The Time Roads

“A quarrel within the conspiracy?” I asked.

“We don’t know yet. The examiner believes he died before Loch Garman.”

I sighed. With every new detail uncovered, the questions grew. “What of the Constabulary’s reward? Do we have news there?”

“None so far. Our friends, or so Lord Ó Duinn calls them, have inundated the Constabulary with their sightings of suspicious characters, both in Osraighe and in Loch Garman. A dozen have claimed responsibility for the attack themselves, with the understanding they would only betray their comrades in exchange for the reward and immunity from prosecution. Others have accused their neighbors, or the overseer in the shop where they work, or sometimes a cousin or uncle whom they’ve never quite trusted.”

“They’ve seen nothing, then.”

He shrugged. “That I cannot say for certain. We’ve reviewed the claims, even the more unusual ones, because there is always the chance for truth amongst the chaff.” He paused and glanced out the window, where the sun was slanting down toward the horizon. Rags of clouds hung low in the skies, dull brown and stained crimson from the approaching sunset. Aidrean shook his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“You should sleep,” I said, on impulse.

He smiled at me. “As should you.”

“I shall,” I said. “Once my kingdom is safe.”

“As will I.” He shuffled his papers together, but did not make a move to depart. “Ábraham believes we ought to declare a national crisis,” he said softly. “He claims that would grant us the freedom to search as we must, without provoking an outcry. Ó Tíghearnaigh insists our only course is to increase our armies and begin the manufacture of weapons.” Aidrean allowed himself a smile. “He mentioned your scientists, and not in a complimentary fashion. He suspects they could provide us with extraordinary weapons from the future, if only they wished to.”

I had suspected much the same. “Lord Ó Cadhla believes the situation is more complex than Ó Tíghearnaigh states.”

He laughed. “That would be an understatement.” But the humor drained from his face all too quickly. There was a curious hesitation about his manner, then he said, “I spoke with Michael Okoye this morning, before I heard the news of Peter Godwin.”

“And was your conversation productive?”

“Indirectly. We talked of poetry. He favors the metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century. Outside Thomas Austen, there were few connected with the Anglian cause who shared his interest. Except for one. A man named Daniel Strong, who, as it happens, is Peter Godwin’s nephew.”

More answers, provoking more questions.

“And what does this signify?” I asked.

“Nothing yet. I’ve sent a telegraph to our agents in Londain to question Strong. Apparently he quarreled with Godwin six months ago and has broken all connection with the other members of the delegation. More than that, I cannot say.”

“And what about Okoye?”

“I want to talk with him tomorrow. Innocent or not, I suspect he might be in danger if he leaves Cill Cannig. I would like to persuade him to remain here, until we discover who murdered Godwin.”

“Remain as prisoner or guest?” I waved my hand to cut off his reply. “No, I know your answer. You leave the decision to me and my honor.”

Aidrean opened his mouth as if to reply, but he only shook his head. “I must go to Osraighe,” he said. “The chief of the Garda station says a witness has come forward with information about the message we received. Shall I come to you afterward, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “No. Unless the news proves important, truly important, let it wait until morning. I want you to make an early end to your day.”

He smiled again, but did not make any promises.

We had finished our business. Aidrean tucked the papers back into the leather case and stood, wincing as he did so. The late afternoon sunlight threw the lines in his face into sharp relief, and a shock of white and silver stood out against his dark hair. He was forty-nine, almost fifty, I reminded myself. No longer the indefatigable guardian of my early reign.

I should send him home, home to Montenegro, to Valerija Delchev and their children.

As he turned to go, I said, “And Aidrean, I will keep in mind what you say about Okoye. I promise.”

* * *

I dined early and alone, in my private suite, by candlelight. I had two more interviews scheduled in the evening, three if Aidrean Ó Deághaidh brought news from Osraighe. I needed this interlude to myself, without the constant press of demands and inquiries, the need for diplomatic conversation, even with my most trusted advisers. Without, I thought, the cold bright light of electric lamps, and their reminder of the implacable future.

Twilight was falling. I stirred the fire, recalling as I did so the chill air in Michael Okoye’s cell. Aidrean believed him innocent, but useful. Ó Cadhla remained carefully neutral on the subject, but my minister of war had stated more than once his conviction that we could not trust the Anglians, any Anglians. My own impressions were deeply suspect, but I began to think we had, all of us, viewed him as a playing piece—a symbol and not a man.

The coals flared into bright flames. I replaced the poker and turned back toward my neglected dinner. The window beyond showed the dark blue of the approaching night, with the lights of Osraighe glimmering on the horizon.