The Time Roads

“I waited.” Never mind that I had not known what to expect, or when. The essence was true. “Not long after you departed, the bar reappeared. Or rather, its remains did.”

I untied the handkerchief and carefully unfolded the cloth. There in the center lay the handful of iron dust, somewhat diminished. Ó Cuilinn stretched out a hand, plucked it back. He glanced up at me. “What do you want?”

He spoke as one equal to another, not a servant to his queen.

“I want you to continue your research,” I said. “I am willing to allot you substantial funds. However, I would find it simpler if we could eliminate the layers of letter writers and secretaries and other middlemen.”

A flush edged his cheeks. He had freckles, I noticed.

“I believe I understand. But Your Majesty, if you truly want me to continue my work—and dedicate myself to it entirely, not in piecemeal fashion as I have over the years—then I will require a great deal of equipment. And money.”

“I understand,” I said. “Please, tell me what you’ve discovered so far. And what you hope to accomplish in the future.”

My early education in the sciences allowed me to follow the shape, if not the details, of his account. In between careless sips of tea, he spoke about using carbon-free chromium objects, which resulted in less corrosion. His most recent experiments with the material had yielded larger flakes of dust, along with fragments of the bar itself. But that alone, he told me, was useless—merely a device for proving the concept. What he needed to do was reduce the effect of time travel itself. In fact—and here his gaze went diffuse, obviously following this thought along all its permutations—he ought to search for ways to shield objects inside the chamber. A combination of the two branches of research …

“What about the past?” I asked.

“What about the past?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me with obvious suspicion. “Is this a scheme you have for some political end?”

“I do not mean that. I only mean—”

“What everyone else means,” he said bitterly.

“If you think I will make any preconditions on you, you are mistaken,” I replied, my tone equally sharp.

“No. I did not think that—”

“You did,” I said. “But never mind. I am sure we can come to some agreement. You want money. I want to continue my father’s legacy with scientific progress.”

A smile twitched at his mouth. “I see. Yes. Yes, Your Majesty, I believe we can meet both our goals.”

* * *

Orders, however easily spoken, were not so lightly carried out. Doctor Ó Cuilinn had no outstanding obligations to any landlord or university, but he did have an enormous quantity of records and equipment to transfer from Awveline City to Cill Cannig. A month went simply to negotiating what quarters he required for his work. Two more passed in transferring his belongings to the palace, and arranging them to his satisfaction. I had once thought his arrogance a worthy quality, but I found myself hissing whenever my steward or secretary mentioned Ó Cuilinn’s name.

That, unfortunately, was not the end of my worries.

“You say this fellow—”

“Scientist,” I said.

“This scientist holds the keys to time?”

Seven months had passed since Doctor Ó Cuilinn had taken up residence in Cill Cannig. I was breakfasting with Lord Fitzpatrick, a senior member of the Eíreann Congress and an elderly man, used to the perquisites of age and rank. Others were present, but they all deferred to him.

“He investigates them,” I said patiently.

Apparently my patience was too transparent.

“He walks the time roads,” Fitzpatrick said.

A shiver went through me, in spite of knowing he only used the terms from legends past.

“He is a scientist,” I said. “He researches possibilities.”

“At a considerable cost,” another said. I recognized him—Lord Ó Bruicléigh, newly arrived in Congress after his father’s death. An ambitious man, with a reputation for cleverness. He had attached himself to the Committee for Economic Affairs.

“Explain yourself,” I said.