The Time Roads

He lives. Yes, he lives. Now I must see to the rest.

* * *

I spent the rest of the night reading and taking notes. By sunrise, I had the shape of a plan. Oh, but I would need all the caution and cleverness I possessed. Each decision I made would undo snippets of the future, but once undone, they might cause other and greater difficulties. More than once, I wished for my own machine to calculate the probabilities for each decision and its outcome. More than once, I wished for Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s counsel.

My first interview took place at seven o’clock, with Commander Ábraham of the Queen’s Constabulary.

“I have received vital information,” I

told him, “concerning certain radical factions in Éire and across the Continent. Here are the names of their leaders, and where you might find them.”

I handed him a sheet of paper with the names of Daniel Strong and his associates, the specifics gleaned from White’s chapters on Éire’s civil war. I included the method they had used to communicate their plans—a code based on the metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century—as well as the observation that Michael Okoye himself was not a part of their conspiracy.

Ábraham stared at the sheet. His lips moved, and I thought I saw recognition on his face, as though these names were not unknown to him. “What do you wish me to do, Your Majesty?”

“Detain our own citizens on suspicion of treason,” I said. “While you have them in custody, take measures to contain the devices they have planted in Osraighe and other cities throughout Éire. Here is the list of suspected sites. The devices are not visible yet, but you understand the means they’ve used. Secure them as you would any ordinary bomb. Lord Ó Cadhla will have responsibility for the ones outside our borders. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” he breathed. “I understand. Where—”

“From a number of sources,” I replied. “They wish to remain anonymous.”

Not that I thought he would believe me if I told him the truth—that my source was a book written in the future, which foretold my assassination this summer, and which told how, if we did not act, our cities would be turned to dust and Europe would be overrun by hordes of soldiers from the Prussian Alliance. Perhaps something of my own horror showed on my face, because Commander Ábraham did not question me further. “I will do as you command, Your Majesty.”

Lord Ó Cadhla arrived when the clocks were striking half past nine. “I’ve heard a number of interesting rumors, Your Majesty.”

“No doubt you have, my lord. The truth is even more unsettling.”

He glanced around the audience chamber. I had locked away Breandan’s history book in my private safe box long before I emerged from my bedchamber, but I knew at least one guard had noted its presence the night before.

“We have traitors in our Congress,” I said. “Traitors across Europe. If we do nothing, Prussia will lay claim to the Continent, and from there, all of Africa and western Asia. Here is the report I have received from my spies.”

I gave him a duplicate of the sheet I had given Commander Ábraham. To that, I added a second sheet with details about further attacks planned in Frankonia, Austria, Catalonia, and Serbia. To these, I had added their probable dates, all of them within the next five days.

His reaction was less pronounced, but nevertheless I could tell the surprise and shock went deep.

“There is more,” I told him. “We must prevent an outbreak of war with the Nri Republic. They have a great deal of influence in Africa and Western Europe. I have word that radicals would like to assassinate Michael Okoye and lay the blame on us. They would do the same with the other members of the delegation. My proposal is this: we set a guard on the delegation, an obtrusive one. We also keep Mister Okoye in our prison another day or two. By then, we shall have taken the assassins into custody. I have further plans at work to make even this temporary delay more palatable.”

Lord Ó Cadhla offered me a grim smile. “You do? And would you share these plans with me?”

“No. I am sorry, my friend, but I cannot. But I should be happy to explain my reasons afterward.”

A lie, and he knew it. I could not tell him everything that had taken place this past night without betraying Gwen Madóc and her time machine. Nor the book that laid out all the dangers, including Lord Ó Cadhla’s execution by radicals when he protested the military law advanced by Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh and his generals.

Two obstacles dealt with. The most difficult yet to come.

I had arranged for this meeting to take place at two o’clock, in an audience chamber situated in a remote wing of Cill Cannig. A little-used corridor led from here to the prison, but few knew about the connection. If this interview went badly—and I had no way to predict its outcome—I should want it.

Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh was the first to arrive. My steward was in attendance and offered us both a selection of wines and stronger spirits. Ó Tíghearnaigh accepted a glass of wine and had just taken his seat when my steward announced Lord Ó Rothláin’s arrival.

“My lords,” I said to them. “Please sit. I have a few questions for you.”

My questions were more like statements. I wanted to know when they had first conspired to secret meetings with the Prussian agents, and when those meetings had turned from simple bribery to treason itself.

“Impossible,” Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh breathed.

Lord Ó Rothláin regarded me with a cold stare. “You have no right to accuse us without evidence.”

“But I have evidence, which Commander Ábraham’s people have extracted from your private quarters. He acted with Lord Ó Duinn’s permission, and mine. If you wish the Congress to hear your complaints, I am happy to agree.”