The Time Roads

“Verdammt be these precautions. You must report to the embassy at once. You cannot proceed if you are compromised.”

Ó Deághaidh laughed softly. “I do not intend to. But before I return to Éire, I want some information. For example, I would like to know more about the Anglians who are operating in this region. Specifically in Montenegro and the rest of the Balkans.”

Groer’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of any Anglians.”

Ó Deághaidh suppressed an exclamation—You knew this, he thought. You suspected it long before—but his voice remained cool. “Ah, then I was mistaken.”

His tone did not fool Groer. “What Anglians?” he demanded.

“It is not important, I tell you. Merely a supposition gone astray. The chief thing, the reason I am here, is the matter of Austria and Montenegro. Do you have any word about the negotiations between them?”

But Groer was not to be distracted. “There are no Anglians. Nor any matter between the Austrians and Montenegro, unless you count that business with the Serbs—

“What business with the Serbs?”

“The Serbs. Surely you know … Well, it’s just a rumor, and a new one at that.” He tossed back the rest of his glass of wine and stared longingly at the jug.

Ó Deághaidh refilled the man’s glass. “Go on.”

Groer took a swallow and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They should have told you, but maybe there wasn’t time. You see, I heard the rumor just a few weeks ago—that this whole business between the Austrians and Montenegro is a farce. The Serbs are behind it all. Or rather, they are hand-in-hand with the Austrians, who are hand-in-hand with their supporters in Montenegro. Prince Danilo believes he is getting support for his ascension to kingship. His parliament believes they get an ally against Greater Serbia. In reality—”

The clues shifted into place, and Ó Deághaidh had to check himself from leaning forward eagerly. “In reality,” he said, “Serbia takes Montenegro, while Austria gains a bulwark against the Turks. I see.” And he did. It was such a simple reversal of expectations. But it was the implication of this missing news that troubled him the most. “You sent this information to your superiors?”

“Of course. What do you think?”

Of course. He ought to have foreseen that, as well. Ó Deághaidh tossed back the bitter, sour wine and slammed the empty glass onto the board. “What do I think? To be honest, I think you are a stupid, foolish man. Nearly as stupid and foolish as I am.”

He stood and flung the door open. The serving girl stepped back quickly, red-faced and stammering. “It was more than half an hour,” she said fiercely. “You said—”

“It was not close to half an hour,” Ó Deághaidh said. “But I am glad to find you here.”

He drew her close, caught a whiff of soap and yeast and sweat. The young woman’s mouth softened into a seductive smile. Her face was dirty, but her breasts were plump, and she had an animal attraction Ó Deághaidh could not deny. Was she another snare set for him?

I have not become so desperate, he thought. Not yet.

“So, you like me?” she said.

“Alas, no,” he said. “But I know my friend does.”

He shoved her into the room. She stumbled against Groer, who instinctively caught her in his arms. Ó Deághaidh slammed the door closed on them and ran down the stairs.

* * *

… With every passing mile, I find myself shedding the accumulated years, until once more, I am come back to those months following my studies in Vienna. It was then I set off on my grand journey through Europe. I traveled by train, by wagon, on foot. Like any enthusiast, I wanted to take in everything—every tone or gesture that differentiated the native Austrian, the immigrant Serb, the well-traveled Russian or Czech. It was that ability to drop myself into a country and a language that the Constabulary first took advantage of. Later, it was the queen who remembered my mathematical studies and sent me to Aw

veline City. Now I have circled around to the end of that circle, which is itself a new beginning …

He had long ago abandoned his temporary journal, but he found he could not break off these silent entries as he tramped along the backcountry trails. Vienna and that miserable room above the wineshop seemed a thousand leagues away; Osraighe and Cill Cannig had taken on a dreamlike quality. The hills and mountains lay behind him now and he traveled along a dirt road that descended into the heart of Montenegro, a high rocky plateau with the broad Cetinje River winding down to the sea. It was late morning. The air had already turned warm and shimmered with dust. In the distance, a rare balloon glided past, the sun glinting off its wires.

A jingling broke his reverie. He turned to see a farmer in his wagon just topping the previous rise. Ó Deághaidh stepped aside to let them pass, but just as the wagon drew alongside, a black and gray brindled hound loped up through the fields and barked. The farmer reined his horses to a stop and peered at him through rheumy eyes. “I nearly thought you were a ghost,” he said in a thick dialect of Štokavian. “Standing so still in the tall grass. Where are you bound, my friend?”

“To Budva,” Ó Deághaidh answered in the same language. “To buy passage on a ship. But tonight I hoped to sleep in Cetinje.”

“Eh. A traveler? But not from these hills or this valley. Are you Prussian?”

His tone was suspicious. Ó Deághaidh knew how he looked—unwashed and unshaved, his coat and trousers stained from weeks spent sleeping on the ground. He smiled and shook his head. “No, my friend. I was born in Austria, but my father came from the hills, from Tuzi. It was the Austrians who took him for their army.”

“Ah-ah.” The old man spat to one side. “God and Allah be thanked the Austrians cannot do that anymore. Though truthfully, I’d rather have them than the goddamned Prussians, who are like ants in the kitchen. Come, get you into my wagon. I can take you to Cetinje.”