The Time Roads

He thought he could see where her story led, but he did not interrupt. She was speaking now with such obvious relief, as though she had held all these secrets, the good and the dreadful, inside herself for far too long.

“Stefan joined our cause because he was family,” she said, “but also because he worried as much as we did. We were not revolutionaries—far from it. But there were disagreements within our group. Some argued that the slow, safe ways were too slow. Then last summer, the elections brought those Austrian sympathizers to power. No one listened to us. No one cared. They only cared about the demon Serbs. Safety at any cost.” She made a disgusted sound. “We were frustrated, all of us. Ilja Radakovic more than others. He had plans. He wanted Stefan to build a dozen of his time devices. But altered to his specifications.”

“Altered how?”

“So that they made bigger disruptions—noticeable ones. Ilja insisted it would cause no lasting harm—stirring a thick soup, he called it—but doing so would make things more difficult for the government. Then the people would have to listen to us.”

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nbsp; Ó Deághaidh shuddered. The description reminded him of his waking nightmares, when the world seemed to ripple and change shape around him. He poured a mugful of water to wash the bitter aftertaste from his mouth. “This Radakovic. Was he the man who questioned me in the cave?”

“Yes. He knew about the drop points. He intercepted your letters and made plans to kidnap you, to find out how much Éire had discovered about our group. I was there to translate. And to prove my loyalty to him.”

Now the clues shifted into focus. “You believe he murdered your husband.”

“I do, but I have no proof.”

Just as he had no proof of the traitor in Éire. He wanted to ask her more questions about that night—about the man who died, about the knife he’d found to defend himself and whether she had provided it—but those would have to wait for later. If, he added, they had a later. “Tell me how your husband came to use these drop points, and not Stefan Kos.”

He looked for any sign of self-consciousness in her manner, but there was none. She spoke simply, as though the answer were obvious. “It was when Stefan first arrived in Éire. All the foreign students are interviewed. Stefan met with a man—”

“His name?”

“Seán MacCailín.”

Ó Deághaidh leaned back and felt the rising tension seep away. He did not recognize the name. Most likely, Kos had met with a minor official, not someone in Ó Cadhla’s or De Paor’s immediate circle. Or rather, Lord Ultach’s, he thought, remembering that Lord De Paor had not taken over from the old lord until last year.

Valerija was watching him in return. “Do you know him?”

“Unfortunately, no. What came next for your cousin?”

“They talked a while. About Stefan’s intended research, mostly, but also about Montenegro. It seems the man had visited here once. He was sympathetic about our troubles. The day before Stefan left to return home, the man visited him again, and gave him an address so they could continue their conversation, as he called it.”

“Didn’t your cousin wonder at that?”

She shook her head. “He was in some ways a trusting boy. But when he joined our group, he told us about this Seán MacCailín. Kiro decided to write to MacCailín himself, asking if the man knew anyone in Éire’s government with influence, someone who might convince the queen to involve herself with our affairs.” She smiled pensively. “I disagreed with Kiro’s decision. I said the Éireann queen was no different from the Austrian king.”

Ó Deághaidh would have liked to debate that point with her, but like so much else, that too would have to wait. “Did your husband tell this MacCailín about your group?”

“Yes. More than I liked, less than he wanted to. He even told this man about our impatient members. Oh, he disguised our names, and he spoke in generalities, but the matter was clear enough. I think that is why the man sent instructions, in case, he said, it became necessary to send agents to speak directly with Kiro.”

So whoever he was, this mysterious Seán MacCailín knew enough about the Montenegrin situation at large, and the political conflicts in detail, to create a trap for Éire. His target could not be Ó Deághaidh himself, because the plans started long before his summons to Cill Cannig. Did MacCailín aim to discredit one of the ministers? All of them? The queen herself? And how exactly?

“Are you certain he did not send a warning about me?”

“No, I would have—” She stopped and touched her fingers to her lips. “Perhaps not. They came to a post office number. Kiro told him once how the correspondence worked. It’s possible Ilja claimed the letter himself.”

The pieces still did not fit together and he worried at them as he worried the bread into crumbs and then molded it back together into small neat bullets. Secret reports about Anglians in Montenegro. Rumors of civil war coming to Éire’s shores. But vague and contradictory. The queen could not ignore the matter, but she could not act on mere suspicions.

And so she sends me to Montenegro. The traitor warns these revolutionaries. A scandal, surely, but not so great that it would cause the downfall of a regime. For that, it would take something far greater.…

“When does the Austrian delegation arrive?” he asked.

Valerija started at his question. “They meet with our prince on June first. Five days from now. A week of negotiations over troops and—”

“No. I mean when do they arrive?” He leaned forward, both hands flat on the table. “Two days from now? Three?”

“What are you talking about?”