The Time Roads

Ó Deághaidh threw his knapsack up first, then climbed onto the seat beside the farmer. With a flick of his reins, the old man set the wagon creaking into motion. “So,” he said. “Your father hails from Tuzi.”

“Near enough,” Ó Deághaidh replied. “For eighteen years he knew but firs and sheep, and then…” He snapped his fingers.

The other man nodded. “So many tales like that I’ve heard.”

Their conversation went on, haltingly at first. Whenever Ó Deághaidh found himself groping for the right words in Štokavian, he would try Russian or German. The old farmer spoke a little of both—learned from his goddaughter, he said proudly, who was a teacher in Cetinje.

As they approached the city, the wagon track joined a wider road, which continued through a pair of long-disused gates and to a large square bordered by taverns and shops. Montenegro’s capital was not a large city by Ó Deághaidh’s standards, but there were at least thirty or forty thousand souls here, and over the centuries it had expanded to cover the surrounding folds and hills. Towers from the old university peeked above the buildings west of the river. On a ridge to the east, Ó Deághaidh glimpsed tall, elegant mansions painted in greens and golds and pinks. Those would be the embassies and houses for visiting dignitaries.

The farmer drew his wagon to a halt by the fountain. “You might want to take a meal at Lazar Burgan’s cookshop,” he said. “They’ve good sausages, and the prices are not so dear. Are you heading on tomorrow?”

“It depends on how willing my feet are.” Ó Deághaidh climbed down from the wagon and hoisted his knapsack over his shoulder. “Thank you for your company and the ride, my friend.” He offered a coin to the old man, who squinted at him before he accepted it.

The first goal achieved, Ó Deághaidh thought, as he scanned his surroundings. Ten days in the wilderness had left him unused to cities and their noise. He wanted a quiet shelter where he could regain his bearings. He blew out a breath, considering his next few steps.

A meal first, he decided, then lodgings.

He found Burgan’s cookshop, where he ate a plate of sausages, then asked for directions to a suitable inn near the university quarter. Once he arrived at the inn—and it took a remarkably long time to traverse the city through its tangle of streets—he inquired about a single room for the week. The innkeeper took his money and showed him into a tiny bedchamber, with a single window overlooking a series of red-tiled roofs. It was like the dozen or so other rooms he had hired in this journey, and he could almost predict the innkeeper’s speech about when meals were served and how often he might expect the bed linens changed.

Alone, Ó Deághaidh sat down on the hard bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Three weeks had passed since Vienna. Groer had surely telegraphed Éire to report his encounter with Ó Deághaidh, as required. He or the other local agents must have discovered the crumpled train schedule for Vienna and Croatia left behind in Ó Deághaidh’s room at the boardinghouse, along with a map of the coastal roads.

He had taken a different route of course, though his destination was the same. Using new papers purchased in Vienna, Ó Deághaidh had boarded a train into the Czech Republic under the name Ivo Fischer. Once well inside Serbia, he traveled by whatever means possible into the hills, walking the last long segment to avoid the border patrols, and finally crossing into Montenegro. It was a carefully constructed trail, filled with deliberate gaps and misleading clues, so that those tracking him would not guess he meant for them to follow.

Because they must know I am here, he thought. Because there could be no better way to discover the traitor than to offer himself as the perfect target.

* * *

He slept badly that night, from the stale, close air in his room, from the unaccustomed noises within and without the inn. Breakfast proved to be palatable, and the coffee blessedly strong and hot. Ó Deághaidh wanted nothing more than to launch himself into the next stage of his plans, but he crushed that urge at once. Caution, care and caution, he told himself, or he would be dead before nightfall.

He took the entire day to refurbish his appearance. A few extra coins ensured him a hot bath, where he soaked then scrubbed away the grime from his travels. After that, he visited a barber for a haircut and thorough shave. A clean jersey and newer boots, bought from a street vendor, completed his transformation from tramp to migrant laborer.

He also acquired a supply of paper, ink, and quills. That night, he mentally reviewed all the details for contacting Kiro Delchev. The signs and countersigns were simple—no intricate spy craft here. Ó Deághaidh wrote what appeared to be a grocery list of ordinary items. Certain words as the third, fifth, and seventh items established his identity. A scribbled reminder at the bottom about “Aunt Mirjana’s birthday” requested a meeting.

Early the following morning, Ó Deághaidh took a meandering walk around the nearby square, where the cookshops and booksellers already did a brisk business. Just as the mysterious papers had described, there was a crooked lane next to a coffee shop. He followed the lane into a small courtyard, where he stuffed his message behind the expected drainpipe, then continued to the next street. If Delchev agreed to the meeting, the man would leave a thank-you note, the wording of which would indicate one of three predesignated meeting spots.

Throughout the rest of that anxious day, and half the next, Ó Deághaidh avoided the lane and the courtyard. Instead, he scouted the rest of the city, from the old university on the western bank of the Cetinje River, to the several prominent plazas, to the centuries-old taverns beside the river. In all the wineshops and taverns, he heard the same talk he’d heard from the old farmer, about Prussians and their recent conquests, debates about independence versus an alliance with Austria—even the relative advantages to joining with Serbia in a Greater Slovakian Alliance. No one seemed happy about these choices, however.

A second visit the following day showed his letter untouched. Ó Deághaidh told himself that Delchev was a professor, not a regular agent who checked his letterboxes daily. He spent the morning poking through the displays of various booksellers near the university, then retired to a nearby wineshop, where he divided his attention between a book and the old men playing chess. After the sun had set, however, he decided to make another pass.

Most of the shops were closed by this hour, and the lamplighters had just begun their rounds, but two old women were walking their dogs, and a group of Russian tourists crowded around their guide in the square. Off in the distance, Mount Lovcen loomed dark against the dusky skies, its uppermost peak illuminated by the last rays of an invisible sun.

Ó Deághaidh made a desultory tour of the square. No one appeared to notice him, and so he continued into the lane beside the coffeehouse.

Here it was dark and quiet. He heard nothing except his own footsteps, and the tick-tick-tick of water dripping onto stone. Still his skin prickled, and he hurried toward the faint glow that marked the courtyard’s entrance at the opposite end of the lane.

Just as he passed a doorway, an arm snaked out. Ó Deághaidh flung himself away and blocked a blow purely by instinct. His attacker came after him again. He was a thickset fellow with a knitted cap pulled low over his forehead. When he swung the next punch, Ó Deághaidh caught the man’s wrist and twisted away, sending his attacker to his knees. Ó Deághaidh struck him between the shoulders, driving the breath from the man’s body. That would keep him occupied long enough, he thought. But as he turned to run, a movement off to his left caught his eye. He spun around—too late. The second assailant struck him on the elbow with a wooden club. Ó Deághaidh dropped to his knees in a shock of pain. The next moment, someone grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and pressed a wet cloth over his face. A cloying smell filled his nose.

Ó Deághaidh jerked his head back, but it was too late. His head swam and his legs gave way beneath him. His last memory was of five shadows standing over him.

* * *

Awareness returned with a stabbing pain at his arm, and a rising wave of nausea. Ó Deághaidh clamped his mouth shut and swallowed. His head felt thick; his tongue lay heavy and dry in his mouth. Cool air whispered over his bare skin, and he shivered. Whoever had taken

him prisoner had confiscated all his clothes except his trousers.

Gradually he took in his surroundings. He lay on his side, on a cold hard surface with his hands tied behind his back. A low fire threw off a little light and heat, but otherwise the room was left awash in twilight. A basement or underground room? Then, close by, he heard the ripple of water against stone. Smelled wet earth. Underground, then. Cautiously he twisted his wrists. The ropes did not give at all.

Ó Deághaidh breathed slowly until the nausea subsided. His attackers, whoever they were—Delchev and his friends, or another rival faction—had not killed him. Yet. They wanted to question him first. It had happened too fast, too easily. They had marked him as a dangerous person from just that one message. A shudder went through him.