The Time Roads

He felt the brush of her hair against his mouth as she nodded.

The footsteps slowed as their pursuer neared the fence. Ó Deághaidh could make out nothing except the man’s height and bulk, and the laboring of his breath. He felt Valerija shift on her feet. She placed one hand against his chest; the other held the gun. She was breathing slowly, silently. He could smell her sandalwood perfume, stronger now. His nausea receded, overtaken by a stronger emotion. It disturbed him he would think of sex at such a time.

After what seemed an infinitely long moment, the figure moved away. Ó Deághaidh waited until the last echo of footsteps had faded and silence returned. Valerija stirred. Tilted her head up so that the warmth of her breath tickled his throat. “Not yet,” Ó Deághaidh said softly.

“We must. We have to talk.”

“To the police?”

She hesitated. “Eventually. But I need—I would like to ask you a few things first.”

“We aren’t safe here,” he reminded her. “Those men might return.”

“And they will watch my apartment. But I know a place where we can talk in private. Besides, you look ill.”

He could not argue with that. He nodded wearily and allowed her to guide him back along the lane, around to a wooden staircase leading to a footpath by the water’s edge. Here the bank rose steeply above their heads, and fences along the top shielded them from view. Moonlight traced the Cetinje’s waters in rippling silver, and memories from two years ago streamed back, vivid and strong, the first he’d had in many weeks. Of the Blackwater in Awveline City, so broad and sluggish and dark. Of a body drained of blood, floating amongst the weeds. Some of these were true memories, no matter what the doctors claimed. He wished them away, nevertheless.

A half mile down the path, they came to an old stone bridge. A flight of stairs led up to street level, into a square fronted by several wineshops and one sprawling two-story building that Ó Deághaidh guessed to be an inn. A nearby clock tower rang the hour. Midnight. He would have thought it later.

A girl opened the door to the night bell. Yes, they could hire a private room, she told Valerija in answer to her hurried questions. There were no more hot meals, but she could fetch them wine, bread, and cold sausages.

“And bring us a pitcher of water,” Valerija added, with a glance at Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. “We are parched as well as hungry.”

Very soon, they were seated with their meal in a comfortable room lit by two old-fashioned oil lamps. Valerija dismissed the girl and poured Ó Deághaidh a mugful of cold water mixed with wine. “Did I break your collarbone?” she asked as she built a small fire. In spite of the warm night, Ó Deághaidh found himself grateful for it.

“No. Bruised, I think. What caused you to change your mind about me?”

Valerija glanced at him with an unreadable gaze. “I’m not sure I have. But I know now you did not kill Stefan. And I could not leave you to Ilja and his men, any more I could leave an injured dog.”

An honest answer, spoken without resentment or fear. But also without any great measure of trust. Fair enough. Ó Deághaidh gulped down half the mug of watered wine and speared one of the sausages with his fork but set that aside after no more than a few bites. He had eaten so little the past several days—his preparations for tonight had consumed the hours he normally spent in search of meals—but the grease and spices made his stomach turn over. He broke off a piece of bread to chew instead, alternating that with sips from his mug.

I would only ask that you use your best judgment, the queen had said. There had been betrayals in Éire’s Court. There had been many more here, in Montenegro, if he read the signs right. To win this woman’s trust, he would have to offer his own.

“Let me start,” he said. “My name is Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. I’m an agent for the Queen’s Constabulary in Éire. Not a spy,” he added, at her narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps I am, but not for the usual reasons. The queen sent me here to investigate a matter of some delicacy.”

He went on to describe how reports had come to the queen’s attention, linking Anglian dissidents with unrest in the Balkans. “But she mistrusted those reports,” he said. “I cannot tell you more, only that she sent me as her observer, to test their accuracy.”

“And if they were true?”

“But they were not—”

“If they were?” Valerija repeated. “What then?”

Ó Deághaidh expelled a breath. “Then I was to use my best judgment on what action to take.”

Valerija took up a slice of bread and crumbled it between her fingers. “So many times I’ve observed Éire’s government take action where I thought they had no business to. Today, I find myself wishing the opposite.”

She fell silent, staring at the table with dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears. Ó Deághaidh waited, knowing that to break the silence would be to break the mood that led her to talk, even this much. It was quiet in the inn, apart from the hiss and crackle of the fire. His shoulder ached, but his earlier drowsiness had fled, leaving him alert and wonderfully clear-headed.

Abruptly, Valerija deposited the crumbs onto the platter. She released a long breath, and glanced up at him with sudden determination. “My turn,” she said. “His name was Stefan, the man you found dead. Stefan Kos. He is—was my cousin. Five years ago, he applied to Awveline City’s university for graduate studies in physics. After three years, he took a degree and returned home to teach at our university.”

Physics. And Kos had obviously used his rooms as a kind of workshop. Ó Deághaidh’s skin prickled with premonition. “What was his specialty?”

“Time.” She shook her head, as though remembering something unpleasant. “He had a theory that one could alter how time passes, much as you can affect how particles of light travel. He was working on such a device to support that theory.”

“And those who murdered him took that device. Didn’t they?”

She nodded. “You must understand the device itself was harmless. Stefan had designed it so. Just tiny alterations, to prove his theories. Except … Well, let me explain the second part. The complications. You see, shortly before Stefan came home from Éire, my husband and I and our friends formed a group of … call us concerned citizens. We wrote letters to the prince and his advisers. We distributed pamphlets and held meetings to make public our opposition to an alliance with Austria.”