The Time Roads (16 page)

And he was glad. Ó Deághaidh could hear it in his voice. At the same time, there was that moment of unmistakable surprise.

You did not tell anyone about me, did you, Your Majesty?

Another clue, which did nothing to lessen Ó Deághaidh’s uneasiness.

Ó Cadhla was gesturing toward the chair next to him. “Come. Sit. The others should arrive momentarily—ah, and so they do. Mac Gioll, your watch runs in order these days.”

Lord Mac Gioll, a bent old man, limped into the room. He nodded at Ó Deághaidh in passing and lowered himself into a chair. “That jest was a weak jest twenty years ago, Ó Cadhla. And time does not improve its quality. Nor my humor.” He scowled. “I hope our beloved queen doesn’t have a mind to keep us here all afternoon.”

Mac Gioll’s entrance must have signaled the servants, because six liveried men appeared with silver tea carafes, crystal water pitchers, glasses etched with falling leaves, and delicate porcelain cups painted in the Oriental fashion. Lord Mac Gioll continued to grumble until he held a teacup in his trembling hands. “Much better. Can’t think when I’m soaked to the bones with cold.”

“It’s age,” Ó Cadhla offered. “Comes to us all.”

“Damn the age. I don’t like it. Neither do you.”

Ó Cadhla tilted his hand, as though to agree. “How does Lady Mhic Gioll?”

Ó Deághaidh took a seat several chairs down from the two men, grateful to be ignored as they chatted about family, their respective estates, the likelihood of good hunting come autumn. Two episodes within the day. Two moments revisiting a past that had never existed. Willing his hands to remain steady, he poured himself a cup of tea and drank, while Ó Cadhla went on to speak complacently about his daughter Maeve, who had just received a second degree with honors in mathematics.

“To what purpose?” Mac Gioll asked. “Damned fine accomplishment, to be sure, but what does she mean to do?”

Ó Cadhla for once appeared uncertain. “She hasn’t said definitely. She’s spending the summer with the family, naturally. After that, she mentioned taking a position in some new institute, run by that Síomón Madóc fellow and his sister. There’s talk about a new physics. New everything. I could not follow the subject, though it pains me to admit it.”

More names from the past. Ó Deághaidh closed his eyes against the vertigo. Maeve Ní Cadhla had lived—lived and prospered. Why should that be such a terrible thought?

An influx of voices recalled him. Servants and pages swept into the room, followed immediately by three more lords, their secretaries and aides. Then the chaos subsided as the Queen of Éire entered and everyone rose to their feet.

Áine Lasairíona Devereaux.

Ó Deághaidh drew a sharp breath and felt his pulse beat fast and strong. She was unchanged from when he last saw her. And yet the years had transformed her entirely.

He remembered a young woman dressed in silks and jewels, her finery a symbol of her office, she had once told him. The woman today wore no gems except a narrow gold circlet for her crown. Her gown swept in straight lines to the floor; her blood-red hair was pulled back smooth and tight over her skull. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense—she had inherited her father’s strong jaw and arched nose—but Ó Deághaidh thought her so. He saw traces of anxiety in her face, and the way her mouth tensed as she spoke to her secretary, before she turned to face her ministers.

“My lords. Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

Lord Ó Cadhla bowed. “Your Majesty. We are at your service.”

“Then let us begin.”

She waited until the secretary had cleared the room and they were all settled. “You will have read the initial reports concerning the situation in Europe,” the queen said. “I have invited Commander Ó Deághaidh to join us because I believe the affair is more complicated than we first suspected. One where Commander Ó Deághaidh’s long and varied experience will prove useful to Éire.”

Ó Deághaidh observed the reactions around the table. Polite. Wary. Interested. Understandable if they knew his recent past, and as members of Éire’s Court and Council, they would. In turn he studied the men who now served as ministers to the queen. Mac Gioll, Ó Cadhla, and Ó Breislin had been appointed by the old king. Ó Deághaidh remembered them well. They were solid, experienced men. Lord Alastar De Paor and Lord Greagoir Ó Luain were relative newcomers; he knew them only by name and reputation. There were other ministers, other advisers, but these five men occupied the innermost council.

“So you believe the crisis is greater than we first thought, Your Majesty?” Mac Gioll said.

The queen nodded. “The Balkan situation grows more troublesome. To be sure, the Balkans are nothing but troublesome, but I’ve lately received reports of certain events that appear to concern us directly.”

“How so?” said Lord De Paor. “And you say Commander Ó Deághaidh has experience in this region?”

“Indirectly,” Ó Deághaidh said. “I spent two years at the University of Vienna. My field was mathematics, but I also dabbled in languages and politics—or rather, political science. One does, abroad. Afterward, I traveled throughout the region, before I returned to Éire.”

“A most complete education,” De Paor said. “I had not realized it.”

There was the hint of a smile beneath the man’s polite expression. Ó Deághaidh turned to the queen, whose face was more difficult to read. “Your Majesty. You honor me by inviting me to your council, but if I might be blunt, I do not see the reason for it.”

“Nor do I,” Lord Ó Cadhla said. “Unless you have new information which you have not shared with us.”

The queen’s gaze skipped from one minister to another, the silence broken only by the
scratch, scratch, scratch
of the secretary’s pen. Did she trust no one? Ó Deághaidh wondered, as he studied her face. There were shadows beneath her eyes, clear signs of a sleepless night.

“I do,” she said at last. “Three very disturbing reports arrived here last Friday. It appears the Austrians have arranged a meeting between their own prince and Montenegro’s, as well as certain of his advisers.”

“What of it?” De Paor said. “A local matter.”

She smiled thinly. “Not so very long ago, I might have agreed with you. No, Austria alone poses no threat. They’ve lost too much territory and prestige in the past decade. Besides, Prussia keeps them busy in the north. It is Montenegro and its neighbors to the east that concern me, as you will see from this newest report.”

At her signal, the queen’s secretary handed around folders to all the men. Ó Deághaidh flipped open the blank cover to see a half dozen pages of closely written lines. It was another summary, not a firsthand account. His attention caught on the words
Montenegro
and
recent elections,
but it was the final paragraph that made him straighten up.

“Anglians?” he said.

The others had reached that same point. Ó Cadhla pursed his lips and leafed through the previous pages. His expression was more thoughtful than troubled, but Ó Breislin’s eyes widened in an unguarded moment of surprise, and Ó Luain appeared openly dismayed. De Paor gave no other sign except to gaze steadily at the queen, as though waiting for further clues.

“Yes, Anglians,” the queen said. “Montenegro’s elections last summer brought Austrian sympathizers into the majority. Certain local political groups mistrust the Austrians’ goodwill. Sensing an opportunity, our own Anglian nationalists have joined with the more outspoken of these organizations. If I can rely on these reports, they have entered a pact to further each other’s revolution.”

Ó Deághaidh released his breath slowly. Civil war in Éire. That
would
be a crisis.

“But you are not certain,” Mac Gioll said.

“I am not. And we cannot make any intelligent decisions until we know more. That is why I summoned Commander Ó Deághaidh, to investigate the matter.”

“You want a spy,” Ó Deághaidh said.

The queen’s gray eyes measured him coolly. She was no longer a young woman, ardent and impulsive in matters political and personal. Or perhaps her nature remained unchanged, but buried deep beneath this guise of the dispassionate ruler. The transformation might prove to Éire’s advantage, but he wondered what it had cost her.

“Call it what you will,” she said. “Spy. Scout. Trusted emissary. What I want, Commander, is a pair of eyes and ears, thinking eyes and ears, to observe the situation at hand.”

“To watch, but not to act.”

She hesitated. “Let us say I empower you to act as your discretion dictates.”

“No restrictions?” That was Lord De Paor.

“We shall work out the details before the commander departs. Do you have any concerns about this assignment, Commander Ó Deághaidh?”

Now it was his turn to hesitate. It was a chance to reinstate himself—in Court, in the Constabulary, in the queen’s trust. A flutter of doubt intruded. He suppressed it. “More questions than concerns, Your Majesty.”

Her gaze dipped briefly. “A fair point. My lords, do you have reservations?”

Ó Luain and Mac Gioll exchanged glances. De Paor’s expression had turned distinctly bland, in marked contrast to Ó Breislin, who scowled absentmindedly at the table. Ó Cadhla continued to study his copy of the report through slitted eyes, as though searching for more clues. He said nothing, however.

The queen nodded. “Very well, my lords. Then let us make our desires clear. We desire Commander Ó Deághaidh to meet privately with each of you. You will brief him thoroughly on your departments and answer all his questions.” To Ó Deághaidh she said, “We shall have copies of all our reports sent to your quarters for your review. Let us know if you require more, but do it quickly. You will start for the Continent this Thursday.”

She rose. The ministers filed past her, already murmuring amongst themselves. Ó Deághaidh waited until they had all departed. The queen had turned to confer with her secretary. The man caught Ó Deághaidh’s glance and touched her arm, indicating his presence. She looked over her shoulder to Ó Deághaidh, and with the barest hesitation, nodded.

Once they were alone, she resumed her seat and folded her hands together.

“Speak, Aidrean. I know you want to.”

How well had she read him over the years? Better than he had her, obviously.

“Why send for me?” he said. “Are you doing this from charity?”

Áine met his gaze directly but her color was high. “Not at all. The matter is too important, Aidrean. I thought you would recognize that.”

Her tone was just as he remembered from their early days together. Irritated. Demanding. And there was that use of his given name, which implied a level of intimacy.…

She remembers. Or does she?

It did not matter, he realized. It had not mattered then, whichever
then
one chose.

“But why me?” he repeated. “You surely have others with equal experience.”

“Because I need a man I can trust.”

Not a friend, a trusted minion. He felt the old, familiar weight of disappointment. He thrust that disappointment aside. “You have my service, Your Majesty. But you should know that.”

“I should, but—” She broke off with an unhappy smile. “My father once said a king did not issue absolute commands, he could only provoke loyalty and inspire obedience. I sometimes think I have proved a bad student in these matters. I did not wish to presume.”

But she had.

“And if I had refused?” he asked.

Again that quick coloring, which faded to white. “But you did not.”

Because I could not. And that you surely knew.

Did she remember those false days, when he and she had spoken freely with one another? Did she ever know that he had loved her, both as Queen of Éire, and a woman of unsurpassed strength and intelligence? Or did she know, and did she use that information to bind his allegiance to her?

He turned away, not wanting to know.

The chamber went still and silent for a long, long moment. Then Ó Deághaidh felt a touch upon his sleeve. So light, it was as though she tried to excuse herself for trespassing.

“I must,” Áine said softly. “Not for you or for me. But for Éire.”

Then he felt the air stir as the queen left and the door closed silently behind her.

*   *   *

The queen’s own secretary waited outside Ó Deághaidh’s rooms with the promised reports. More secrecy, more discretion, but by now Ó Deághaidh was no longer troubled, merely relieved the queen took so many precautions. He thanked the secretary, then sent off a runner with an order for an early supper to be delivered to his rooms.

Alone, with the doors bolted, he opened the packet and skimmed through the lot. Here were the detailed field reports behind the summaries he’d already seen. Reports from agents in Austria, Prussia, Serbia, the Turkish States—all the relevant players he would have expected. One last page gave Ó Deághaidh’s schedule for the next two days.

He paused and felt a ping of surprise.
That is not what I expected.

Of course he was to meet with Ó Cadhla, Mac Gioll, and Ó Breislin. These were the men responsible for matters touching the military or foreign affairs. (Though he wondered at Ó Cadhla’s being placed later and not earlier in the schedule.) Even De Paor’s name did not entirely surprise him—De Paor oversaw matters of internal intelligence, which would encompass the Anglian connection. But Ó Luain? Economics and finance? Clearly, the situation involved more than a minor crisis in a distant country.

A note in the queen’s hand added:
I want no questions in your mind when you start for the Continent. If you find anything lacking—anything, Aidrean—please apply directly to me.

He set down the paper. Laid his fingertips lightly upon the pages spread over the table, as though to read more from their texture. Considered the circumstances, the small details of the courier, these luxurious private rooms, the queen’s private words about trust, her public ones about his experience.

She wants someone who knows the Court, but who is outside it.

Someone skilled in delicate investigations.