzantium and the Prince of Antioch," Tegar emphasized.
"Correspondence that must not be known by anyone except you and the Emperor," Ashita concluded.
They paused for a moment, giving those words time to settle in the minds of everyone who heard them.
Then together, without needing to look at one another, without needing coordination, they continued with a single sentence spoken almost in unison.
"So both we, as well as Nirma and Arya, have arrived at the same conclusion.
There is only one reason why you, Mr. Ioannis Taronites, needed to silence Étienne d'Arques.
Before what he stole from that confidential correspondence leaked to those who should never see it.
Before a secret meant only for you became known throughout the entire city."
While Nirma's and Arya's fingers busied themselves positioning their wax tablets upon their laps, preparing their tools to record every word that would follow, Ioannis Taronites suddenly laughed.
It was not a loud, explosive laugh, but a small one, a deep one—the laugh of someone who had spent decades playing with words in a palace filled with intrigue.
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers returning to tap lightly upon the table in a different rhythm, more relaxed, more confident, as though all the accusations that Ashita and Tegar had just delivered were nothing more than dust he could easily blow away.
"Mr. Tegar, Mrs. Ashita, your explanation is very interesting.
Truly interesting.
But allow me to clarify a few matters, of course with all due respect to all of you who have taken the trouble to visit my house on this exhausting afternoon."
Nirma did not raise her head.
Her eyes remained fixed on the wax tablet resting on her lap, on the tip of the stylus ready to dance across its soft surface, yet she devoted her hearing entirely to every subtle change in the man's tone before her.
She knew exactly what was about to happen.
A bureaucrat of Ioannis Taronites's caliber would never admit fault on the basis of two pieces of evidence alone.
A man like this had passed through dozens of investigations, hundreds of accusations, thousands of questions meant to bring him down.
And yet he still sat here, still the Head of Byzantine Diplomats and Spies, still holding unlimited access to documents that could make half the palace tremble if they ever reached the public.
He was a serpent that had seen too many knives to be frightened by a few drops of wax and a pinch of white powder.
"First, about that dark red wax."
Ioannis's voice flowed flatly, without emotion, like a lecturer explaining the fundamentals of palace administration to new students.
"You are correct that the wax is used in the correspondence of foreign embassies.
You are also correct that I have access to it.
But you forget one thing, Mr. Tegar.
Access does not mean exclusive use.
I am the Head of Diplomats.
My duty is to supervise the system, manage the bureaucracy, and ensure that every document reaches the proper hands.
I have never—and I emphasize never—handled every stick of wax that enters or leaves the archive rooms.
There are dozens of officials beneath me, hundreds of scribes copying documents each day, dozens of couriers delivering letters across Constantinople.
This wax could have come from any one of them.
Or it could even have been brought in deliberately by someone else to create the illusion you now believe."
Arya wrote rapidly, the stylus tip dancing across the wax tablet, though from time to time his eyes glanced toward Nirma.
His captain remained silent, still wearing that faint, eternal smile, still possessing a calm that did not waver even as the suspect before them dismantled every accusation they had spent days constructing.
And within Nirma's mind, a long murmur flowed like an underground river never visible on the surface.
He is playing well.
Very well.
But anyone who plays too well always has a weakness—one point where the mask will crack, one moment where he will say something he should not possibly know.
"Then there is the matter of the white powder that supposedly contains pure calcium carbonate."
Ioannis leaned forward slightly, his eyes now fixed directly on Ashita, and for a moment his smile shifted into something resembling a challenge.
"You say, Mrs. Ashita, that only I know the formula for Byzantine secret ink.
That is a very bold statement.
But allow me to ask—do you possess a complete list of everyone who has handled that ink during the last twenty years?
Do you know how many palace copyists have seen directly how that ink is made?
Do you know that the alchemists in the imperial laboratories often remix old formulas with new ingredients without my knowledge?
I supervise the formula, Madam.
I do not personally brew it.
And in a bureaucracy as vast as Byzantium, even the smallest secret can leak into unworthy hands through the carelessness of a single clerk whose name you have never even heard."
He paused briefly, letting his words sink in, then continued in a slightly sharper tone.
"And you must understand, this powder could have come from anywhere.
If the victim truly intercepted or stole secret letters as you suspect from the testimony of my soldiers, would it not be more logical that this powder fell while he attempted to open the document he had stolen?
Would it not be more reasonable that he himself unknowingly scattered the powder onto his clothes while his hands trembled as he opened a letter he should never have read?
You present this powder as evidence of my involvement.
But from the way you explain it, I instead see proof that the victim was a thief—the victim was an interceptor—the victim was someone who broke the law by accessing documents he had no right to see.
So where exactly is my fault in that scenario?"
Nirma sensed something shifting in the corner of the room.
She did not need to turn her head to know that Ashita and Tegar were exchanging glances, sending silent messages through subtle signals invisible to ordinary eyes.
They had not expected the rebuttal to be this strong.
They had not expected Ioannis Taronites to reverse every accusation with arguments that were, in fact, reasonable—logical—difficult to refute without stronger evidence.
Yet within Nirma's mind, this was precisely where the oddity lay.
An innocent man would deny with anger, with confusion, with chaotic questions searching for loopholes.
But Ioannis Taronites denied with the calm of a professor correcting a student who misunderstood the lesson.
He was not angry.
He was not confused.
He merely explained—with details too neat, with arguments too perfect—like someone who had prepared all of this long before they arrived.
"And finally, regarding the motive."
Ioannis leaned back once more in his chair, his smile widening again—diplomatic, polished, like a mask that never left his face.
To be continued…