Chapter 93
Nirma herself showed no confusion on her face.
She simply remained silent, listening, storing every word in her memory—words she would process later when the time and place were right.
When Ashita finally stopped speaking, when those strange words vanished into the silence of the corridor, Nirma opened her mouth.
The language that emerged was different again—not Old Church Slavonic, nor Greek or Latin, but Magyar, the language of Old Hungary understood by only a few people within the Byzantine Empire.
"Köszönöm."
A single word—thank you—spoken in a flat yet meaningful tone.
Then she continued with a longer sentence, her eyes fixed on Ashita with undiminished intensity even though she spoke in a language the soldiers around them would not understand.
"Bár kissé őrültek vagytok, hogy beleavatkoztatok a nyomozásunkba, értékelem az információt és a segítséget, amit adtatok. Ti ketten, Ashita és Tegar, lehet, hogy ellenségek vagytok, vagy lehet, hogy nem. De ez alkalommal, ebben a pillanatban, köszönöm."
(TL: Although you are somewhat insane for interfering in our investigation, I appreciate the information and assistance you have given. The two of you, Ashita and Tegar, may be enemies—or perhaps not. But this time, in this moment, thank you.)
Ashita smiled.
A wide and sincere smile, different from her earlier smiles that had always been wrapped in layers of pretense.
She nodded slowly.
Then, without saying anything further, she turned and walked away.
Tegar followed her silently, his tall figure looming behind Ashita like a shadow that faithfully accompanied her.
The Personal Guard soldiers of the Household of Ioannis Taronites, who had been standing watch in the distance, immediately moved to follow them.
They formed a semicircle around the two foreign guests, escorting them toward the special reception chamber that had been prepared.
Nirma and Arya stood still, watching the backs of Ashita and Tegar grow more distant beneath the candlelight lining the corridor.
Their footsteps echoed softly.
The sound reverberated against the cold marble walls, fading gradually until it was finally swallowed by the bend of the hallway.
Arya turned toward Nirma.
He wanted to ask.
He wanted to make sure he had not misunderstood what had just happened.
But Nirma remained silent.
Her eyes were still fixed on the direction where Ashita had disappeared, her thoughts spinning as she processed every strange word she had just heard.
Five religions.
Time tangled in knots.
A butterfly flapping its wings.
Nirma was still staring at the empty corridor when a light nudge struck her arm.
It was not a rough shove, not a demand for attention.
It was a gentle yet certain touch of an elbow—a touch that could only come from someone who had stood beside her for years.
Arya.
Nirma did not need to turn to know who had nudged her.
She merely shifted her gaze slightly, enough to show that she was listening, enough to grant Arya permission to speak.
"Nirma."
Arya's voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet in the silent corridor the whisper sounded clear.
"Did you understand what Ashita said at the end just now? All that nonsense about time and five religions and a butterfly flapping its wings?"
He paused for a moment, his eyes studying Nirma with curiosity he could not hide.
"Because I must be honest—I understood every word you two spoke. That strange mixture of modern English and Indonesian, and even the Old Church Slavonic and Magyar you used. But Ashita's last statement—the one about tangled time and the five religions pulling against each other—that truly made my head spin."
Nirma smiled faintly.
The same smile she wore while reading notes on her wax tablet—a smile that said I understand more than you think.
Then, from the distance, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed.
The Prefect soldiers who had been standing guard at the end of the corridor—waiting patiently while the two investigators spoke with the two foreign guests who had now departed—began to move closer.
Perhaps they were worried.
Perhaps they simply wanted to make sure that Nirma and Arya were unharmed after the earlier incident involving fists and daggers.
Their faces were tense.
Their hands rested ready on the hilts of their swords.
Yet none of them dared approach too quickly or too closely.
Nirma turned toward them.
The expression in her eyes changed—from a vacant, questioning gaze to a sharp look filled with command.
She raised her hand slightly.
The gesture alone was enough to make the soldiers halt where they stood.
"Return to your positions."
Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.
"We will be moving shortly. There is something we must decide right now."
The soldiers exchanged brief glances, then nodded obediently.
They turned and returned to their original positions at the end of the corridor, leaving enough distance for Nirma and Arya to speak without feeling closely observed.
Arya extended his hand, his palm open wide, ready to help Nirma mount the horse that the Prefect soldiers had prepared.
In the front courtyard of the residence of Ioannis Taronites, the scorching midday air seemed to pierce the bones, carrying the scent of unfamiliar flowers and the dust of the road drifting in the wind.
Oil lamps along the stone fence cast a dim glow, creating dancing patterns across the ground.
Arya glanced briefly to the right and left, ensuring that no one was lurking in the shadows.
Then he turned his gaze back to Nirma, who was still standing beside her horse with a thoughtful expression.
But instead of taking Arya's hand, Nirma opened her mouth and spoke in yet another language.
Norman French—the accent once spoken by nobles and warriors who had invaded England decades earlier—flowed fluently from her lips.
"Arya, ne t'arrête pas. Monte à cheval d'abord, mais écoute-moi attentivement."
(TL: Arya, don't stop. Mount the horse first, but listen to me carefully.)
Her voice was soft yet firm.
Her eyes looked straight ahead, as though she were speaking to the horse she was about to ride.
"Je veux que tu recherches les dossiers les plus récents de la Police du Temps Linéaire. Tout ce que tu peux trouver, surtout les rapports sur les activités anormales dans d'autres périodes."
(TL: I want you to search the most recent records of the Linear Time Police. Anything you can find—especially reports about anomalous activities in other periods.)
Arya frowned, his hand still extended though now filled with questions.
"Pourquoi maintenant? Qu'est-ce que tu as remarqué?" he asked in the same language, his voice nearly drowned by the sounds of soldiers mounting their horses.
(TL: Why now? What did you notice?)
Nirma finally took Arya's hand, allowing herself to be pulled up onto the horse with the agile movement of someone who had spent thousands of hours riding.
Once she was firmly seated on the saddle, behind Arya who would hold the reins, she whispered her answer near his ear.
"Ce n'est pas ce que j'ai remarqué, Arya. C'est ce que j'ai senti."
(TL: It's not what I noticed, Arya. It's what I felt.)
She took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp midday air before continuing in a more serious tone.
"La façon dont Ashita parlait, la façon dont elle mélangeait ses mots, la façon dont elle mentionnait les cinq religions et le temps emmêlé… Ce n'était pas juste du bavardage absurde. C'était un code, ou peut-être un avertissement. Elle essayait de nous dire quelque chose sans le dire directement, parce qu'elle ne pouvait pas le dire directement."
(TL: The way Ashita spoke, the way she mixed her words, the way she mentioned the five religions and tangled time… that wasn't just meaningless chatter. It was a code, or perhaps a warning. She was trying to tell us something without saying it directly, because she couldn't say it directly.)
To be continued…