The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  Back inside, he followed the hallway as it wound through the building. By the third turn, he was convinced she had somehow escaped him, when a door to his right burst open and Valerija Delchev ran against him. By instinct, he caught hold of her.

  She struggled, then stared in wild-eyed recognition. “You did it. You.”

  “Did what? What is wrong?”

  She wrenched free and ran. Ó Deághaidh hesitated only a moment, then cursing, he pushed the door open. No reaction from anyone inside. He hefted his knife in his hand and entered.

  It was difficult to see much—the windows were papered over, dampening the moonlight, and there were no streetlamps visible from this direction. Even in the dimness, however, he could sense something wrong. As his sight adjusted, he made out a wooden chair overturned, glittering specks on the carpet, and the pale white of scattered papers. Moving cautiously, he took another few steps in. His foot encountered a soft, immovable mass.

  Ó Deághaidh knelt and felt around carefully. A man lay on the bare floor. No pulse, and he’d been dead long enough that his skin had turned cold, but not long enough for the body to stiffen. Dried blood matted the hair on one side of the man’s head, and Ó Deághaidh felt where the skull had been crushed.

  My poor friend, Ó Deághaidh thought. I was nearly with you, a few days ago.

  His sympathy mixed with rising excitement. Even a dead man would have clues to offer.

  He lit a candle from a coal in the fireplace and scanned the room. A cot had been shoved in one corner, next to a table with a washbasin and stacks of dirty cups and saucers. The rest of the room was given over to a laboratory of sorts, with desk and workbench and bookshelves. Someone—the murderer? a later intruder?—had swept all those shelves clean, forced open the desk, and flung its drawers onto the mess. Kneeling on the floor, he found two or three textbooks among the heaps of broken glass and twisted wires. He lifted them up, avoiding the glass, to discover a broken frame and a certificate of degree from Awveline University. Yes, he thought. Yes, of course. Here were the links he sought. More swiftly and certainly now, he sorted through the few remaining papers, all of them written in Éireann, all soaked in bitter-smelling fluid.

  “Stand up. Do not move too suddenly.”

  Valerija Delchev stood in the doorway, her gun pointed at him.

  Ó Deághaidh slowly rose to his feet. He noted with abstract interest that she handled the gun easily. “One of your colleagues,” he said, indicating the body. “I see he studied abroad, at Awveline’s University—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed. “We are going to the police.”

  “Are you certain that’s wise? They might want to question you about all the accidents your friends have caused.”

  That produced a slight waver of the gun. “You know nothing of what we do.”

  “But I do know your friend is the link between Éire and Montenegro. And whether you expected me or not, you have been accustomed to messages from Éire. Why?”

  Valerija Delchev made no answer. Keeping her gun on Ó Deághaidh, she circled around the room, stopping once in a while to pick something from the trash. A short length of wire. Several fragments of circuit boards, their components stripped off. Once, a heavy metallic cylinder wrapped in paper. It was the paper that interested her more, apparently, because she smoothed it one-handedly and read through its contents before stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

  Finally she straightened up with a sigh.

  “You didn’t search before,” Ó Deághaidh said.

  “It was such a shock, finding Stefan dead. I thought—” She made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind what I thought.”

  “You thought I was murdering all your friends. What is missing?”

  “Nothing.” She pointed toward the door with her gun. “We must go now.”

  “What about your friends? Have you decided to betray them then?”

  “You are a stupid man. Drop the knife and—no, do not approach me. Push it toward me. Gently. Yes, just so. Now, move very slowly toward the door. Do not think to call out. I do know how to shoot a man.”

  Her voice was low, edged with desperation. Ó Deághaidh dropped his knife onto the floor, and nudged it toward her with his foot. When she signaled, he preceded her out the door. She was learning caution, he thought, as he watched her latch the door with a key he had not noticed before. Valerija pocketed the key. “Go. Slowly now. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He was careful not to give any cause for alarm, but as they retraced their steps through the corridor, Ó Deághaidh reviewed all his options. She had to suspect him of murdering that man. Who was it? A friend or lover? He could not hope to talk her into letting him go. And making a disturbance was unthinkable. It would call the police upon him and his work in Montenegro. The woman had to guess that as well. He would have to escape at the first chance.

  They were approaching the back door again. Ó Deághaidh stumbled and flung out his hands, grabbing the latch. As the door swung open, he let himself fall through. Almost at once, he regained his footing and spun around to grab the woman’s gun. She sidestepped him and slammed the gun’s butt down onto his shoulder. He gasped and fell to his knees in the mud.

  “Stand up. Do not try that again,” she whispered.

  Ó Deághaidh lurched to his feet. He flexed his hand. Cautiously lifted his arm and winced. “I’m going to be sick,” he whispered. It was not far from the truth. He retched noisily. Again, as he sensed Valerija circling around him. He might overpower her, even now, if she ventured too close. He tensed, ready to grapple her, when she made a sharp gesture.

  “Stand over there,” she whispered. “Quiet.”

  She softly drew the door to and pressed her ear against it, listening.

  Ó Deághaidh held his breath. He counted several voices, all of them men. Someone coming because of the noise? No, these were men calmly discussing a matter amongst themselves in what sounded like Štokavian. Then, the murmur resolved into words.

  “I saw her go back inside.”

  “Do you think she found Kos?”

  “Must have. Ilja didn’t have time to deal with the mess himself. Lazar, you and Petar search the outside. Andreas and I will take care of the room. Remember, Ilja wants us all gone before midnight.”

  Valerija took Ó Deághaidh’s hand and led him toward the gate. Her face had gone pale and drawn. And her hands, so steady before, were trembling. “Can you run?” she whispered.

  “If I must.”

  “Then do so.”

  They glided silently out the gate and into the alley, then took off in a loping run. Ignoring the dirt path down to the river, Valerija Delchev led the way into a gap between two sections of the house. They had just turned into a covered passageway when Ó Deághaidh heard shouts and a door slammed. He and Valerija dodged around the corner, into a wider lane. The sound of swift, heavy footsteps sent them pelting down its pitch-dark length. It was so dark, Ó Deághaidh nearly ran headfirst into the wooden fence at the far end. He swore and spun around.

  “Stop.” Valerija dragged at Ó Deághaidh’s arm. “There is a gate.”

  She ran her hands over the slats and fumbled for the gate’s latch. “Damn,” she whispered. “They’ve locked it. They never did before.”

  Ó Deághaidh glanced over his shoulder. The lane was empty still. They had a few moments, no more. He leaned his good shoulder against the gate and shoved, gritting his teeth against the ache in his collarbone. The gate did not budge and he collapsed against it, shuddering. The first rush of excitement had deserted him, and he felt sick and weary.

  “Can we climb over?” Valerija said.

  “I might have lifted you over, but—”

  “But I made that difficult when I injured you. Yes, I see. I’m sorry.”

  It would not do to give up yet. He examined the fence by feel once more. It was old but sturdy, built from thick planks and braced at top and bottom. One plank was missing, but the opening wa
s too narrow for them to squeeze through. He blew out a breath. One gun and one knife against three or four men, with who knew what weapons.

  Meanwhile, Valerija had made a circuit of the area. “Here,” she said softly. “We can hide over here.”

  She drew him toward the building to their left. The fence had left a narrow gap where the chimney jutted out. They squeezed into the space—just in time, because the clatter of boots echoed down the lane. Ó Deághaidh leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Keep your gun ready. Do not shoot unless you must.”

  He felt the brush of her hair against his mouth as she nodded.

  The footsteps slowed as their pursuer neared the fence. Ó Deághaidh could make out nothing except the man’s height and bulk, and the laboring of his breath. He felt Valerija shift on her feet. She placed one hand against his chest; the other held the gun. She was breathing slowly, silently. He could smell her sandalwood perfume, stronger now. His nausea receded, overtaken by a stronger emotion. It disturbed him he would think of sex at such a time.

  After what seemed an infinitely long moment, the figure moved away. Ó Deághaidh waited until the last echo of footsteps had faded and silence returned. Valerija stirred. Tilted her head up so that the warmth of her breath tickled his throat. “Not yet,” Ó Deághaidh said softly.

  “We must. We have to talk.”

  “To the police?”

  She hesitated. “Eventually. But I need—I would like to ask you a few things first.”

  “We aren’t safe here,” he reminded her. “Those men might return.”

  “And they will watch my apartment. But I know a place where we can talk in private. Besides, you look ill.”

  He could not argue with that. He nodded wearily and allowed her to guide him back along the lane, around to a wooden staircase leading to a footpath by the water’s edge. Here the bank rose steeply above their heads, and fences along the top shielded them from view. Moonlight traced the Cetinje’s waters in rippling silver, and memories from two years ago streamed back, vivid and strong, the first he’d had in many weeks. Of the Blackwater in Awveline City, so broad and sluggish and dark. Of a body drained of blood, floating amongst the weeds. Some of these were true memories, no matter what the doctors claimed. He wished them away, nevertheless.

  A half mile down the path, they came to an old stone bridge. A flight of stairs led up to street level, into a square fronted by several wineshops and one sprawling two-story building that Ó Deághaidh guessed to be an inn. A nearby clock tower rang the hour. Midnight. He would have thought it later.

  A girl opened the door to the night bell. Yes, they could hire a private room, she told Valerija in answer to her hurried questions. There were no more hot meals, but she could fetch them wine, bread, and cold sausages.

  “And bring us a pitcher of water,” Valerija added, with a glance at Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. “We are parched as well as hungry.”

  Very soon, they were seated with their meal in a comfortable room lit by two old-fashioned oil lamps. Valerija dismissed the girl and poured Ó Deághaidh a mugful of cold water mixed with wine. “Did I break your collarbone?” she asked as she built a small fire. In spite of the warm night, Ó Deághaidh found himself grateful for it.

  “No. Bruised, I think. What caused you to change your mind about me?”

  Valerija glanced at him with an unreadable gaze. “I’m not sure I have. But I know now you did not kill Stefan. And I could not leave you to Ilja and his men, any more I could leave an injured dog.”

  An honest answer, spoken without resentment or fear. But also without any great measure of trust. Fair enough. Ó Deághaidh gulped down half the mug of watered wine and speared one of the sausages with his fork but set that aside after no more than a few bites. He had eaten so little the past several days—his preparations for tonight had consumed the hours he normally spent in search of meals—but the grease and spices made his stomach turn over. He broke off a piece of bread to chew instead, alternating that with sips from his mug.

  I would only ask that you use your best judgment, the queen had said. There had been betrayals in Éire’s Court. There had been many more here, in Montenegro, if he read the signs right. To win this woman’s trust, he would have to offer his own.

  “Let me start,” he said. “My name is Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. I’m an agent for the Queen’s Constabulary in Éire. Not a spy,” he added, at her narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps I am, but not for the usual reasons. The queen sent me here to investigate a matter of some delicacy.”

  He went on to describe how reports had come to the queen’s attention, linking Anglian dissidents with unrest in the Balkans. “But she mistrusted those reports,” he said. “I cannot tell you more, only that she sent me as her observer, to test their accuracy.”

  “And if they were true?”

  “But they were not—”

  “If they were?” Valerija repeated. “What then?”

  Ó Deághaidh expelled a breath. “Then I was to use my best judgment on what action to take.”

  Valerija took up a slice of bread and crumbled it between her fingers. “So many times I’ve observed Éire’s government take action where I thought they had no business to. Today, I find myself wishing the opposite.”

  She fell silent, staring at the table with dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears. Ó Deághaidh waited, knowing that to break the silence would be to break the mood that led her to talk, even this much. It was quiet in the inn, apart from the hiss and crackle of the fire. His shoulder ached, but his earlier drowsiness had fled, leaving him alert and wonderfully clear-headed.

  Abruptly, Valerija deposited the crumbs onto the platter. She released a long breath, and glanced up at him with sudden determination. “My turn,” she said. “His name was Stefan, the man you found dead. Stefan Kos. He is—was my cousin. Five years ago, he applied to Awveline City’s university for graduate studies in physics. After three years, he took a degree and returned home to teach at our university.”

  Physics. And Kos had obviously used his rooms as a kind of workshop. Ó Deághaidh’s skin prickled with premonition. “What was his specialty?”

  “Time.” She shook her head, as though remembering something unpleasant. “He had a theory that one could alter how time passes, much as you can affect how particles of light travel. He was working on such a device to support that theory.”

  “And those who murdered him took that device. Didn’t they?”

  She nodded. “You must understand the device itself was harmless. Stefan had designed it so. Just tiny alterations, to prove his theories. Except … Well, let me explain the second part. The complications. You see, shortly before Stefan came home from Éire, my husband and I and our friends formed a group of … call us concerned citizens. We wrote letters to the prince and his advisers. We distributed pamphlets and held meetings to make public our opposition to an alliance with Austria.”

  He thought he could see where her story led, but he did not interrupt. She was speaking now with such obvious relief, as though she had held all these secrets, the good and the dreadful, inside herself for far too long.

  “Stefan joined our cause because he was family,” she said, “but also because he worried as much as we did. We were not revolutionaries—far from it. But there were disagreements within our group. Some argued that the slow, safe ways were too slow. Then last summer, the elections brought those Austrian sympathizers to power. No one listened to us. No one cared. They only cared about the demon Serbs. Safety at any cost.” She made a disgusted sound. “We were frustrated, all of us. Ilja Radakovic more than others. He had plans. He wanted Stefan to build a dozen of his time devices. But altered to his specifications.”

  “Altered how?”

  “So that they made bigger disruptions—noticeable ones. Ilja insisted it would cause no lasting harm—stirring a thick soup, he called it—but doing so would make things more difficult for the government. Then the people would have to listen to us.”

&
nbsp; Ó Deághaidh shuddered. The description reminded him of his waking nightmares, when the world seemed to ripple and change shape around him. He poured a mugful of water to wash the bitter aftertaste from his mouth. “This Radakovic. Was he the man who questioned me in the cave?”

  “Yes. He knew about the drop points. He intercepted your letters and made plans to kidnap you, to find out how much Éire had discovered about our group. I was there to translate. And to prove my loyalty to him.”

  Now the clues shifted into focus. “You believe he murdered your husband.”

  “I do, but I have no proof.”

  Just as he had no proof of the traitor in Éire. He wanted to ask her more questions about that night—about the man who died, about the knife he’d found to defend himself and whether she had provided it—but those would have to wait for later. If, he added, they had a later. “Tell me how your husband came to use these drop points, and not Stefan Kos.”

  He looked for any sign of self-consciousness in her manner, but there was none. She spoke simply, as though the answer were obvious. “It was when Stefan first arrived in Éire. All the foreign students are interviewed. Stefan met with a man—”

  “His name?”

  “Seán MacCailín.”

  Ó Deághaidh leaned back and felt the rising tension seep away. He did not recognize the name. Most likely, Kos had met with a minor official, not someone in Ó Cadhla’s or De Paor’s immediate circle. Or rather, Lord Ultach’s, he thought, remembering that Lord De Paor had not taken over from the old lord until last year.

  Valerija was watching him in return. “Do you know him?”

  “Unfortunately, no. What came next for your cousin?”

  “They talked a while. About Stefan’s intended research, mostly, but also about Montenegro. It seems the man had visited here once. He was sympathetic about our troubles. The day before Stefan left to return home, the man visited him again, and gave him an address so they could continue their conversation, as he called it.”