The Time Roads

They want to know who betrayed their secrets. Then they will have me killed, and not Éire or my queen will know.

His movements must have attracted someone’s attention, because a blurry shadow interposed itself between him and the firelight. “You are awake, yes?”

It was a woman’s voice. She spoke in German, in a low contralto, her accent blurred. With the fire behind her, Ó Deághaidh could make out little of her features—just the tilt of her head, the whiff of sandalwood, the quiet and stillness of her attitude.

“Who are you?” he said with difficulty.

Before she could answer, a second figure approached—a tall, lanky man, who held his hands loose and ready at his sides. The man stared at Ó Deághaidh. His lips drew back, and the firelight glinted from his smile, reminding Ó Deághaidh of a hungry dog.

The man spoke to the woman in a rapid monotone, too quick and low for Ó Deághaidh understand. She shook her head. The man stabbed a finger toward Ó Deághaidh and spoke sharply—a clear threat, because the woman flinched. She turned back to Ó Deághaidh.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You must talk. And you must tell the truth.”

“And if I do not?”

“We know about you. You wrote a coded message to Kiro Delchev, which means you must be from Éire or one of its agents. But you have chosen a curious time to ask for a private meeting.”

There were strange, contradictory signals here. The man, so ready with his threats, he understood, or thought he might. The woman, however, was not so easy to read. Nervous and afraid of her companion, and her tone seeming to imply more than the words themselves. “Are you friends with Kiro Delchev?” he asked. “Where is he?”

She hesitated. The man rapped out another question. The woman answered slowly, keeping her face turned away from her companion. Ó Deághaidh had the impression she was giving him a carefully edited version of their conversation.

Another long tirade from the man. Again she made the translation, though clearly an abbreviated one. “We can answer none of your questions. It is you who must tell us why you have come to Cetinje, and why now. Please,” she added in a breathless whisper. “If you do not, he will hurt you. He says it will be faster.”

“What about you?” Ó Deághaidh said. “What do you think?”

She made a brief, negative gesture. “I cannot stop him.”

“Cannot or will not?”

The man interrupted with a question. She turned to answer, but he shoved her to one side, pushed Ó Deághaidh onto his stomach, and wrenched his arms up until the bones cracked. Ó Deághaidh gasped and bucked against the agony.

Then it was over, leaving Ó Deághaidh sweating and panting. Above the roar in his head, he heard the buzz of voices, then footsteps retreating. A warm hand brushed his forehead. Someone placed a water canteen to his lips and held his head steady as he drank. The water tasted of cool minerals, and helped to clear away the bitter aftertaste of the chloroform.

“He has gone to fetch a friend,” the woman said softly. “Another man who watches for the patrols. He says that between them they will persuade you to talk.”

“And if they cannot?”

“Then you will die.”

“While you watch?”

“I’m sorry for you. But I can do nothing, nothing at all.”

“How convenient.” He had no need to pretend bitterness. His death would be the least of his failures.

The woman shook her head. “You do not understand. Ilja would—”

Ó Deághaidh drew a deep breath that eased the pain in his gut. “No, I do not understand. But I would like to.” He let a soft groan escape that was not entirely feigned. If only he knew how long before the man would return. The woman appeared unarmed. If he could distract her a moment, he might take her by surprise. “More water,” he whispered. “Please.”

She frowned and glanced over her shoulder. The moment her attention turned from him, Ó Deághaidh rolled onto his knees and launched himself at her headfirst. They both crashed to the ground. Ó Deághaidh rolled free and lurched to his feet. The woman scrambled away and fumbled at her boot.

“Hej! Valerija—”

Two figures rushed into the cave. It was the man who had questioned him before—Ilja, she had called him—and his companion. Damn, damn, damn. Ó Deághaidh wanted to snarl and curse, but he had no time. Ilja had drawn a gun. Ó Deághaidh aimed a hard kick at the man’s knee and connected. The man dropped with a strangled cry, his gun clattering to the ground. Meanwhile, the second man circled around, a knife in one hand. Ó Deághaidh backed away. A glance showed him the woman pressed against the wall on the far side of the cave. She too had a knife in her hand.

His opponent took advantage of Ó Deághaidh’s momentary distraction, snatched up the gun, and fired twice. Ó Deághaidh threw himself to one side. His shoulder burned. A shot must have grazed him. He spotted a flash of firelight against metal—a knife spinning on the ground. With his hands behind his back, he had to scrabble to catch hold of the hilt. There, he had it, and just in time. Regaining his feet, he saw the man was reloading the gun. Ó Deághaidh kicked at the fire, scattering hot ashes into the man’s face. The man let his gun fall and clawed at his face. Ó Deághaidh drove his shoulder into the man’s chest and shoved him against the cave wall. Before the man could recover his breath, he spun around and rammed the knife into his gut.

A gasp. A gurgled cry. Warmth spilled over Ó Deághaidh’s hands, and the stink of blood rolled through the air. Ó Deághaidh staggered to one side, trying to catch his breath, and the man slumped to the ground. A few coals from the scattered fire cast a red, uncertain light over the floor and ceiling. Except for the labored breathing of the man Ilja, it was quiet. Where was the woman? Had she gone for help?