Okoye glanced from him to me. “Why am I here?”
“Because your delegation chose you,” I said.
“No. I chose myself. Now tell me. Why am I in this cell?”
His voice was cool and soft, the vowels faintly rounded as was usual for the Anglian tongue. I caught a hint of anger in those few words, however much he had tried to hide it, and I exchanged a glance with Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. He too had heard something in Okoye’s tone. He motioned for the warden to unlock the cell door.
“We shall be comfortable enough,” he told the man. “Lock the door behind me, and leave us until we send for you. Her Majesty wishes to observe.”
A bench with pillows was fetched. I took my seat and the warden left us.
Okoye watched these preparations impassively. He had spent three weeks waiting for an audience with me. It seemed he was willing to wait longer.
Aidrean did not begin his questions at once. He sat on a wooden stool, which I had not noticed before, and leaned against the wall, studying Okoye with a pleasant smile. Okoye met his gaze steadily, even as the silence extended to a quarter of an hour and beyond, and I felt myself grow invisible to the two men inside the cell.
Then, “How old are you, Mister Okoye?”
Michael Okoye drew a quick breath, startled against his will. “Surely, you know everything about me, Commander. Éire has spies enough in our country.”
“Please answer the question, Mister Okoye.”
“First tell me why you have arrested me. I’ve committed no crime—”
“Answer the question, or I shall charge you with treason.”
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh spoke mildly, and the pleasant smile never left his face. I had not witnessed this aspect of his character before.
Okoye remained silent a moment longer, then said, “Twenty-six.”
Younger than I had guessed.
“Where were you born?”
“If I answer, will you tell me why—?”
“Where were you born, Mister Okoye?”
“In Londain,” Okoye said with a sigh. “Why must you ask me these questions, when surely you have the answers already?”
Because ink and paper are only the outermost details, I thought. Because Aidrean Ó Deághaidh will learn more about your character from the timbre of your voice, the silences and hesitations, the almost infinitesimal changes in the direction of your gaze, and the tension in your mouth. I know this because I have lived my entire life in Court, reading the character of men and women as Aidrean Ó Deághaidh now reads yours.
Aidrean merely shrugged and asked another question—this one concerning the number of siblings and their names. A dozen more seemingly irrelevant questions followed. From them I learned that Michael Okoye was the second oldest of five children. He had three brothers and one sister, the youngest. From twelve to sixteen, he lived with his father’s relatives in the Nri Republic, where he perfected his knowledge of the Igbo language, as well as learning the family business—a trade consortium his great-grandfather had founded.
Behind Okoye’s answers, I heard the squabbling of brothers and sisters, and affection, too. I saw a large family immersed in duty to an even larger family that extended from Africa to Éire to the Western Continent. I saw a young man with a restless curiosity who was adept at languages and poetry, as well as the far different world of trade.
I also saw a young man with a passion for justice. Such a passion must have led him to join the cause for Anglian liberty, and from there to Peter Godwin’s useless and dangerous faction.
“You attended Awveline University,” Aidrean Ó Deághaidh said. “And graduated with honors, with degrees in economics and philosophy. An interesting mix.”
“A compromise,” Michael said. “My father wished me to be competent in our business, and I wished for an education beyond goods and freight and currencies. As long as I satisfied his demands, he agreed to indulge mine.”
“I can understand,” Aidrean said. “It was for that reason I studied mathematics, and for the same reason I gave over those studies.” He glanced around the cell, as though searching for a few last, almost forgotten clues, then abruptly stood. “Thank you, Mister Okoye.”
Michael Okoye blinked. “You have nothing more to ask?”
“None for today.”
“When will you release me, then?”
Aidrean Ó Deághaidh shook his head. Already the warden had appeared—I suspected the man had kept watch from a hidden alcove for just this moment—and was unlocking the cell door. Michael Okoye stood as though to insist on an answer, when his gaze snapped toward me and he stiffened, suddenly aware of my presence once more. Before he had recovered himself, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh exited the cell and the door rang shut.
* * *
“He could be innocent,” Aidrean said, once we had left the prison wing.
“Are you certain?”
“No.” He paused and glanced around. Guards were stationed behind us and at the next intersection. In a lower voice, he said, “I am not certain about him or about what we do.”
“What do you mean? They have murdered a dozen people or more.”
“They, yes. But—” He broke off. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“Apologies be damned, Aidrean. Do you believe I should release the man?”
He shook his head. “There is no one clear answer to that question. Is he guilty? My instincts tell me he has committed no crime. His family, too, has enough influence in the Nri Republic to cause you difficulties. And yet, my instincts also tell me that he and I might have a useful conversation or two.”
“About mathematics and philosophy?”
I meant to speak lightly, but I knew at once I had struck the wrong note. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh bowed in reply, his face now carefully blank. I drew a breath, ready to apologize, but this was too public a place. At the next intersection we parted, he to speak with Commander Ábraham and I to speak in private with Lords Ó Cadhla and Ó Duinn.
But as I passed into the Royal Enclosure, my steps turned of their own accord to the family’s chapel. Even at this late hour, a priest came to meet me as I approached the altar rail. She offered me a sip of red wine and a thin wafer, the reminder of Christ and Gaia, then withdrew to let me pray.
God and Mhuire and blessed Gaia, please give me guidance.…
The formal words of the prayer died away in my thoughts. God and Gaia would not take this burden of the Anglians from me, no matter how much I wished it. My ancestors had gone to war against these people to win our own liberty. We’d set soldiers in their land and spies in their houses, taken their freedom as payment for ours. Three thousand had died when my grandfather had put down the last rebellion, three hundred since I took the crown, in riots and battles with the Garda. My father had hoped to free the Districts. His reign had ended—abruptly—before he could see his wish made true. I had attempted to do what I could, but the times and the press of other business had prevented me.
You will be queen, my father had told me, ten days before he died. The guilt of your past, and your people, is yours.
* * *
I am convinced that none of us slept in the days that followed. At Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s suggestion, the Queen’s Constabulary offered a reward of a million pounds for information concerning the tragedy in Loch Garman. And Ó Deághaidh himself worked with Lord Ó Duinn’s people and those from the Constabulary to review all recent reports concerning disaffected groups in the Districts and Éire itself, searching for patterns to past activities that they might predict future attacks. He and I held daily meetings with Gwen and Síomón Madóc to discuss other patterns—patterns of time and its fractures.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, Aidrean came to me requesting an immediate private interview. From his face alone, I knew at once he had difficult news.
“Peter Godwin is dead,” he said, once we were alone.
“Dead? How? When?”
“Murdered. His body was discovered
in the Thames, early this morning, by a fisherman and his son.”
I asked for more details, knowing they would be ugly.
According to the Constabulary examiner, Peter Godwin had been strangled with a rough cord, which had left burn marks around his neck. His face and arms were badly bruised, and several teeth were missing, indicating he had fought his captors. Those captors had fastened weights around Godwin’s body to prevent it from floating, but they evidently had not tied the ropes securely enough, because the body was discovered in the mud flats near the estuary. The gardaí had discovered the ropes and weights themselves further upstream.
“A quarrel within the conspiracy?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet. The examiner believes he died before Loch Garman.”
I sighed. With every new detail uncovered, the questions grew. “What of the Constabulary’s reward? Do we have news there?”
“None so far. Our friends, or so Lord Ó Duinn calls them, have inundated the Constabulary with their sightings of suspicious characters, both in Osraighe and in Loch Garman. A dozen have claimed responsibility for the attack themselves, with the understanding they would only betray their comrades in exchange for the reward and immunity from prosecution. Others have accused their neighbors, or the overseer in the shop where they work, or sometimes a cousin or uncle whom they’ve never quite trusted.”
“They’ve seen nothing, then.”
He shrugged. “That I cannot say for certain. We’ve reviewed the claims, even the more unusual ones, because there is always the chance for truth amongst the chaff.” He paused and glanced out the window, where the sun was slanting down toward the horizon. Rags of clouds hung low in the skies, dull brown and stained crimson from the approaching sunset. Aidrean shook his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“You should sleep,” I said, on impulse.
He smiled at me. “As should you.”
“I shall,” I said. “Once my kingdom is safe.”
“As will I.” He shuffled his papers together, but did not make a move to depart. “Ábraham believes we ought to declare a national crisis,” he said softly. “He claims that would grant us the freedom to search as we must, without provoking an outcry. Ó Tíghearnaigh insists our only course is to increase our armies and begin the manufacture of weapons.” Aidrean allowed himself a smile. “He mentioned your scientists, and not in a complimentary fashion. He suspects they could provide us with extraordinary weapons from the future, if only they wished to.”
I had suspected much the same. “Lord Ó Cadhla believes the situation is more complex than Ó Tíghearnaigh states.”
He laughed. “That would be an understatement.” But the humor drained from his face all too quickly. There was a curious hesitation about his manner, then he said, “I spoke with Michael Okoye this morning, before I heard the news of Peter Godwin.”
“And was your conversation productive?”
“Indirectly. We talked of poetry. He favors the metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century. Outside Thomas Austen, there were few connected with the Anglian cause who shared his interest. Except for one. A man named Daniel Strong, who, as it happens, is Peter Godwin’s nephew.”
More answers, provoking more questions.
“And what does this signify?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. I’ve sent a telegraph to our agents in Londain to question Strong. Apparently he quarreled with Godwin six months ago and has broken all connection with the other members of the delegation. More than that, I cannot say.”
“And what about Okoye?”
“I want to talk with him tomorrow. Innocent or not, I suspect he might be in danger if he leaves Cill Cannig. I would like to persuade him to remain here, until we discover who murdered Godwin.”
“Remain as prisoner or guest?” I waved my hand to cut off his reply. “No, I know your answer. You leave the decision to me and my honor.”
Aidrean opened his mouth as if to reply, but he only shook his head. “I must go to Osraighe,” he said. “The chief of the Garda station says a witness has come forward with information about the message we received. Shall I come to you afterward, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” I said softly. “No. Unless the news proves important, truly important, let it wait until morning. I want you to make an early end to your day.”
He smiled again, but did not make any promises.
We had finished our business. Aidrean tucked the papers back into the leather case and stood, wincing as he did so. The late afternoon sunlight threw the lines in his face into sharp relief, and a shock of white and silver stood out against his dark hair. He was forty-nine, almost fifty, I reminded myself. No longer the indefatigable guardian of my early reign.
I should send him home, home to Montenegro, to Valerija Delchev and their children.
As he turned to go, I said, “And Aidrean, I will keep in mind what you say about Okoye. I promise.”
* * *
I dined early and alone, in my private suite, by candlelight. I had two more interviews scheduled in the evening, three if Aidrean Ó Deághaidh brought news from Osraighe. I needed this interlude to myself, without the constant press of demands and inquiries, the need for diplomatic conversation, even with my most trusted advisers. Without, I thought, the cold bright light of electric lamps, and their reminder of the implacable future.
Twilight was falling. I stirred the fire, recalling as I did so the chill air in Michael Okoye’s cell. Aidrean believed him innocent, but useful. Ó Cadhla remained carefully neutral on the subject, but my minister of war had stated more than once his conviction that we could not trust the Anglians, any Anglians. My own impressions were deeply suspect, but I began to think we had, all of us, viewed him as a playing piece—a symbol and not a man.
The coals flared into bright flames. I replaced the poker and turned back toward my neglected dinner. The window beyond showed the dark blue of the approaching night, with the lights of Osraighe glimmering on the horizon.
And then the night exploded in bright flames.
Moments later, a dull boom made the window glass shudder.
I fell back a dozen steps before the strength deserted me and I dropped to my knees. A second explosion, and second burst of light flared upward into the twilit sky. The glass rattled but held. I stared, breathless and trembling, at the blood-bright horizon. What have they done?
But I knew what they—whoever they were—had done. They had warned us clearly enough with Loch Garman.
I staggered to my feet and ran into the next room. “Send runners for my secretary and Commander Ó Deághaidh,” I ordered the maids. “Tell him I wish to hear the reports myself as they come.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
My servants scattered to obey. I returned to my sitting room to drink down a glass of water. My throat had gone dry and I was shivering—from shock, I told myself. Shock and rage at this sense of being flung into chaos.
Word came back through my secretary that Commander Ó Deághaidh had not yet returned to Cill Cannig, but that Commander Ábraham had received the first reports from Osraighe, and did I wish to summon my advisers?
“Of course,” I replied sharply. “Send word to my cabinet and both Doctors Madóc. No, wait.” I reconsidered the urge to have my mathematical advisers present just yet. “If they are at work, do not disturb them, but give them notice we shall require their presence by morning.”
Within the hour, we had gathered in a small audience chamber, within the Royal Residence. Ó Duinn and I had arrived first, with my other ministers appearing soon after. Commander Ábraham was the last, accompanied by my secretary.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I have a tragedy to report.”
“We are aware of the tragedy—”
“You are not—” He broke off. With obvious effort, he said, “Your Majesty, let me give my report and you will understand. Please.”
His face was pale, the color of the dead, I thought. Silently, I motioned him
to sit at the table. My steward had already poured a glass of water mixed with crush mint. I waited until Ábraham had drunk one tumbler before I spoke.
“You say we have a tragedy. What more have you learned?”
“More than I ever wished to,” he replied.
I listened, numb, as he recounted the main points. Three devices had exploded in Osraighe, Galway, and Belfast, each one twice as murderous as those that had destroyed Loch Garman’s harbor district. Two hundred instantly dead. Six hundred wounded. The Garda and hospitals were searching for others buried in the rubble. The count would rise before morning.
“And there is more,” Ábraham was saying. “The device in Osraighe destroyed the main Garda station. Commander Ó Deághaidh had left only moments before it exploded. We have not yet recovered his … we have not yet found him, Your Majesty.”
A silence, as cold as winter, fell in the room.
“He is dead?”
I heard my voice as something alien and unfamiliar, disconnected from myself.
“We do not know. I have set all the gardaí—all those who survived—to search the rubble. And, Your Majesty, there is more to report.”
No more, no more, I thought, but the part of me that still acted as queen motioned for him to continue. I listened with growing dread as Ábraham went on to tell of other explosions in Frankonia, Catalonia, Egypt, and Gujarat, which had taken place a few hours before the one in Osraighe. These were the act of a fascist network, he said, which his agents suspected had ties to certain rising factions in the Prussian government.
“And to our own rebels?” I asked.
“So we believe,” Ó Duinn said. “Commander Ó Deághaidh spoke with me by telephone from Osraighe. A witness had come forward to give evidence about a man named Daniel Strong. The man claimed Strong had boasted he would do what Thomas Austen could not.”
Thomas Austen had wanted me dead. This Daniel Strong aimed to destroy Éire.
“There is more,” Lord Ó Cadhla said. “The Papal States, Catalonia, Poland, and Russia have telegraphed to say they must withdraw from our Union of Nations, and both the Chinese and Japanese empires have expressed grave concerns. No doubt I will find more messages before the night ends.”
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