The Time Roads

“Perhaps he had several means of writing. Or perhaps he changed his methods.”

A few slices and the envelope fell open to reveal a letter written in Štokavian. Ó Deághaidh scanned its contents. There was men

tion of the queen, a few names within Ó Breislin’s department, something about requested funds—Ó Deághaidh recognized the form and style of a refusal couched in bureaucratic terms—and a reference to a mutual cause. But it was the handwriting that arrested Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s attention. Those strong vertical lines. The small tight loops. The way the writer had crossed the Ts with a broad stroke the cut across the other letters. He had seen that same script in Cill Cannig.

Lord Alastar De Paor.

De Paor had thoroughly disguised his handwriting on the papers he inserted in Ó Deághaidh’s packet of reports, but writing to Kiro Delchev, he had not bothered. Arrogance or carelessness, it didn’t matter. Here was proof of the man’s treason. No need to examine the rest. He would do that later, after they apprehended Radakovic. He ought to feel more triumph at the discovery, but he was left only with a mounting sense of dread.

Valerija watched, tense and expectant. “Those are MacCailín’s letters,” she said, when he stuffed them into his coat. It was not a question.

“Yes. But his name is not Seán MacCailín. Come, we are not yet done with our search.”

One last room remained. This one turned out to be entirely given over to a long workbench overflowing with heaps of papers, metalworking tools, coils of wire, and several strange metallic boxes, which resembled those Ó Deághaidh had seen in Kos’s room.

“These are Stefan’s papers,” Valerija said, leafing through the papers. “His workbooks and his research notes.”

She handed one notebook to Ó Deághaidh. It was filled with sketches and diagrams, annotated in a combination of Latin and Štokavian. From what he could decipher, Kos’s aim was to create a device capable of altering time’s passage and to measure those disturbances, but in small increments, just enough to prove his theories.

In the margins, he found a series of equations in a different handwriting. Something about increasing the voltage, testing higher frequencies, followed by a series of numbers that produced an eerie sense of recognition. Where had he seen numbers like that before?

… a woman dressed in a hospital gown, her pale hair drifting over her face. She appeared oblivious to her surroundings, weaving her hands in patterns, her lips moving in a silent recitation. No, not entirely silent. As he drew closer, he heard her whisper, “141955329, times two, exponent 25267, add one…”

Prime numbers, he thought. In another lifetime, Gwen Madóc had gone mad from numbers, or so the doctors at Aonach Sanitarium told Ó Deághaidh. And in that other lifetime, Síomón Madóc had explained his theory of numbers—how they had properties beyond those used to measure and quantify.

That past no longer existed. Gwen and Síomón Madóc had founded their research institute. Kos must have read their papers and used their theories to refine his device. In his innocence, he might have shared this information with Radakovic, who saw a quite different application for the same theorems.

Ó Deághaidh sank to the floor, overcome. Now he understood why the streets around Radakovic’s house were empty, why no lookouts had been posted. Radakovic had sent them all away. Ó Deághaidh knew why, too. If these calculations proved accurate, Ilja Radakovic would do far more than stir a thick soup. He would rip time to pieces. Had the man understood what that meant? Or had he cared only for his politics, no matter what the cost?

Valerija knelt beside him. “What is wrong?”

“No time,” he said. “All the time. I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense.”

“You are starved,” she said. “You ate nothing before but a few scraps of bread.”

She left his side for a few moments, returning with a paring knife and an apple, which she cut into small pieces and fed him by hand. After, she fetched water, cheese, and bread. “Eat,” she insisted, when he tried to refuse. “Now, tell me what you discovered that overset you so.”

In between bites and sips, he told her his suspicions. Telling it a second time did not vanquish the horror, and more than once he had to pause and collect himself. Throughout, Valerija listened, her gaze intent. When he finished, her mouth opened, closed. Then, hardly more than a whisper, “Destruction. If not that, war, which is the same thing. Us with Austria. The Prussian Alliance would join in—they always do. Then their allies and enemies. Do we go to the police now, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh?”

He shook his head.

“Stubborn man,” she muttered.

He could not help smiling. “So are you. Stubborn, I mean.”

She gave a smothered laugh, which broke into a sob. “If only we had our own device to turn back the time.” She laid a hand upon his cheek, which nearly undid all his resolve. Ó Deághaidh felt a tremor go through his body. Valerija must have sensed it, because she drew back a step. “Come,” she said softly. “We must hurry.”

They exited the boarding house and once more plunged into the streets. The clocks were striking three, and the streetlamps were all extinguished. “We must go to the south end of the city,” Valerija said. “Where the highway from Budva enters Cetinje. The prince intended to ride a fleet of balloons to the coast, then take motorcars north.”

She took Ó Deághaidh’s arm and led him, supported him, as they headed directly south along the city’s main boulevard. There was no hesitation in her step, no fear at all at the danger they chased. She was like the heroines of legend, Ó Deághaidh thought, who faced the Roman invaders. But now he was hallucinating. Or simply wishing for a different past and future. Perhaps later … He hoped there would be a later. But first they had to find and stop Radakovic.

The city’s edge came upon them before he realized it. A breeze grazed his cheek, carrying the scent of mud and ripe hay and wildflowers. He stumbled to a halt. They stood at an intersection of the highway with several smaller lanes leading to either side. His ears attuned themselves to subtleties—Valerija’s quiet breathing, the silvery rill of the nearby river, his own pulse thrumming in his ears.

“We’ve lost him,” Valerija said bitterly. “Come over here, Aidrean. Rest a moment. We must think what to do next.”

She led him into a side lane, to a bench underneath sweet-scented linden trees. There was something strange about her manner, but he was too tired to decipher it. No sooner did she sit beside him, than she was on her feet again. “You must be thirsty. I’ll fetch you water from the fountain.” Then to his astonishment, she bent and pressed a warm kiss on his lips.

The imaginary ice beneath his feet broke and divided.