Chapter 108
The contrast was painfully sharp—so ironic, so perfectly illustrating Constantinople—a city where light and darkness lived side by side without ever greeting one another, where laughter and sorrow echoed at the same moment without ever interfering with each other.
Nirma let out a long breath, rubbing her temple with cold fingers before stepping into the alley, followed by Arya who carried a small lantern in his left hand, while his right hand remained ready to draw his sword at any moment should danger emerge from behind stacks of firewood or the scattered sacks of grain piled in the corners.
The Prefect's soldiers remained at the entrance of the alley, guarding the passage and ensuring that no one disturbed the investigation tonight.
They were silent shadows—unmoving, voiceless—staring straight ahead with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, prepared to face whatever might emerge from the darkness.
Inside the alley, Nirma knelt on the ground, her fingers touching the surface that had hardened with time, the very place where a few days earlier Leontios's shoeprints had been clearly imprinted before being trampled by the dozens who arrived afterward.
"Arya," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "bring the lantern closer."
Arya obeyed, lowering the small lantern toward the ground, and under the flickering yellow light Nirma saw something that might have escaped their notice during the first investigation—tiny scratches across the surface of the earth, like marks left by something sharp dragged across it, or perhaps the trace of someone's heel retreating in desperate haste.
She frowned, pulling a spare stylus from the pocket of her robe, and carefully began to dig around the scratches, her movements slow and meticulous like an archaeologist uncovering an ancient relic.
Yet what she sought was not treasure, but the truth of who had stood there that night—who had fought, and who had been dying.
Arya watched Nirma's movements closely, his sharp eyes missing no detail—the way she lifted the soil with the tip of the stylus, the way she examined each grain of sand clinging to it, the way she even smelled the earth as though she could detect something invisible to the eye.
In the growing stillness, Nirma felt unease creeping into her chest like fog slowly descending from the hills.
Her single eye scanned the surroundings of Kapeleion as she counted silently how much time they would need if they had to repeat the investigation in the five other locations—the Mangana Palace with all its splendor and complicated protocols, the vast warehouses of the Harbor of Theodosius filled with towering wooden crates, the Greek alchemist's workshop reeking of sulfur and molten metal, the monastery on the hills where the monks might refuse to speak, and the Latin soldiers' lodging house where rough men preferred settling matters with steel rather than words.
Arya, standing not far from her, read the unease from the way his partner bit her lower lip, from the tapping of her fingers against her thigh, from the sudden shortening of her breath.
"Perhaps," Arya began carefully, like someone offering a suggestion to a superior, "we could begin with Mangana Palace tomorrow morning. Or maybe we divide the tasks—I go to the Harbor of Theodosius while you go to—"
Arya never finished his sentence.
Nirma suddenly lifted her face—not toward Arya, not toward the alley, but upward, toward the roof of Kapeleion which consisted only of rotting wooden beams and broken tiles scattered here and there.
Her single eye fixed on something there—something Arya could not see through the thick darkness of the night, or perhaps something his eyes were not sharp enough to catch.
One minute passed.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
And Nirma remained standing there, her neck tilted upward, her left eye unblinking as it stared at the old roof.
Arya wanted to ask, wanted to break the silence that had begun to feel strange, but something held him back—something that told him Nirma was in the process of discovering something, that any question would only disturb her concentration.
And when Nirma finally lowered her face, a thin smile appeared on her lips—a smile Arya had never seen before.
It was not a smile of victory.
Not a smile of satisfaction.
It was the smile of someone who had just read the final line of a long riddle and suddenly understood everything.
"Nirma?"
Arya asked, unable to restrain himself any longer.
Nirma did not answer.
She walked quickly toward the entrance of the alley where the Prefect's soldiers still stood guard, and in a firm yet calm voice she called out,
"Soldiers, come here."
Four of the six soldiers immediately stepped forward, leaving two behind to continue guarding the entrance, and within seconds they stood before Nirma in respectful posture, awaiting orders.
One of them, who appeared to be the most senior judging by the insignia on his robe, asked, "Do you have instructions, Lady Nirma?"
Nirma nodded, the faint smile still lingering on her lips.
From within her robe she pulled out six wax tablets—not new tablets, but the same ones she had used during the interrogations, filled with dense notes regarding the six suspects.
"I have six records," she said, her eyes meeting each soldier before her, "for our six potential suspects. Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos, Nikephoros Melissenos, Konstantinos Dalassenos, Georgios Palaiologos, Ioannis Taronites, and Leontios Chalkeus."
The soldiers exchanged confused glances, unable to understand why Nirma was distributing investigation tablets to them.
But Nirma quickly explained, her voice calm and controlled, like a teacher instructing students who were slow to understand.
"I cannot leave Kapeleion tonight. There is something I must finish here—something that may change everything. Because of that, I ask you to deliver these letters to each suspect.
These wax tablets are the letters. You do not need to read what is written inside. You only need to ensure that they reach their hands before dawn."
She began handing the tablets out one by one, clearly stating each destination, making sure no mistake was made—because even the smallest error could prove fatal.
"You," she said to the senior soldier, "go to Adrianos Komnenos's residence near Mangana Palace. You," she said to the second soldier, "to the home of Nikephoros Melissenos in the Aristocratic Quarter. You," to the third soldier, "to Konstantinos Dalassenos's residence behind the Hippodrome."
And so on, until each of the four soldiers held one or two wax tablets bearing the suspects' names written along the edge in small letters visible only when held close to the light.
The soldiers departed without many questions, mounting their horses and disappearing into the darkness of Constantinople's night, heading in six different directions while carrying messages whose contents they themselves did not know.
The two remaining soldiers stayed at the alley entrance like living statues faithfully performing their duty.
Meanwhile, Nirma turned and walked back into Kapeleion, passing the piles of firewood, passing the patches of white ash, passing the spot where fragments of blue beads had once been found.
At last she reached the half-open back door of the tavern.
There, beneath the dimming lantern light, Arya sat leaning against a brick wall, both hands resting on his knees, his eyes staring directly at Nirma with an expression difficult to interpret—a mixture of confusion, admiration, and a trace of fear.
To be continued…