Chapter 94
Arya straightened his back upon the saddle, his hand tightening its grip on the horse's reins, and for the first time that afternoon he turned fully backward, looking directly into Nirma's eyes.
The same Norman French flowed from his lips, fluent and certain, like someone who had spoken the language since birth.
"Je comprends, Nirma. Et je suis d'accord. Tes instructions sont claires, et je les suivrai."
(TL: I understand, Nirma. And I agree. Your instructions are clear, and I will follow them.)
He paused for a moment, his eyes catching the flicker of an oil lamp in the distance that briefly illuminated Nirma's face.
"Je trouverai ces dossiers dès que j'aurai un moment libre. Entre deux interrogatoires, entre deux déplacements, entre deux mensonges que nous devons raconter pour survivre dans cette ville pleine d'espions. Mais je le ferai avant le départ des croisés pour Jérusalem. Je te le promets."
(TL: I will find those files as soon as I have a moment of free time. Between two interrogations, between two journeys, between two lies we must tell to survive in this city full of spies. But I will do it before the crusaders depart for Jerusalem. I promise you.)
Nirma nodded slowly, a small nod that could only be seen because of how close they sat upon the same horse.
Arya felt the nod more than he saw it, sensing the faint vibration traveling from Nirma's body to his back.
Without saying anything further, he slightly turned the reins, directing the horse's muzzle toward the main road stretching ahead of them.
His heel pressed gently against the horse's flank, and the animal immediately responded with a quicker, steadier pace, leaving the courtyard of Ioannis Taronites's residence with steadily increasing speed.
Behind them, the Prefect's soldiers who had been waiting with their horses ready to dash forward immediately moved to follow.
The thunder of dozens of hooves echoed along the quiet stone streets, creating a rhythm that strangely sounded like war drums, like a sign that a new chapter in this investigation had begun.
The sun above Constantinople was at the height of its cruelest fury.
That streak of molten gold fell mercilessly upon the backs of the soldiers riding in a semicircular formation behind Nirma and Arya, burning their skin beneath their thin cloaks, yet still stinging all the way to the bone.
Fine dust rose from the pounding hooves striking the stone roads, forming a thin shimmering haze beneath the blazing heat, making the air feel even heavier to breathe.
In the distance, the dome of Hagia Sophia rose with its eternal magnificence, yet today it merely stood as a silent witness to the small convoy racing beneath it, leaving trails of dust and sweat along every road they passed.
Nirma sat behind Arya with her back straight despite the heat scorching her shoulders.
Her left hand gripped Arya's waist while her right rested upon the hilt of the short sword at her side, her dark eyes narrowing as she observed the alleys they passed as though searching for something only she knew.
Arya controlled the horse with small movements that only the animal could recognize, occasionally guiding it left or right to avoid holes in the road or piles of refuse ignored by street vendors.
The Prefect's soldiers behind them moved with perfect discipline; none dared to overtake them or ask questions, even as sweat ran down their temples like small unstoppable rivers.
From time to time, one of them would glance left or right, watching every shadow shifting between the stone buildings bleached pale by the heat, their hands ready to move toward the hilts of their swords if something suspicious appeared in the corner of their eyes.
Yet no one dared to speak, no one dared to break the silence filled only by the pounding hooves and the distant hum of the city's activity, until finally one soldier in the rear ranks—still young, with a thin mustache that had only recently grown—could no longer remain silent.
"My apologies, Madam Nirma," his voice rose with respect yet could not hide his burning curiosity.
"We, the Prefect's soldiers, have been assigned to escort you wherever you go, and we will do so with all our hearts. But allow me to ask—where exactly are we heading now? So that we may be better prepared if something happens along the way."
The young soldier swallowed after speaking, his eyes not daring to look directly toward Nirma, fixed only upon the mane of the horse before him as it flicked away the flies.
Several other soldiers glanced briefly at him with expressions difficult to interpret—some admiring his courage, others fearing the anger he might receive.
But Nirma was not angry.
From atop the galloping horse, without turning back, her voice drifted calmly yet loudly enough to be heard by all the soldiers following behind.
"We are going to the Chalkeus District."
She paused for a moment, letting the name hang in the hot air before continuing.
"The district of metal craftsmen. That is where the next trace of this case may be found—if we are not too late."
After a long time positioning his horse at the very front, precisely at the center of the relentless galloping formation, Arya steadily extended his left arm.
The arm that since their arrival in Constantinople had always been covered with long cloth—even when meeting Emperor Alexios I.
Now he pulled the cloth aside with a swift movement, revealing a watch unlike any that had ever been made in this century.
Its circular frame was black metal without a brand, without engravings, without any recognizable markings, yet upon its surface flickered rows of small lights blinking in an irregular rhythm.
Arya pressed one side of the circle with his thumb while his right hand continued controlling the horse with an unwavering grip.
Instantly the watch's surface changed.
It no longer displayed ordinary numbers but instead projected a thin layer of light floating several centimeters above his wrist, forming an interface visible only to him.
His fingers moved quickly, pressing invisible buttons within that projection, opening one folder after another stored in the watch's memory, searching for the newest files from an institution whose name would never be spoken in this world.
Dust flew through the projection of light, yet not a single particle disturbed its display, as though it existed in a dimension separate from the Chalkeus dust staining their cloaks.
Nirma sensed the change in Arya's breathing rhythm, felt how the muscles in his back tensed briefly as his fingers worked on something her eyes could not see from her position.
She did not ask, did not move.
She simply remained silent and allowed Arya to work, while her eyes stayed vigilant, observing the Prefect's soldiers guarding them from every side.
From time to time one soldier glanced toward them, yet none saw what Arya was doing.
None realized that atop this galloping horse, beneath the scorching sun, a man was accessing information from a time that had not yet occurred.
Only Nirma knew.
Only Nirma felt the faint vibration of that watch when Arya finished his task and swiftly closed the interface, pulling the cloth back over his wrist—everything done without stopping the horse, without altering the rhythm of its hooves, as though nothing had ever happened.
To be continued…