The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  He sighed and poured himself a whiskey. He was reaching conclusions ahead of his data. He had another day, and two more interviews. No, three. He would surely see Áine one last time before he departed.

  * * *

  “Of course, Commander. I will relay your wishes to the queen.”

  “Please do. I understand I am being irregular—”

  “Not at all. The queen was quite explicit. We were to satisfy you on all counts.”

  No doubt the queen’s secretary had a large staff to carry messages. Nevertheless, he had answered Ó Deághaidh’s summons himself, despite the early hour, and assured Commander Ó Deághaidh he would personally relay his messages to the queen and her ministers at once.

  “Oh, and please make certain these letters are delivered to Lords Ó Luain, Mac Gioll, and Ó Breislin,” Ó Deághaidh added, handing over three sealed envelopes. Inside were messages, asking for clarifications on several points discussed during their interviews.

  Again the secretary bowed. “You may be certain of it, Commander.”

  Within an hour, Ó Deághaidh had replies from all five members of the inner Council. He set aside those from Ó Luain, Ó Breislin, and Mac Gioll to examine later. The answers themselves were unimportant. However, he was curious how De Paor and Ó Cadhla might answer such a seemingly impetuous request to change the hour and order of their interviews.

  As you wish, Ó Cadhla wrote. Short and matter-of-fact.

  De Paor’s reply was longer, but also expressed his willingness to accommodate Commander Ó Deághaidh.

  Shortly after that came the queen’s response. Let us meet Thursday morning at nine.

  In his message, De Paor had also named the location for their meeting—one of the larger, more lavishly appointed audience rooms. Was it a desire to keep his domain private? Or did the man simply like a showier stage for this audience? It would be too easy, Ó Deághaidh reminded himself, to misjudge the man on such petty grounds.

  “Good day, Commander,” De Paor said. “I see you prefer early hours.”

  “I do, my lord. Thank you for being so understanding.”

  Tea and coffee were provided by servants, who discreetly withdrew. Ó Deághaidh stirred honey into his tea and studied his new subject with keen interest. A youngish man, with hazel eyes, and a fair complexion overspread with freckles. He wore his thinning hair swept back in the latest fashion. According to Ó Deághaidh’s sources, the queen had appointed Lord De Paor to his position just a year ago, when old Lord Ultach died of drink, or opium, as rumors would have it.

  “I’ve been thinking how best to assist you,” De Paor said. “I have nothing to do with Montenegro, of course, but there is the matter of those Anglians.”

  Ó Deághaidh nodded, continued to drink his tea.

  De Paor rested a hand on a stack of bound files. “Those Anglians,” he repeated, somewhat at random. “It is a curious affair. If you think they would prove useful, I’ve collected our files on various organizations, suspected radicals and the like.”

  The files contained numerous reports and analyses for all four Districts of the Dependencies, not just Anglia itself. Another folder offered a summary of the political groups with connections to the more radical Anglian dissidents, including a particular Franco-Prussian group known for violence against Judaic communities, which had tentacles throughout Europe.

  “Indeed, these might prove very helpful,” Ó Deághaidh said as he leafed through the pages. “May I take these back to my rooms to study further?”

  “Of course, Commander. If we are not safe in Cill Cannig, then we are safe nowhere. Do you feel you are making progress, then? I’m curious to learn if you’ve reached any conclusions about the queen’s affair.”

  “If I have, my lord, I have set them aside for later.”

  “Spoken like a scientist,” De Paor said. “Or a member of the Constabulary.”

  “Hopefully some of both,” Ó Deághaidh said. “The queen has presented me with a tangled mystery.”

  He went on to ask his own questions about the Dependencies in general and the political associations in particular. Lord De Paor proved to be as knowledgeable and helpful as Ó Deághaidh wished. No, he’d no reports about the illegal or excessive transfer of funds to points east. Yes, there were always dissatisfied parties, but he thought the ordinary citizen of the Dependencies disliked upsets and rebellions.

  Ó Deághaidh politely declined an invitation to dine with Lord De Paor, instead taking a meal of soup and bread in his rooms. Two hours remained until his interview with Lord Ó Cadhla. He glanced over his notes, but soon gave it up and took off on a tour of the older public halls, hoping to settle his thoughts and recover his concentration.

  It was a good decision. He had forgotten how lovely it was here, the exquisite mosaics laid down by the early kings, the portraits in the halls, the grace and balance of the arched passageways. He ended up in a small interior courtyard and stood before a fountain, whose waters leapt and tumbled within a marble basin. Sunlight glanced from the droplets, reflecting a rainbow of colors over the surrounding tiles.

  Of course he knew the reason for his distraction—Maeve Ní Cadhla. He had already known about her taking a second degree with honors. Against his better judgment, he had followed the careers of her and everyone else connected with the nonexistent murders that haunted his memory. He knew about Paul Keller’s advances in electrical theory. He knew Evan De Mora had taken a position at Awveline University, only to leave after six months to join his friends Gwen Madóc and her brother at their institute. There was talk that their theories would transform how scientists viewed physics and the passage of time.

  Aidrean Ó Deághaidh bent and touched the endless fall of water. The rhythm broke; the rainbow scattered. But when he removed his hand, the waterfall resumed as though nothing had happened. Very much like time itself, he thought. He could not say the same of his own life, interrupted so abruptly by madness. He wondered what Doctor Loisg would say to this train of thought.

  He dried his hand on a handkerchief, then set off for his appointment with Lord Ó Cadhla.

  Less than two days had passed since they had last spoken. In that time, the other man appeared to have aged remarkably. The lines and folds in his face had multiplied, and though Ó Cadhla’s gaze was as keen as ever, there was a weary, restless air about him, as though he had spent the past few days searching for answers, and did not like what he had found.

  “You are troubled, my lord,” Ó Deághaidh said.

  “So are you, Commander. I find that strangely reassuring. Have you given much thought to how to approach this assignment?”

  “Only that it requires discretion, my lord.”

  Ó Cadhla gave a dry laugh. “You always did understate the matter. I have several suggestions in that direction, if you would care to hear them. Yes? Very well, let us take as given that your movements will be observed, even before you leave Cill Cannig and Osraighe. So. We cannot help that. However, we can provide you with a different, more innocuous reason for your visit to the Continent. I spoke with the queen, and she agrees you might act as a private courier to Frankonia’s new king.”

  Ó Deághaidh listened attentively to Lord Ó Cadhla’s proposal. He would spend a few days in Frankonia’s Court, ostensibly on business for the queen. If he had the opportunity to visit on friendly terms with other members of Frankonia’s Court, he should take it. The length and manner of his stay would be at his discretion. But on his return to the airfields outside Paris, he would slip into anonymity, taking care to mislead and misdirect those who watched.

  “And they will watch,” Ó Cadhla went on. “If only because you are well known, and on the queen’s business. Just as we watch those who enter Éire.”

  His office would supply the necessary papers, he said, along with names of trusted agents in each country. Ó Deághaidh made no objections—Ó Cadhla’s suggestions were sound ones—and they spent the full afternoon and half the evening reviewin
g the first few weeks of Ó Deághaidh’s proposed journey.

  Not once did either mention the name Kiro Delchev.

  * * *

  That night, Ó Deághaidh set out the letters from the five ministers. Next to them he placed the three sheets that had appeared so mysteriously. Even if he considered a deliberate attempt to disguise their handwriting, he could find no similarities between the two sets. Ó Luain’s handwriting was straight and even, much like the compact sample, but without its cramped quality. Mac Gioll’s hand most closely resembled the sprawling segment, but he could never have managed the rest, especially those paragraphs with stiff straight lines marching across the page. De Paor’s stood out with its strong verticals and the way he crossed his Ts with a broad stroke cutting across the other letters. His hand was almost too distinctive, Ó Deághaidh thought as he compared pages. To be sure, the same problem existed for Ó Breislin and Ó Cadhla, who both used old-fashioned loops and underlines.

  Someone had expected him to compare handwriting. Someone very clever.

  * * *

  The palace bells were ringing nine o’clock when the queen’s senior runner escorted Aidrean Ó Deághaidh into the small sunlit parlor within the Royal Residence. The queen was presently closeted with Lord Ó Cadhla, the young man informed Ó Deághaidh, but she would arrive momentarily.

  A sideboard held carafes with water, and silver urns of coffee and tea. Ignoring these refreshments, Ó Deághaidh made a circuit of the room, wondering why Áine had chosen this particular location for their final interview. There was none of the usual portraits and ancient statuary found throughout the audience rooms. Instead, the walls were lined with numerous shelves, displaying mechanical curiosities. Clocks built of precious gems that rang the hour in chords. Strange devices set with lamps and mirrors and prisms that transformed plain sunlight into rainbow-colored patterns. One glass exhibit held nothing but an extraordinary complication of copper wires. A brass plate indicated a switch off to one side. When Ó Deághaidh touched it, a small red balloon—crafted from jewels and fine metals—popped from a niche in the wall to swoop along the wires, as though in flight across the skies.

  … the world tipped beneath him. He glimpsed a fair-haired man, loose limbed and graceful. Breandan Reid Ó Cuilinn, renowned scientist and the queen’s favorite, who had plunged to his death from a balloon. If Ó Deághaidh had been at Court, he would have led the inquiry into the accident, but the queen had already ordered him away to a very different kind of investigation …

  Ó Deághaidh closed his eyes, willing the false memories to subside. So many things that never were. They pressed upon his consciousness, like fingers around his throat. Was it his imagination, or had their presence grown more insistent, here in Cill Cannig? You are a strong-minded man, Doctor Loisg had said, during one session. But mere strength cannot cure you.

  The vertigo faded, but he felt its lingering presence, and though the world froze once more beneath his feet, he could still sense the flaws and cracks below its surface.

  “Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

  Startled, he turned to see the queen just entering the parlor, trailed by a stream of servants bearing trays of bread and pastries. The sunlight made her dark red hair burn like copper against her milk-white skin.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, more breathless than he liked.

  She smiled at him, a warm smile that nevertheless woke all his instincts. Here was his last opportunity to abandon this assignment. Did he want to? He could not tell.

  Áine dismissed her servants and proceeded to pour tea for them both, as though they were two intimate friends.

  “So tell me,” she said. “What have you learned these past two days?”

  Ó Deághaidh accepted his cup and took a seat nearest the window. He allowed himself a moment of stirring honey into his tea to collect a proper answer. An honest one. He owed her that much.

  “You have given me a rather difficult task,” he said. “I find it has certain complications that might prevent an easy resolution.”

  The queen smiled, pensively. “So I have deduced myself. I don’t ask for the impossible, Commander. Find the truth. Let me decide from there.” Her smile turned a shade more genuine. “Not that I can guarantee you will like my decisions, but that is my burden, not yours. For now, let us talk about your mission.”

  It was easier than he expected. They spoke in matter-of-fact tones about the Balkans in general, and Montenegro in particular. The queen agreed with Lord Ó Cadhla that Ó Deághaidh should assume a new identity as soon as possible after leaving Frankonia, if not before. “You have the names of several agents throughout the region,” she said. “But approach them only if necessary.”

  “Do you object to Lord Ó Cadhla’s suggestion that I contact his man in Vienna?”

  She hesitated. “Lord Ó Cadhla has far greater experience in these matters than I. So do you. I would only ask that you use your best judgment.” Then she met his gaze with bright gray eyes. “But I meant what I said before. If you find yourself with questions, or with answers you cannot trust to anyone else, apply directly to me. And no, do not write down this information. Memorize it, Aidrean. Can you do that?”

  So many meanings behind that simple question.

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes. I can.”

  She nodded. “Very good. Letters are best, but in emergencies do not hesitate to use the telegraph. Here are the name and address, and how you must word your message…”

  * * *

  High above Paris, the gigantic passenger balloon described a wide circle as it began its descent toward the landing fields. The air was frigid at this height, with beads of ice along the rigging, never mind the late spring season below. Pinpricks of white and golden light reflected from metal fastenings, and the massive ropes cast a web of shadows across the cabin, where Aidrean Ó Deághaidh looked down upon the city.

  Lutetia, Parisii, La Ville-Lumière. A city more ancient than Awveline or Osraighe. He could tell its map by its colors—the dusky red and brown brickwork of the oldest districts. The newer structures built from gray marble. Here and there, spires of amber and gold, or bright green gardens, like tiny emeralds. And winding through the center, the silvery ribbon of the Seine.

  The balloon’s great engine whirred; the rigging hummed louder as the balloon swung around for the approach, and its pilots adjusted the rudders and vanes.

  And here might God, our inhuman Divine, tread light upon this world of ours and mine.

  Henry Donne’s words echoed through Ó Deághaidh’s thoughts as the balloon glided downward through the clear bright air, leaving behind the immense silence to reenter the noise-filled realm of man.

  A motor carriage (fetched swiftly and unobtrusively) carried Ó Deághaidh to the embassy near the royal palace. He spent the evening alone in his finely appointed rooms and rose early to dress in his most formal black suit, arrayed with decorations from his service in the Royal Constabulary. Lord Ó Cadhla’s script ensured that he passed smoothly through the many offices, from the king’s gendarmerie, to the foreign minister, and finally to a small audience chamber, deep within the Palais Royal, set with guards at all the doors.

  “Vôtre Majesté.”

  The Frankish king accepted the silk-wrapped packet Ó Deághaidh offered. “We are grateful to your queen,” he said in unaccented Éireann.

  He was an old man, his skin slack, his eyes sunk deep into his skull, and his complexion had an unhealthy pallor. The electors had chosen this man by a bare majority, and only after months of debate. Was that another mark of the discord within the Frankish parliament? A sign of that unrest that so troubled Mac Gioll and Ó Cadhla? Ó Deághaidh let none of these questions show as he knelt and kissed the cool hands, and spoke the familiar formula.

  More ritual of diplomacy consumed the morning. He spent the afternoon with colleagues from Éire’s embassy, drinking wine and parrying questions about doings at Court and the queen herself. There were more questions d
esigned to tease out news about Ó Deághaidh as well. They were curious about his long absence, though rumor had supplied certain details, and more curious about his sudden reinstatement. Ó Deághaidh smiled and answered as vaguely as he dared.

  In keeping with his role, he attended a supper with Frankish representatives. After that, freed from obligation, he set off on a late-night stroll alone by the moon-silvered Seine, past weathered brick and stone churches of Frankish and Éireann design. It was a pleasant evening. A few dark blue clouds scudded across the star-speckled skies. Hours later, he arrived, as he had known he would, in a district where a man might purchase the company of a woman, clean and smelling sweetly of perfumed soap, her hair running like a dark red river over her milk-white skin.

  … once I lived alone within my skin. I was Aidrean Conall Ó Deághaidh, mathematics student turned spy and a member of the Queen’s Constabulary. Doctor Loisg argues that our souls and our selves are seldom known to their possessors, but I would state I knew myself—my self—as well as I knew my body. Now I am not as certain. My name, according to my latest passport, is Dietmar Bergmann, a citizen of Berlin in the Prussian Alliance. Before that, I called myself Jean-René Baptiste of Frankonia, and before that, William Sharpe of the Anglian Dependencies. With each change of papers, I sensed a pang within, as though the once-continuous essence of my self had cracked. But if I wish to be honest—and here in these confessions, at least, I can indulge in that—this sense of division, of a multiplicity of lives, began two years ago, even before the queen ordered me to investigate Maeve Ní Cadhla’s murder. Oh, the signs were few and doubtful—merely bits of memories misremembered, or conversations doubled. Even then, I told myself it was nothing more than overwork. But then came true dissolution. That moment I remember perfectly. It was close upon dawn. The sky wept with rain. I was walking toward a stable on the east side of the city, where I knew Síomón Madóc hid. Just as I laid a hand upon the latch …