The Time Roads

“Then let us begin.”

She waited until the secretary had cleared the room and they were all settled. “You will have read the initial reports concerning the situation in Europe,” the queen said. “I have invited Commander Ó Deághaidh to join us because I believe the affair is more complicated than we first suspected. One where Commander Ó Deághaidh’s long and varied experience will prove useful to Éire.”

Ó Deághaidh observed the reactions around the table. Polite. Wary. Interested. Understandable if they knew his recent past, and as members of Éire’s Court and Council, they would. In turn he studied the men who now served as

ministers to the queen. Mac Gioll, Ó Cadhla, and Ó Breislin had been appointed by the old king. Ó Deághaidh remembered them well. They were solid, experienced men. Lord Alastar De Paor and Lord Greagoir Ó Luain were relative newcomers; he knew them only by name and reputation. There were other ministers, other advisers, but these five men occupied the innermost council.

“So you believe the crisis is greater than we first thought, Your Majesty?” Mac Gioll said.

The queen nodded. “The Balkan situation grows more troublesome. To be sure, the Balkans are nothing but troublesome, but I’ve lately received reports of certain events that appear to concern us directly.”

“How so?” said Lord De Paor. “And you say Commander Ó Deághaidh has experience in this region?”

“Indirectly,” Ó Deághaidh said. “I spent two years at the University of Vienna. My field was mathematics, but I also dabbled in languages and politics—or rather, political science. One does, abroad. Afterward, I traveled throughout the region, before I returned to Éire.”

“A most complete education,” De Paor said. “I had not realized it.”

There was the hint of a smile beneath the man’s polite expression. Ó Deághaidh turned to the queen, whose face was more difficult to read. “Your Majesty. You honor me by inviting me to your council, but if I might be blunt, I do not see the reason for it.”

“Nor do I,” Lord Ó Cadhla said. “Unless you have new information which you have not shared with us.”

The queen’s gaze skipped from one minister to another, the silence broken only by the scratch, scratch, scratch of the secretary’s pen. Did she trust no one? Ó Deághaidh wondered, as he studied her face. There were shadows beneath her eyes, clear signs of a sleepless night.

“I do,” she said at last. “Three very disturbing reports arrived here last Friday. It appears the Austrians have arranged a meeting between their own prince and Montenegro’s, as well as certain of his advisers.”

“What of it?” De Paor said. “A local matter.”

She smiled thinly. “Not so very long ago, I might have agreed with you. No, Austria alone poses no threat. They’ve lost too much territory and prestige in the past decade. Besides, Prussia keeps them busy in the north. It is Montenegro and its neighbors to the east that concern me, as you will see from this newest report.”

At her signal, the queen’s secretary handed around folders to all the men. Ó Deághaidh flipped open the blank cover to see a half dozen pages of closely written lines. It was another summary, not a firsthand account. His attention caught on the words Montenegro and recent elections, but it was the final paragraph that made him straighten up.

“Anglians?” he said.

The others had reached that same point. Ó Cadhla pursed his lips and leafed through the previous pages. His expression was more thoughtful than troubled, but Ó Breislin’s eyes widened in an unguarded moment of surprise, and Ó Luain appeared openly dismayed. De Paor gave no other sign except to gaze steadily at the queen, as though waiting for further clues.

“Yes, Anglians,” the queen said. “Montenegro’s elections last summer brought Austrian sympathizers into the majority. Certain local political groups mistrust the Austrians’ goodwill. Sensing an opportunity, our own Anglian nationalists have joined with the more outspoken of these organizations. If I can rely on these reports, they have entered a pact to further each other’s revolution.”

Ó Deághaidh released his breath slowly. Civil war in Éire. That would be a crisis.

“But you are not certain,” Mac Gioll said.

“I am not. And we cannot make any intelligent decisions until we know more. That is why I summoned Commander Ó Deághaidh, to investigate the matter.”

“You want a spy,” Ó Deághaidh said.

The queen’s gray eyes measured him coolly. She was no longer a young woman, ardent and impulsive in matters political and personal. Or perhaps her nature remained unchanged, but buried deep beneath this guise of the dispassionate ruler. The transformation might prove to Éire’s advantage, but he wondered what it had cost her.

“Call it what you will,” she said. “Spy. Scout. Trusted emissary. What I want, Commander, is a pair of eyes and ears, thinking eyes and ears, to observe the situation at hand.”

“To watch, but not to act.”

She hesitated. “Let us say I empower you to act as your discretion dictates.”

“No restrictions?” That was Lord De Paor.

“We shall work out the details before the commander departs. Do you have any concerns about this assignment, Commander Ó Deághaidh?”

Now it was his turn to hesitate. It was a chance to reinstate himself—in Court, in the Constabulary, in the queen’s trust. A flutter of doubt intruded. He suppressed it. “More questions than concerns, Your Majesty.”