As they moved south, Green and Ingrid strictly followed their cover story. Their luxurious carriage, drawn by the finest horses, stopped exclusively at the most expensive and prestigious taverns and inns along the route.
Each stop was a carefully choreographed performance. Green, portraying an absent-minded but generous aristocrat, did not skimp on tips and ostentatiously ordered the most exquisite dishes and rare wines. Ingrid, with her elegant blindness, evoked sympathy and respect, becoming the center of attention, which further distracted from Green. Their "retinue"—your life hussars and rangers—carried themselves with a dignity befitting the high status of their "masters," creating an aura of untouchability and wealth around them.
These stops served not only for rest. They were part of a complex reconnaissance operation. While Ingrid charmed the hosts and other guests with her sophistication, Green, seemingly casually, struck up conversations, asking questions about local news, influential figures, roads, and rumors. The rangers, disguised as servants, quietly gathered information, eavesdropping on conversations and observing the surroundings. Each tavern became a small beachhead where their legend was strengthened and information was gathered, bringing them step by step closer to Constantinople and the goal of their mission.
After many days of travel on dusty roads and nights in luxurious but temporary shelters, the horizon finally opened up, revealing the majestic silhouette of Constantinople. Even from a distance, the city made a stunning impression, confirming its reputation as the pearl of the Empire.
As the carriage approached, it passed ancient walls whose battlements and towers seemed to reach for the heavens, testifying to centuries of defense and countless battles. The golden domes and pointed spires of countless churches and temples shone under the bright sun, reflecting its rays in thousands of glimmers. They towered over a sea of red tile roofs, over labyrinths of narrow streets and wide avenues filled with bustle and life.
The air was thick with a mixture of aromas: spices from eastern bazaars, incense from temples, the smell of sea salt wafting from the harbors where hundreds of ships from all over the world stood at the docks, unloading their riches. The sounds of the city crashed down upon them: the clamor of merchants, the shouts of boatmen, the ringing of bells, the creak of carts, the noise of crowded streets where the voices of hundreds of languages mingled.
For Green and Ingrid, entering the city under the guise of noble aristocrats, Constantinople was not just the endpoint of the route, but a vast, living chessboard. Majestic and beautiful on the outside, beneath its glitter it hid a complex web of intrigues, ambitions, and ancient contradictions in which Green now had to operate. This was a city where Empires were born and died, where faith was both power and a weapon, and where the Patriarch, their target, was one of the most influential and unassailable figures.
Constantinople indeed breathed luxury, but not the kind inherent to the prosperous "Honey Mug"—this was not purposeful, new, earned luxury. The luxury of Constantinople was old, elaborate, even a bit haughty. Gold here was not just a means of payment, but an age-old symbol of power that permeated every stone. Palaces with gilded domes and marble columns towered over multi-story houses; their gardens were full of exotic plants and fountains whose jets sparkled under the sun.
Noble citizens in silks and brocades scurried through the streets, their jewelry sparkling at every step—large gemstones, the finest gold, shimmering pearls. Women wore veils embroidered with gold threads; men displayed their wealth in elaborate headdresses and footwear. In the bazaars, where Green had likely sent his rangers for initial reconnaissance, luxury manifested in an abundance of goods from all over the world: the finest oriental carpets, incense from distant lands, rare spices, sparkling gems, and wondrous fabrics, every meter of which cost a fortune.
Gold and silver were exchanged with ease; flows of money circulated between bankers and merchants, many of whom were undoubtedly connected to the Patriarch or other influential figures. But beneath all this splendor, a seamy side likely lurked. Luxury often breeds envy and corruption. The richer the city, the more secrets it has, and the more people are ready to sell their loyalty for the right price. And it was precisely these cracks in the glittering facade that Green intended to find and use for his purposes.
The carriage came to a smooth stop at the main entrance of Constantinople's most prestigious hotel—a building that towered over the rest, offering its guests not only unprecedented luxury but also a mesmerizing view of the shimmering Sea of Marmara. The sea breeze, mixing with the scents of the city, could already be felt in the air.
Before the carriage steps were even lowered, Green, maintaining the mask of a wealthy and slightly arrogant nobleman, began to act. With light, careless generosity, he began handing out tips to the servants. Gold and silver coins jingled in the palms of porters, grooms, and bellboys. Not stinting, he gave double and triple what was customary, eliciting surprised and grateful looks.
This gesture was not just a display of wealth; it was an investment. Green's generosity instantly created an aura of favor around them. The servants, accustomed to the stinginess of many aristocrats, would now look at them with special respect, trying to please and, most importantly for Green, listening to any of their requests, even the most innocent-seeming questions. This was the first step toward creating a network of unofficial informants in the very heart of the city.
The interior of the hotel was as impressive as its facade and literally screamed of centuries of accumulated wealth and refined taste. The entrance led into a vast lobby, the floor of which was laid with polished marble inlaid with intricate patterns of dark and light stones, reflecting the light of hundreds of candles in huge bronze chandeliers hanging from the painted ceiling. The walls were draped with heavy tapestries depicting scenes from ancient myths and glorious victories of the Empire, or covered with panels of dark, carved wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
A subtle scent of sandalwood and jasmine hung in the air, mixing with the smell of polished furniture and fresh pastries from the hotel's nearby bakery. Soft, expensive carpets, likely brought via the Mountain Silk Road, covered the floors in the corridors, absorbing footsteps and creating an atmosphere of comfort and silence. Every detail—from the massive carved doors leading to the rooms to the small marble tables filled with exotic flowers—was a work of art.
In the center of the lobby, a fountain with a bronze statue played, its jets of water gurgling melodiously, adding another note of luxury. There were many sofas and armchairs upholstered in velvet and silk, where noble guests sat quietly conversing or reading scrolls. The staff, well-trained and almost silent, moved among them, anticipating the guests' desires. This interior was designed to inspire awe and admiration, but for Green, it was just another field for observation—where every servant, every guest could become a key to new information or a way to penetrate deeper into the web of Constantinople intrigues.
Meanwhile, as Green and Ingrid shone in the best salons of Constantinople, their loyal rangers, having unnoticedly dissolved into the city bustle, headed to the old part of the city—to where the luxury of the Empire gave way to poverty and oblivion. This part of Constantinople was a labyrinth of dilapidated houses, narrow, dirty alleys where the smell of rotting waste mixed with acrid smoke from charcoal braziers.
There were no gilded domes or marble squares here. Instead, leaning wooden shacks clung to each other, tight courtyards where sunlight barely penetrated. Crowds of the poor, ragged and hungry, scurried through the streets. Children played among the trash, women tried to sell pitiful belongings, men looked for any work. The rangers, accustomed to the harsh conditions of the North, easily blended into this environment.
Their task was not a show of force, but observation. They listened to conversations, absorbing the atmosphere of despair and quiet discontent that could be fertile soil for future intrigues. They looked for signs of dissatisfaction: whispers about hunger, injustice, high levies by the Imperial Church. It was here that those who were tired of the dogmas and greed of the Patriarch might be hiding. Secret places: secluded taverns, slum shops, underground gambling dens—places where people relaxed and might blab, or where those with reasons to be dissatisfied with the authorities might meet.
Weak links: perhaps someone among the poor had once served in the Patriarch's court, or had relatives among the servants, or simply possessed information that could be exchanged for food or gold. The contrast between the glitter of the center and the dilapidation of the old city was striking. The rangers, like shadows, moved through these forgotten backstreets, gathering crumbs of information that could become priceless in the complex game their Lord had started. After all, it is often here, in the dirt and need, that the most effective levers of influence are born.
While the rangers vanished into the labyrinths of the poor quarters, Green, using his cover as a wealthy nobleman, began to make new acquaintances in the high society of Constantinople with his characteristic subtlety. His goal was clear: to get as close as possible to the Patriarch's circle, but to do so as naturally as possible, without excessive zeal.
He and Ingrid attended dinner parties and suppers, where they were easily invited thanks to their wealth and status. Green did not miss the opportunity to subtly hint at his "interests" in antiques, rare manuscripts, or exotic jewels, which gave him a reason to converse with collectors, merchants, and even some representatives of the clergy who might have access to ancient relics.
In these conversations, Green masterfully used his powers of observation. He studied characters, identifying weaknesses, ambitions, and grievances. He did not ask direct questions about the Patriarch but skillfully guided the conversation, listening to gossip, hints, and omissions. Some of his new acquaintances might be influential nobles, others wealthy merchants, still others young, ambitious priests who were perhaps burdened by the old order and looking for a patron.
Ingrid, with her elegance and blindness, also played her role, evoking sympathy and openness from interlocutors who often forgot about her ailment, charmed by her intelligence and soft voice. Her presence made Green less suspicious, transforming him from a potential schemer into a caring husband accompanying his refined wife. Step by step, Green wove a web of acquaintances, each of which could become a thread leading him to the cherished goal—a person who, for the right price or promise, would agree to deliver "Tarantula" directly to the Patriarch's chambers.
Constantinople was teeming with life, and the ball season was in full swing. One of the most anticipated events was the grand summer ball organized by one of the city's most influential patricians. Green and Ingrid, as befitted their legend, received an invitation and attended, mingling effortlessly in high society.
The hall was dazzling: hundreds of candles in crystal chandeliers flooded it with golden light, reflecting in mirrors and on the shiny silks of the outfits. Music filled the air, couples swirled in a waltz, and exquisite treats seemed to flow like a river. Green, continuing to play the role of the charming but slightly scatterbrained collector, made useful new acquaintances, looking for that very thread that could lead him to the Patriarch's circle. Ingrid, with her quiet grace, was the perfect complement, drawing attention to herself and opening doors for casual conversations.
It was just when Green was immersed in secular conversation with an official of the Patriarch's court that something completely unexpected happened. In the crowd, completely out of place in the general picture of sophistication, a familiar figure flashed. He was dressed in expensive but completely ill-fitting clothes, his hair was disheveled, and his gaze wandered with genuine naivety, although a strange, inexplicable luck could be felt in it.
It was Hassan.
His appearance here, in Constantinople, at such a ball, was absolutely unpredictable. Hassan, who could invest money in the most hopeless venture and immediately lose everything, seemed to have wandered into this society by accident, like a stray cat onto a feast. He moved clumsily through the crowd, almost stepping on the feet of dancing couples, but each time miraculously avoiding collisions. His "Blade of Ouroboros' Chance," a small, nondescript dagger that he always kept with him, must have been hidden in the folds of his clothes, awaiting its "unpredictable" opportunity.
Meeting him here, far from the North, did not fit into any of the plans. Green felt a mixture of surprise and wariness. Hassan's presence could be the greatest risk, or, given his inexplicable luck, a completely unexpected source of benefit for the mission.
Green instantly realized the danger of the situation. At that moment, amidst the shining luxury of the ballroom, Hassan was like a ticking atomic bomb, ready to blow up the carefully constructed legend at any moment. Hassan's unpredictability was his most terrifying trait. He could walk up to Green, loudly call him by name, and start recalling some stories completely inappropriate for a "noble aristocrat" about dirty deals in the North, golden turtles, or even the Spear of Longinus.
He could, in his innocent but destructive misunderstanding of the situation, give away all their secrets with one awkward word or gesture. Green, the master of control and well-thought-out maneuvers, found himself facing pure, uncontrolled chaos. Any sharp movement, any attempt to brush Hassan off, would attract unnecessary attention and arouse suspicion. He needed to act instantly but imperceptibly to minimize the damage from this highly unwanted appearance. He felt his cold calculation colliding with absolute, inexplicable chance.
Green watched Hassan like a wound-up mechanism about to go off course. And while Green frantically thought about how to neutralize this threat, Hassan was meanwhile conversing completely at ease with one of the most influential patricians in the city. Moreover, judging by Hassan's animated gesticulation and the patrician's expression, shifting from bewilderment to compliance, it was obvious: Hassan was bargaining for himself—or for you—better percentages on some deal.
This was classic Hassan. He could look like the ultimate scoundrel, his manners far from aristocratic, but thanks to his amazing, inexplicable luck, he somehow managed to profit where anyone else would have failed. The patrician was likely confused by his directness and perhaps even some naive impudence, but in the end, without realizing it, he was agreeing to terms incredibly favorable for Hassan.
This scene only increased Green's internal tension. On the one hand, Hassan somehow managed to be useful, even unwittingly. On the other, every movement, every word was an uncontrollable risk that could instantly destroy months of Green's painstaking work to create the perfect legend. It was like watching a tightrope walker who seems about to fall but manages to cross the taut wire blindfolded.
In the midst of Green's anxious reflections, as he tried to predict Hassan's next unpredictable move, a light, respectful whisper swept through the ballroom. All eyes turned to the main entrance.
There, surrounded by his impressive retinue, appeared the Patriarch himself. He was clad in rich vestments embroidered with gold and precious stones, wearing a heavy, shining cross on his chest. His gait was slow and majestic; every movement breathed dignity and unshakable power. He did not fuss, did not hurry, but nodded with paternal benevolence to the nobles and ladies who immediately parted before him, respectfully bowing their heads or kneeling.
His gaze, calm and penetrating, glided over the hall, assessing those present. The appearance of the Patriarch instantly changed the atmosphere of the ball. The music seemed to become a little quieter, and the conversations more hushed. His presence was the undeniable center of gravity. For Green, this was the moment of highest tension. The target of his mission, the man whose fate was now in his hands, was a few dozen steps away.
And yet, literally a couple of steps from the Patriarch, stood Hassan, whose unpredictability could destroy all plans at any moment. The collision of these two poles—greatness and chaos—in one space created a truly explosive situation.
As if by magic, or rather, thanks to that very inexplicable luck of Hassan, the Patriarch, after a few benevolent nods and brief speeches, headed straight for the place where Hassan was still animatedly conversing with the patrician. His majestic figure, surrounded by the retinue, slowly but steadily approached. Green, watching from the side, felt his heart skip a beat. It was unbelievable. Fate itself seemed to be playing on Hassan's side, creating the most absurd but potentially most direct opportunity.
His target, the Patriarch, was now walking straight toward the man who could be both a blessing and a curse for the entire mission. The Patriarch stopped next to the patrician and Hassan, his gaze, full of fatherly strictness and wisdom, sweeping over both.
"Good evening, honorable one," he said to the patrician, and then his gaze lingered on Hassan. Perhaps he frowned slightly, seeing such an... unusual figure in such company, or, conversely, a slight curiosity flashed in his eyes. Hassan, with his unpredictable naivety, could blurt out anything, or, conversely, open a path with his "luck" that Green dared not even dream of.
The situation was becoming critically tense. Green, holding his breath, watched the unfolding scene. His eyes did not leave Hassan, who now, completely unembarrassed by the presence of the head of the Imperial Church, was actively chatting not only with the patrician but with the Patriarch himself. Hassan gestured animatedly, his hands flying in the air as if trying to grasp invisible threads of thought, and enthusiastically explained something to both interlocutors.
The expression on the Patriarch's face was priceless—it read a mixture of amazement, slight bewilderment, and perhaps even a peculiar, involuntary interest. The patrician, it seemed, was genuinely puzzled but did not interrupt Hassan. This was a classic manifestation of the "Blade of Ouroboros' Chance" in action—Hassan, completely devoid of tact and manners, somehow inexplicably managed to attract attention and hold it, even with such high-ranking personages.
Green felt the tension rising. Every word from Hassan was a potential minefield. He could inadvertently drop something at any moment that would destroy Green's legend, or, conversely, through his absurd luck, unintentionally create the perfect opportunity to approach the Patriarch. It was chaos in its purest form, and Green, the master of control, was forced to watch helplessly, ready to rush into battle at any moment or, conversely, take advantage of the fruits of someone's blind luck.
Green, not taking his eyes off Hassan, the Patriarch, and the patrician, began to cautiously approach them. Every step was measured, every movement calculated. He did not hurry, did not attract attention, dissolving among other guests, pretending to simply move through the hall. On his face remained the mask of a benevolent aristocrat, but inside him, everything was tense to the limit.
His hand, as if by accident, slipped into the pocket of his carefully tailored camisole. There, in a vial wrapped in silk cloth, was "Tarantula"—a colorless liquid carrying a slow and invisible death. Green's pulse beat rapidly in his temples, but he maintained icy calm. Now that the target was so close, and the unpredictable Hassan had somehow miraculously paved the way to him, Green had to be ready to seize any, even the most fleeting, opportunity. This moment, when everything converged at one point, was simultaneously the most dangerous and the most promising of the entire mission.
Green, now a few steps away, froze, blending with the surrounding splendor of the ballroom. His ears, sharp and trained, greedily caught scraps of conversation drifting from the group. It was at this moment he heard Hassan, completely unembarrassed by the status of his interlocutors, telling another tall tale about his adventures with his inherent flair.
His voice was perhaps a bit louder than it should have been in such society, but it was full of such sincere enthusiasm that even the Patriarch seemed to listen with undisguised curiosity, although condescending bewilderment flickered in his eyes. Hassan was likely waving his hands, describing some incredible deals where he bargained something priceless for pennies, or telling about his "Blade of Ouroboros' Chance," which miraculously saved him from the most ridiculous situations.
He might confuse geographical names, distort facts, but his stories were so lively and absurd that it was impossible not to listen. Green tensed, trying to understand where Hassan was leading this conversation. Was there anything in this chaotic stream of words that could serve as a hook? Could Hassan, without knowing it, create the necessary breach in the Patriarch's defenses? Or would his uncontrolled story give Green away at any moment, putting the entire mission at risk? In this unpredictable situation, every word of Hassan's was worth its weight in gold—or his life.
Green, holding his breath, felt the pulse beating rapidly in his temples. His hand, hidden in his pocket, instinctively squeezed the small vial of "Tarantula" even tighter. He could almost feel its coldness through the thin fabric.
"Just a few drops are enough," a thought flashed through his mind, cold and clear. — "The Patriarch is no longer young. His body is weakened by age and, perhaps, the abundance of feasts and luxurious life. Two or three drops added to his drink or food will be unnoticeable. It won't cause immediate collapse, won't provoke suspicion. A slow, imperceptible death imitating natural old age or sudden illness. Exactly what is needed. No traces, no questions."
His gaze darted between the lively, gesturing figure of Hassan and the stately, but aging silhouette of the Patriarch. The moment could come at any second. Everything depended on what turn Hassan's "adventures" would take next.
The music, which until this moment had been muffled by reverent awe before the Patriarch, suddenly filled the hall again with renewed vigor. The musicians, as if waking from a stupor, began to play a waltz—a light, dizzying melody. And then, as if by magic, hundreds of couples began to whirl in the dance. Silks and brocade, gold and jewels merged into a whirlwind of color and light. Nobles and ladies, inspired by the music, moved in time, creating a living, continuously changing kaleidoscope around Green. Their laughter and light conversations filled the air, drowning out words.
For Green, this sudden wave of dancing couples became both a cover and an obstacle. On the one hand, it created a perfect curtain, allowing him to move unnoticed, merging with the flow of people. On the other, every swirling silhouette, every unexpected movement of a couple made his progress toward the target, toward the Patriarch, more difficult. He had to maneuver, dodge, avoid accidental collisions, while maintaining the mask of an imperturbable aristocrat. His hand in his pocket gripped the vial of "Tarantula" tighter. The goal was close, but the path to it had become even more tangled and unpredictable.
And then, amidst the swirling whirlwind of the waltz, amidst the laughter and music, happened what Green, with all his strategic genius and mastery of intrigue, could not have foreseen. The Patriarch, the patrician, and Hassan, having finished their unusual conversation, began to disperse. The patrician, bowing slightly, stepped aside. The Patriarch, with habitual dignity, turned to continue his tour of the hall.
At that very moment, the clumsy, but as always "lucky" Hassan, taking a step back, stumbled. An awkward movement, characteristic of him, led to him stepping right on the hem of the Patriarch's gold-embroidered mantle. A light but distinct sound of tearing fabric rang out.
The Patriarch, losing his balance, stumbled. His majestic figure seemed to slow the fall, but inertia was relentless. He fell, helplessly waving his arms, and by pure, unimaginable chance, ended up right at Green's feet. The guests around, absorbed in the dance, did not immediately notice what had happened, or considered it a minor awkwardness.
For Green, the world around slowed down. This was it. The opportunity that had fallen right into his hands. The Patriarch lay at his feet, confused, humiliated; his gaze was perhaps lost for a moment. The crowd of dancing couples swirling around created the perfect cover. Green's hand, still clutching the vial of "Tarantula," tensed. The moment had come.
Green's fingers, trained by years of covert operations, acted with lightning dexterity. In an instant, while the swirling waltz and the rustle of ball gowns drowned out sounds, he snatched the vial from his pocket and silently uncorked it. Over the confused, disoriented Patriarch, who was trying to catch his breath after the fall, Green leaned down with an expression of sympathetic concern on his face.
"Your Holiness, are you alright?" he whispered, simultaneously pressing the neck of the vial to the Patriarch's lips. It looked as if he were offering him smelling salts or a remedy for fainting. Several drops of "Tarantula," invisible and tasteless, flowed into the Patriarch's mouth. The Patriarch, still shocked and disoriented, likely swallowed them instinctively, not realizing that this was not medicine, but the harbinger of his end.
Everything happened in a split second, under the cover of chaos and the waltz. The mission to deliver the poison was accomplished.
Green, maintaining the mask of a courteous nobleman, immediately offered his hand to the Patriarch, helping him up. "Your Holiness, are you not hurt?" he said with feigned concern, while his gaze scoured the hall, desperately looking for Hassan. The one who had just been the cause of such incredible luck had now disappeared into the whirlwind of dancing couples blocking the view.
The Patriarch, having recovered slightly from the unexpected fall, nodded gratefully to Green. Mild disorientation could still be read in his eyes, but he was already returning to his usual, haughty manner. "Thank you, good man," he said in a slightly hoarse voice, straightening his luxurious mantle. Not by a single word, not by a single glance did he betray even a shred of suspicion that this stranger had just signed his death warrant.
Then, surrounded by his retinue, the Patriarch once again dissolved into the swirling crowd, his majestic figure hidden from view. Green instantly realized: it was time to leave. The mission was accomplished. Now every extra moment spent here was an unjustified risk. And the main threat was none other than Hassan. The luck of the "Blade of Ouroboros' Chance" was too unpredictable to remain near.
Hassan could appear out of nowhere, could accidentally drop something compromising, could even simply, out of his naive habit, examine Green too closely, awakening suspicion in someone. The icy calm that Green had demonstrated throughout the operation was replaced by internal, almost feverish activity. His gaze, no longer searching for the Patriarch, darted around the hall in search of Ingrid.
Finding her in this maelstrom of dancing bodies, amidst the glitter and noise, was not easy. Hundreds of faces, hundreds of movements merged into a single blur, but Green knew his wife too well. He looked for her familiar silhouette, her special, graceful manner of movement despite her blindness. Finally, his eyes caught on a familiar dress in a remote part of the hall, where Ingrid, surrounded by several ladies, was conducting a casual conversation, radiating calm.
Green, without attracting attention, began to carefully make his way through the dancing couples. He did not hurry so as not to arouse suspicion, but every movement was filled with impatience. He nodded to acquaintances, exchanged polite phrases, but all his thoughts were focused on a speedy departure. The faster they left this hall, this city, the safer it would be. Hassan was like a ghost who could appear from any shadow, and Green was not going to give him that chance.
Green finally reached Ingrid. With light but tangible restraint, he took her by the elbow. "My dear," he said barely audibly, leaning toward her, "I feel a sudden indisposition. It seems this ball has exhausted me too much."
This was a code phrase, immediately signaling danger to Ingrid and the need for urgent departure. She, without flinching a single muscle, only squinted slightly, demonstrating the concern of a loving spouse. "Oh, my dear, what a pity!" she replied with the same easy nonchalance as always. "We must leave immediately so you can rest."
From her side, it was the perfect reaction. No fuss, no panic, just light, aristocratic concern. They began to move slowly but purposefully toward the exit, Ingrid leaning on Green's arm, creating the image of tired but noble guests hurrying to the privacy of their hotel. No one paid them any special attention, absorbed in the music and glitter of the ball. Every step was thought out, every movement part of a carefully planned withdrawal, the goal of which was one: to leave this hall as soon as possible, where the ghost of Hassan could appear at any moment.
Seeing Green and Ingrid heading for the exit, the footman, who had already grown accustomed to the generosity of these noble lords, immediately signaled the coachman. Not a minute passed before the luxurious carriage, drawn by a pair of black horses, silently rolled up to the main entrance of the hotel. The door swung open. Green helped Ingrid sit inside, and then quickly followed her.
The coachman, receiving a casual but significant nod from Green, immediately pulled the reins. The horses started, and the carriage, its wheels barely audible rustling on the pavement, slowly but steadily moved away from the illuminated ballroom, leaving behind the music, laughter, and tangle of intrigues. To everyone, it was just the departure of nobles tired of the celebration. But for Green and Ingrid, it was an escape. Every meter separating them from the Patriarch and Hassan was a breath of clean air.
The operation, launched in the heart of Constantinople under the guise of an exquisite social gathering, was completed. Now all that remained was to wait for the seed of "Tarantula" to yield its poisonous sprouts.
Returning to the hotel, Green and Ingrid spent an anxious night. Despite the external calm they maintained, inside Green was on edge. Every gust of wind outside the window, every distant noise seemed a harbinger of news from the Patriarch's palace. Ingrid, sensitive to her husband's mood, shared his tension, lying quietly beside him.
With the first rays of the sun barely illuminating the eastern sky over the Bosphorus, Green made a decision. They did not eat breakfast. Again citing a sudden indisposition which, according to him, required fresh air and peace outside the noisy city, Green ordered immediate departure. The footmen, accustomed to the whims of wealthy guests, brought the carriage without unnecessary questions.
The luxurious carriage, accompanied by the faithful retinue, drove out of Constantinople. This time Green did not stop at expensive taverns. He drove the horses at full speed, striving to leave the limits of the Empire as quickly as possible, carrying with him the secret of the poison that had already begun its slow path in the Patriarch's body. The further they drove from Constantinople, the lighter their souls became. All that remained was to wait for news.
Green drove the carriage north without looking back. Every mile that flew by was a breath of fresh air, distancing him from Constantinople and what he had left there. Ingrid, keenly sensing his mood, sat quietly, only occasionally stroking his hand.
When the sun began to dip toward sunset, the clatter of hooves was heard in the distance. Green tensed, but soon exhaled with relief, recognizing the silhouettes. These were his rangers, the very ones who had been sent for reconnaissance in the poor quarters of Constantinople. They caught up with the carriage, their horses breathing heavily after a rapid chase.
"My Lord!" shouted one of them when the carriage stopped. His face was covered in dust, but his eyes burned with excitement. "We bring news! In Constantinople, they say... the Patriarch is unwell."
These words, spoken with a respectful whisper, were music to Green's ears. "Unwell," he repeated to himself, a light, barely noticeable smile touching his lips. This was exactly what he expected. "Tarantula" had begun its work. Slowly, imperceptibly, but surely. Now all that remained was to wait until its action was complete, and the world would learn of the "natural" demise of the powerful Patriarch.
Green's relief was short-lived. The ranger, having caught his breath, continued, and his next words caused a chill to run down the master of intrigue's spine. "There is other news, my Lord," the ranger began, his voice becoming lower, more serious. "Disturbing news. The Patriarch is not just unwell. They say his condition is deteriorating sharply. And as for the ball... they say the Patriarch had contact with only three people directly before he fell ill."
He paused, his gaze meeting Green's, and the words sounded like a blow. "The patrician he spoke with... has already been detained. Hassan... has disappeared from Constantinople; no one knows where he went. And... a pursuit has been organized for you, my Lord. The Patriarch's men are looking for you."
Green felt the tension grip him again. His calculation was flawless, but Hassan's unpredictability had once again made its corrections. The fact that Hassan had disappeared was both a relief and a new riddle. But the pursuit organized by the Patriarch's men—this was direct confirmation that they were suspected. The slow-acting poison was chosen precisely to avoid an immediate reaction, but apparently, the sharp deterioration of the Patriarch's condition turned out to be too obvious.
The mask of the serene nobleman flew off Green's face. He turned to the coachman: "Drive! And no stops until we reach our border!" The carriage jerked forward with new, desperate speed, leaving clouds of dust behind. The horses, urged on by the coachman's lashing whip, raced along the road as if pursued by Hades himself.
Inside, Green, no longer trying to portray a serene nobleman, frantically pondered what had happened. Ingrid pressed against him, her blind eyes fixed on nowhere, but she felt every nervous movement of her husband. Green was a master of calculation, but here, it seemed, all his calibrated plans were shattering against unpredictability.
He had miscalculated, and this admission burned him from the inside. Three drops of "Tarantula"—that was exactly how much was administered. This amount should have been enough for a slow, imperceptible agony that would stretch out for several days, mimicking a natural illness. But the Patriarch got worse the very next day. It was too fast.
"Where did I miscalculate?" he repeated mentally, feverishly going over the options. The Patriarch was elderly. Perhaps his body, already exhausted by years, turned out to be much more susceptible to the poison than assumed. Old age made him vulnerable, accelerated the action of "Tarantula." Did the Patriarch have some unknown, chronic illness? Perhaps the poison reacted with his already weakened immune system or with medicines he might have been taking. This could have amplified the effect of "Tarantula" many times over, turning its slow action into rapid fading.
He understood that such a speed of deterioration in the Patriarch's condition inevitably aroused suspicions. That is why the patrician was detained, and a chase was after him. There was no time to delay. Every moment brought the pursuers closer. He had to get to the North before it was too late.
Green, whose face was now hard and focused, made a decision. The direct route to the North was too predictable, and the pursuers undoubtedly expected exactly that. He had to do something unexpected to throw them off the trail.
"Coachman!" he commanded sharply, his voice firm despite the shaking of the carriage. "Change course! We are heading not North, but to the nearest city where there is a Golden Shield branch!"
Green understood that by entering a city and heading to a Golden Shield branch, he would create the appearance that he had important business related to finances, and not flight. The pursuers, if they were close enough, might think that he was trying to withdraw money or conduct some operation, which would give him precious time. Furthermore, his very presence in a city with a Golden Shield branch might make them wonder about his true goals. Perhaps he even calculated on using the Golden Shield's connections to get information or even help.
It was a risky, but the only chance to break away from the chase and regroup before they reached the relatively safe lands of the North.
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