The Time Roads

“My lords,” I said. “Gentlemen. As you can see, we’ve begun to receive suggestions from allies and friends about our proposed union.”

Edged laughter met my remark. We had been deluged with various demands over the past five months. The several Mexica kingdoms each sought more representatives than the others. Frankonia insisted we address the growing problem of violence against Judaic groups throughout Europe and the Turkish States. The Prussian Alliance furiously rejected any such measure, stating that no body had the right to overstep a nation’s border, unless that nation first acted outside justice and the law. Sahelia, Somalia, and Eritrea had lately reversed their earlier decisions and wished to attend the conference.

For the first two hours, we dealt with each subject, turn by turn, working out compromises where possible, and dictated the results to my secretary. A short interlude followed, with more substantial refreshments. Several murmured conversations rose up over goblets of wine or stronger spirits. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh, my newly appointed minister of war, had collected Aidrean Ó Deághaidh and several other ministers and their aides in a corner. Judging from Aidrean’s bland expression, Ó Tíghearnaigh was no doubt questioning him about his presence at t

his meeting.

As though I needed an excuse to consult my oldest and most trusted agent.

I summoned a servant to fill my glass with water, then took up the agenda to review the next page.

I paused, my hand gripping my glass.

The next topic concerned the security of our visitors, from kings and emperors to every member of their entourages. All three paragraphs were exactly as I had dictated them to my secretary, but on my copy there was a penciled notation in the margin: The matter of Anglia.

I knew the handwriting well—Lord Ó Duinn’s. I lifted my gaze to find him watching me.

“A new topic?” I said.

“An old topic, Your Majesty, recently revived.”

His voice was suitably nervous, but he did not flinch away from my stare.

“Very recent indeed,” I said, “that you chose to introduce it to me in such a manner, and at such a time.”

“Your Majesty, I did introduce it earlier. The Anglian delegation—”

“Demanded Thomas Austen’s pardon. I gave them my answer with his execution.”

“You did, Your Majesty, but the topic has altered itself somewhat.”

His voice had risen. So had mine. Lord Ó Cadhla glanced sharply from Ó Duinn to me. Lord Ó Breislin’s attention veered in our direction as well. Slowly I exhaled. However much I disliked Ó Duinn’s trick—for a trick it was—a public quarrel would do neither of us any good.

“We shall discuss your topic tomorrow,” I said to him. “In private.”

“That is all I ask, Your Majesty.”

I felt the rustle of attention settle around me, like leaves sifting into stillness after a sudden wind. Lord Ó Cadhla still watched me, as did Lord Ó Breislin. I turned my attention to the agenda and the remaining topics for the night.

* * *

It was not until midnight that Commander Ó Deághaidh was admitted by my steward to my offices, where I sat poring over the endless business of Éire.

“Sit,” I told him. “I shall be done in a moment.”

Aidrean nodded and took a seat by the fireplace. He carried a slim, leather-bound volume, and what appeared to be a motley collection of newspapers in Arabic script. Both newspapers and book were water stained, and the newspapers seemed especially ancient, with bits of paper and dust trailing behind as he crossed the room.

I signaled to my steward. Rian vanished through the door and returned with a flask of cold white wine, and another of water. He poured a glass for Aidrean while I scanned the most recent news from Londain. All was quiet, according to my agents. No explosions or fires or looting. The protesters had dispersed shortly after nightfall, discouraged by the sleet and the many gardaí stationed in the public squares. They could not guarantee it would remain so tomorrow.

“You are tired,” Aidrean said. “We should meet another time.”

“I am always tired,” I said. “If I could, I would defy the dictates of science and the Church, and duplicate myself three times over.”

He gave a rueful smile. “My domain is much smaller, and yet I often wish the same.”

I knew what he spoke about, of course. Montenegro had recovered its independence, but Serbia continued to press for an advantage. And there was always the danger from Austria, however diminished, and the Turkish States, which were not. As senior commander for Éire’s intelligence in Eastern Europe, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh oversaw a tangled network of agents, spies, informants, and other, less official observers, even while he maintained the fiction of running Éire’s embassy for Montenegro.

Aidrean took only a sip from his wine before he set the glass aside and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. I continued to skim the reports, but I was aware of his presence, as I always was. I noted the way his bones lay closer to the surface, the fine, milk-white lines, running like spiderwebs over his weathered face. He was older, so obviously older, than at our last meeting. I was sorry I had not summoned him back to Court years ago. No, to be truthful, I had. And he had politely refused.