The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  She smiled thinly. “Not so very long ago, I might have agreed with you. No, Austria alone poses no threat. They’ve lost too much territory and prestige in the past decade. Besides, Prussia keeps them busy in the north. It is Montenegro and its neighbors to the east that concern me, as you will see from this newest report.”

  At her signal, the queen’s secretary handed around folders to all the men. Ó Deághaidh flipped open the blank cover to see a half dozen pages of closely written lines. It was another summary, not a firsthand account. His attention caught on the words Montenegro and recent elections, but it was the final paragraph that made him straighten up.

  “Anglians?” he said.

  The others had reached that same point. Ó Cadhla pursed his lips and leafed through the previous pages. His expression was more thoughtful than troubled, but Ó Breislin’s eyes widened in an unguarded moment of surprise, and Ó Luain appeared openly dismayed. De Paor gave no other sign except to gaze steadily at the queen, as though waiting for further clues.

  “Yes, Anglians,” the queen said. “Montenegro’s elections last summer brought Austrian sympathizers into the majority. Certain local political groups mistrust the Austrians’ goodwill. Sensing an opportunity, our own Anglian nationalists have joined with the more outspoken of these organizations. If I can rely on these reports, they have entered a pact to further each other’s revolution.”

  Ó Deághaidh released his breath slowly. Civil war in Éire. That would be a crisis.

  “But you are not certain,” Mac Gioll said.

  “I am not. And we cannot make any intelligent decisions until we know more. That is why I summoned Commander Ó Deághaidh, to investigate the matter.”

  “You want a spy,” Ó Deághaidh said.

  The queen’s gray eyes measured him coolly. She was no longer a young woman, ardent and impulsive in matters political and personal. Or perhaps her nature remained unchanged, but buried deep beneath this guise of the dispassionate ruler. The transformation might prove to Éire’s advantage, but he wondered what it had cost her.

  “Call it what you will,” she said. “Spy. Scout. Trusted emissary. What I want, Commander, is a pair of eyes and ears, thinking eyes and ears, to observe the situation at hand.”

  “To watch, but not to act.”

  She hesitated. “Let us say I empower you to act as your discretion dictates.”

  “No restrictions?” That was Lord De Paor.

  “We shall work out the details before the commander departs. Do you have any concerns about this assignment, Commander Ó Deághaidh?”

  Now it was his turn to hesitate. It was a chance to reinstate himself—in Court, in the Constabulary, in the queen’s trust. A flutter of doubt intruded. He suppressed it. “More questions than concerns, Your Majesty.”

  Her gaze dipped briefly. “A fair point. My lords, do you have reservations?”

  Ó Luain and Mac Gioll exchanged glances. De Paor’s expression had turned distinctly bland, in marked contrast to Ó Breislin, who scowled absentmindedly at the table. Ó Cadhla continued to study his copy of the report through slitted eyes, as though searching for more clues. He said nothing, however.

  The queen nodded. “Very well, my lords. Then let us make our desires clear. We desire Commander Ó Deághaidh to meet privately with each of you. You will brief him thoroughly on your departments and answer all his questions.” To Ó Deághaidh she said, “We shall have copies of all our reports sent to your quarters for your review. Let us know if you require more, but do it quickly. You will start for the Continent this Thursday.”

  She rose. The ministers filed past her, already murmuring amongst themselves. Ó Deághaidh waited until they had all departed. The queen had turned to confer with her secretary. The man caught Ó Deághaidh’s glance and touched her arm, indicating his presence. She looked over her shoulder to Ó Deághaidh, and with the barest hesitation, nodded.

  Once they were alone, she resumed her seat and folded her hands together.

  “Speak, Aidrean. I know you want to.”

  How well had she read him over the years? Better than he had her, obviously.

  “Why send for me?” he said. “Are you doing this from charity?”

  Áine met his gaze directly but her color was high. “Not at all. The matter is too important, Aidrean. I thought you would recognize that.”

  Her tone was just as he remembered from their early days together. Irritated. Demanding. And there was that use of his given name, which implied a level of intimacy.…

  She remembers. Or does she?

  It did not matter, he realized. It had not mattered then, whichever then one chose.

  “But why me?” he repeated. “You surely have others with equal experience.”

  “Because I need a man I can trust.”

  Not a friend, a trusted minion. He felt the old, familiar weight of disappointment. He thrust that disappointment aside. “You have my service, Your Majesty. But you should know that.”

  “I should, but—” She broke off with an unhappy smile. “My father once said a king did not issue absolute commands, he could only provoke loyalty and inspire obedience. I sometimes think I have proved a bad student in these matters. I did not wish to presume.”

  But she had.

  “And if I had refused?” he asked.

  Again that quick coloring, which faded to white. “But you did not.”

  Because I could not. And that you surely knew.

  Did she remember those false days, when he and she had spoken freely with one another? Did she ever know that he had loved her, both as Queen of Éire, and a woman of unsurpassed strength and intelligence? Or did she know, and did she use that information to bind his allegiance to her?

  He turned away, not wanting to know.

  The chamber went still and silent for a long, long moment. Then Ó Deághaidh felt a touch upon his sleeve. So light, it was as though she tried to excuse herself for trespassing.

  “I must,” Áine said softly. “Not for you or for me. But for Éire.”

  Then he felt the air stir as the queen left and the door closed silently behind her.

  * * *

  The queen’s own secretary waited outside Ó Deághaidh’s rooms with the promised reports. More secrecy, more discretion, but by now Ó Deághaidh was no longer troubled, merely relieved the queen took so many precautions. He thanked the secretary, then sent off a runner with an order for an early supper to be delivered to his rooms.

  Alone, with the doors bolted, he opened the packet and skimmed through the lot. Here were the detailed field reports behind the summaries he’d already seen. Reports from agents in Austria, Prussia, Serbia, the Turkish States—all the relevant players he would have expected. One last page gave Ó Deághaidh’s schedule for the next two days.

  He paused and felt a ping of surprise. That is not what I expected.

  Of course he was to meet with Ó Cadhla, Mac Gioll, and Ó Breislin. These were the men responsible for matters touching the military or foreign affairs. (Though he wondered at Ó Cadhla’s being placed later and not earlier in the schedule.) Even De Paor’s name did not entirely surprise him—De Paor oversaw matters of internal intelligence, which would encompass the Anglian connection. But Ó Luain? Economics and finance? Clearly, the situation involved more than a minor crisis in a distant country.

  A note in the queen’s hand added: I want no questions in your mind when you start for the Continent. If you find anything lacking—anything, Aidrean—please apply directly to me.

  He set down the paper. Laid his fingertips lightly upon the pages spread over the table, as though to read more from their texture. Considered the circumstances, the small details of the courier, these luxurious private rooms, the queen’s private words about trust, her public ones about his experience.

  She wants someone who knows the Court, but who is outside it.

  Someone skilled in delicate investigations.

  Taking up the topmost report, he
started to read in earnest.

  * * *

  He read past midnight, taking notes as he went. By sunrise, he finished what little sleep came to him, and rose to prepare for his day. Lord Greagoir Ó Luain’s name came first on the agenda. At eight o’clock, Ó Deághaidh presented himself to Ó Luain’s secretary, who escorted him into the minister’s impeccable private office. It was a large pleasant room, lined by tall bookshelves and many cabinets. Ó Luain himself appeared hard at work. At Ó Deághaidh’s appearance, he set aside his pen and dismissed the several clerks who had been taking notes at his dictation.

  “Commander Ó Deághaidh. Welcome. Would you care for coffee? Tea? No? Well, then, let us settle to the business at hand. Though to be quite honest, I’m uncertain how I might assist you.”

  Ó Deághaidh smiled. “I believe the queen simply wishes to reacquaint me with her concerns, whether they touch directly upon this matter or not.”

  Ó Luain pursed his lips, as though uncertain. “If you believe I have information you require, of course, I shall do my best.…”

  Over the next two hours, Ó Deághaidh’s initial impression remained unchanged. The man appeared exactly as his reputation suggested—a conscientious servant of the Crown, and he answered all Ó Deághaidh’s questions with unfailing politeness. Yes, a civil war would prove unhealthy for the treasury. Éire had stretched itself thin over the past few years by sending aid to its many allies. And yes, any internal crisis of that proportion would certainly endanger the international exchange rates. No, he had not received any reports of unusual activity with banks or investment firms to indicate funds moving from the Anglian Dependencies to points east.

  “None that are regular,” he added. “For the irregular kind, you must inquire of Lord De Paor.”

  “Indeed I will, my lord.”

  Their gazes met and held a moment, and Ó Deághaidh had the distinct sensation he was being studied as thoroughly as he had studied Ó Luain. Was he wrong about the man? Was his manner a disguise for something more sinister?

  He was still pondering Lord Ó Luain’s character as he walked to his next interview, which was with Lord Mac Gioll. Mac Gioll had served as an officer during the Anglian Uprising thirty years before, and now advised the queen on military matters. He expounded upon the topic with more vigor than Ó Deághaidh expected for such an old man. “The sticking point,” Lord Mac Gioll said in his wheezing voice, “is when to signal the first shot.”

  “Surely the first question begins with if, not when,” Ó Deághaidh said mildly.

  Mac Gioll laughed softly. “You’ve not served in war, young man. However, I see your point. So then, let us return to the matter at hand. If the Anglians do succeed and bring their Balkan allies to these shores, here are the items that will govern our possible responses…”

  He plunged into a detailed account of Éire’s four military branches, one for each of four knobby fingers, while Ó Deághaidh attempted to keep notes of the main points. The navy came first. It had blossomed in the last century, and proved well enough to defend against minor incursions, but clearly could not hope to equal the Dietsch Empire’s astonishing fleets.

  “Hence our withdrawal from the Hindu and Judaic Protectorates, and the Far East,” Mac Gioll said. He bent one finger down, grasped the next. The aerial corps was a minor organization, used chiefly for reconnaissance, with two divisions. The aeroplane was an experimental device, its efficacy as yet unproved. The motored balloon showed a more immediate advantage. The army used it for tracking troop movements, but there was talk among the engineers about improving the balloon’s maneuverability. Some thought they might carry small cannons or firebombs.

  “Soon?” Ó Deághaidh asked.

  “Not before the next decade,” Mac Gioll replied. “So you see it is our army and our militia who guarantee our security.” Two more fingers bent over, as he went on to those branches. The army defended the kingdom and the neighboring Dependencies of Anglia, Manx, Wight, and Cymru; the militia concerned itself with internal matters. “Against disruptions. Uprisings.”

  “Rebellions,” Ó Deághaidh said quietly.

  Mac Gioll shot him a calculating glance. “Indeed. We’ve been fortunate these past few centuries, apart from the Revolt. My concern is that another uprising, combined with any significant crisis in Europe, would prove too much for us. It has been eight hundred years since Alba and Denmark came to our aid, to drive the Anglians from our shores. If we show ourselves weak, they might decide to abandon us. Indeed, Alba might elect to support its southern neighbor outright—they being citizens of one island, as the radicals like to remind us. We cannot afford that, not with the continent so uneasy.”

  “Is it so uneasy then, my lord?”

  For the first time during their interview, the older man hesitated. “You understand, I speak now of my own impressions, nothing more. There are, let us say, more incidents. More bickering and maneuvering between neighboring kingdoms. My fear is that any crisis, even a seemingly insignificant one, might incite violence, which, in the present atmosphere, would spread as rapidly as fire through dry kindling.”

  Meaning war, of the kind Éire and the Continent had not witnessed for a hundred years or more.

  They were all so circumspect, Ó Deághaidh thought, as he returned to his quarters for dinner. He had missed the clues in the first meeting, but clearly the queen’s ministers were uneasy amongst themselves. Of course they feared the possibility of an all-consuming war, but they also knew the queen had not shared all her thoughts about this current matter. If only he could remain at Cill Cannig another week to study the state of affairs at Court. It made no sense to send him off so ill prepared—not if the true problem lay inside Éire.

  He sighed and shuffled through the papers, looking for that newest report about Montenegrin elections. There had been several notations added in the margins, something about the prince and his advisers.

  What is this?

  He lifted a crumpled sheet from the stack of otherwise neat pages. Underneath it, he found two more. All three were nearly illegible—stained by rusty brown splotches and creased through and through. Even more puzzling, each paragraph looked as though a different person had written it. In one, the script lurched across the page, while the next consisted of neat cramped lines.

  But it was the contents that intrigued him the most. This was not the usual field agent’s report. One page contained a list of names and occupations. The names were Montenegrin or Serbian, he noted. Another, labeled Meetings, gave dates and locations. The third page contained only a few paragraphs, but Ó Deághaidh recognized what had to be drop points and exchange signals. Here the name Kiro Delchev was repeated several times, along with references to a larger group of Éireann sympathizers, which Delchev represented.

  Again he felt an inward tilt, as if a godlike hand had unbalanced the world. But, no. This was no case of time misremembered. He knew he had not overlooked these papers the night before. He also knew he had locked his rooms before meeting with Ó Luain, and that he had found the packets exactly as he left them.

  Someone wishes me to know about Montenegro and Kiro Delchev. And they do not wish to tell me openly.

  So, it was with some curiosity he went to his next interview.

  Lord Ó Breislin’s office was crowded with books, exotic carvings, and framed samples of illuminated text. A scent of incense hung in the air, mingled with tobacco, reminders of his time abroad. He had spent his early years as a diplomat in the East, with posts ranging from the Turkish States, to the various kingdoms in the Indian subcontinent, to the Chinese Empire. After running the embassy in Constantinople for six years, and establishing a network of agents, he had returned to Court to serve as an adviser for those affairs. He greeted Ó Deághaidh with a firm handshake and an offer of coffee or whiskey.

  “Coffee, if you please,” Ó Deághaidh said. “I would like to keep my wits about me.”

  “Wise choice. Roibeárd, give us two cups and then y
ou may go.”

  An aide poured two cups of thick black Turkish coffee and withdrew. Ó Breislin added a lump of sugar to his cup and stirred. “You would think I’d had enough of this goop, as Mac Gioll calls it, when I lived abroad, but it seems that familiarity has bred a great love and no contempt.”

  “You spent fifteen years in Constantinople, I understand, my lord.”

  Ó Breislin glanced at Ó Deághaidh from hooded eyes. “Near enough. Ten years rattling about Turkey. Six more in the embassy. If you know that much, you should know the rest.”

  Ó Deághaidh tilted his hand outward in recognition of the shot. “It comes from my background, my lord. It makes me indecently curious. Did you ever have cause to investigate the Balkans during that time?”

  The other man raised his eyebrows. “As events required, yes.”

  “Did you ever come across a man named Kiro Delchev?”

  “No.” A pause. A sip from the cup. “Wait, I have. There was a Doctor Delchev in Montenegro. A professor at the old university in Cetinje sometimes called in to advise Prince Danilo on international matters. I don’t know anything more than the name, however. I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask Ó Cadhla about the man.”

  Ó Deághaidh finished his coffee, but slowly, as he considered this reply. Either Ó Breislin truly did not know, or had prepared himself for direct questions. He turned the conversation to the most recent succession wars in the Turkish States. There Ó Breislin showed no lack of opinions, and the next few hours passed in animated discussion about the recent assassinations, and what might ensue, once a particular faction took firm control of the throne.

  When Ó Deághaidh returned to his rooms that evening, after a late supper with Ó Breislin and Ó Luain, he locked the door and built up a fire before collapsing onto the sofa.

  He could make nothing of the clues so far. Ó Luain was competent, if dull. (Though Ó Deághaidh had not forgotten that flash of keenness at the last.) Ó Breislin and Mac Gioll appeared exactly as one would expect—shrewd, practical men. Capable of advising the queen well, equally capable of manufacturing a complex scheme that could throw Éire into confusion. But to what end?