The Time Roads (17 page)

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 you 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?

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.”