The Time Roads (31 page)

“I did. Look again, Your Majesty. Look.”

I looked.

And saw a quiet moonlit square untouched by violence.

But in the air, I felt the breath and whisper of the future.

*   *   *

We proceeded to Loch Garman in the motorcar. Within a few miles of the coast, I could see the blood-red glimmer of the fires. By the time we reached the city walls, the air was thick with smoke and ashes. We passed through broad avenues lined by dark houses, then looped around King’s Street to the harbor itself. As we approached the site where the device had exploded, we passed squads of gardaí, wagons carrying away debris, and others transporting the injured to hospitals. Hundreds of lanterns illuminated the harbor walls, casting an uncanny light over the wrecked ships and shattered buildings, which continued to burn.

Osraighe’s vision made real,
I thought.

“Have you seen enough?” Aidrean asked me.

“Not yet,” I replied, though a heavy knot had lodged beneath my heart. “Take me to the hospital, please.”

My visit was a brief one—long enough to walk the corridors of two wards. The light here was dim, except for a few shaded lanterns, and the nurses spoke in whispers. I paused by this bed and that one. One man lay awake and weeping. Two women, mother and daughter, lay in beds next to each other, hands clasped. The gardaí had discovered more victims in the ruined buildings, a surgeon’s aide told me in hushed tones. Fifty dead, and the morning might see more. I could not speak any words of comfort, so I said nothing at all. Throughout, Aidrean paced behind me, like a shadow in the moonlight.

*   *   *

We returned to Cill Cannig in the rising dawn. Outside the Royal Residence, we separated—he to gather the necessary reports for the Council, and I to scrub the scent of blood and ashes from my skin, while I considered how to meet this newest disaster.

The bells were ringing seven o’clock when I sat down with the men who acted as my closest advisers. Lord Ó Duinn and Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh. Lord Ó Cadhla. Lord Ó Breislin. Commander Ábraham, Chief of the Queen’s Constabulary. To their number I had added Lord Ó Luain, minister of finance, and the leaders of the two most influential factions in Congress. Lord Ó Bruicléigh had recently been elected as chief speaker. Lord Ó Rothláin, a wealthy industrialist, represented the opposition, though there were times I thought them both more in opposition to me than each other. Indeed, I had debated whether to include them. It was only the words of my mother about secrecy that finally convinced me to do so.

Secrecy is an insidious habit,
she had told me more than once.
Our Court is stitched and sewn from the cloth of intrigue. But you must learn to recognize when discretion is necessary, and when it has become a sickness.

But I would have to act carefully. Oh so carefully. I did not wish another Lord De Paor.

Síomón and Gwen Madóc were the next to arrive. Both wore dark, rumpled clothing, with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, exposing curious scars, like silvery freckles, over their hands and arms. I had the impression they had worked through the night, and only reluctantly consented to break off their research at my secretary’s insistence. They circled the table to take seats at the far end.

A murmur of surprise rippled around the room at their appearance. I caught a flash of outright eagerness on Ó Tíghearnaigh’s face—as though he had sighted an enemy and wished to engage. Ó Breislin observed them with an air of expectation. Ó Cadhla glanced in my direction. His expression was closed, but I knew he had received an early report of the crisis through the Queen’s Constabulary. The rest had heard enough rumors to be frightened and suspicious.

They will soon be more frightened,
I thought.

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh hurried through the door, followed by three of his chief aides, each of them carrying stacks of paper. They proceeded to distribute the papers to all those present, while Aidrean took the remaining open seat at my right hand side. (Another, quite obvious signal to those who attended.)

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I have grave news to report.”

He gave a summary of the night’s events in that flat tone I had come to associate with terrible news. The number of dead. The property destroyed. The probable effect on trade and international reputation.

“And further is the matter of future devices.”

That provoked a sudden intake of breath around the table.

“What do you mean?” Lord Ó Duinn said.

“That our enemies have planted devices set to explode in future days,” Ó Deághaidh replied. “I cannot tell if those explosion are inevitable, or if we can prevent them by our actions. The only fact I can report with certainty is that they are destined to destroy.”

“Where?” Lord Ó Bruicléigh demanded.

“In Osraighe,” Ó Deághaidh said. “We have identified three sites.”

He went on to name them. The square in Osraighe, which I had visited. A marketplace frequented by more ordinary citizens. Then finally the site north of the city where I had planned to hold my first gathering for the Union of Nations.

Of course,
I thought.
Of course they would strike there.

Aidrean’s announcement produced a rustle throughout the chamber. Síomón Madóc straightened up in his chair, but Gwen was nodding, as though she just received confirmation of a theory. “We shall have to inspect the area, of course,” she said. “But from what you say, the effects are similar enough to what we observed in the airfield.”

More murmuring, more stares, especially among the members of Congress. Ó Duinn was shaking his head—he had disagreed on making public what we had discovered so far. Ó Cadhla had tented his fingers and continued his silent observation.

“You told us the airfield was an accident,” Ó Rothláin said. “A fuel tank…”

“We lied,” I said. “Those were my orders, my lord.”

“A matter of national security,” Ó Bruicléigh muttered.

“Just so.” I turned to Síomón Madóc. “You said the patterns of time fractures at the airfield were too regular to be a natural occurrence. You’ve seen the reports from the Constabulary’s experiments as well. Is such a thing possible—to create a disaster in the future?”

Síomón glanced at his sister, who shrugged. “We have only theories, no conclusions, Your Majesty.”

“What experiments?” Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded. “Does that mean you can send a man, or several men, properly armed, into the future?”

“No.” Gwen Madóc regarded Ó Tíghearnaigh with narrowed eyes. “No, we cannot.”

He paid her no attention, and turned to Lord Ó Cadhla. “If we could pinpoint when the next attacks would occur, we could arrest the criminals before they act.…”

“Except we would then outrage our citizens,” Lord Ó Rothláin said. “We cannot arrest a man if he’s committed no crime.”

“What if we sent our soldiers to the moment before the attack took place?” Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh said. “We would have the evidence…”

“Impossible,” Gwen said. “We cannot predict the future.”

“But you can breach the walls of time,” the war minister said.

At that, I heard a definite hesitation, before Gwen gave a noncommittal reply.

I shall have to question her and her brother later.

An argument broke out—noisy and useless—over the possibilities of time travel. Ó Tíghearnaigh demanded to know if Madóc could predict the outcome of future battles. Ó Breislin wished to learn which allies we might trust, and which we ought to take action against, before they acted against us. I allowed the debate to continue another few minutes before I lifted a hand for silence.

“Enough. We cannot take action before we know more. You,” I said to Gwen Madóc, “shall go with your brother and Commander Ábraham to inspect the sites in Loch Garman and Osraighe. And you,” I said to Aidrean, “will question our Anglian guest while I observe.”

*   *   *

The prison was an artifact of Éire’s earliest days, when the old kings had imprisoned their highborn enemies in Cill Cannig itself, holding them for later ransom, or more often, execution. War and rebellion, and the passage of centuries, had altered that ancient fortress into a palace, but the original prison remained. As Aidrean and I left behind the modern corridors with their electric lights, and entered the old stone passageways lit by oil lamps, I caught a whiff and whisper of those olden days.

We passed cell after dark and empty cell. Our footsteps echoed over the worn stone, shadows from the lamps rippled over the rough walls, and the air had a stale, metallic scent. These days, the cells were seldom occupied, and then only by political prisoners of high rank. I could count only a dozen instances in the past hundred years, and only two from my own reign. Lord Alastar De Paor had waited for his trial in this one, a windowless cage of stone. He had cursed and railed against his arrest, they told me, until the final days when he crouched on the floor and wept. Six years later, Lord Nesbit had spent a single night, before his release and eventual assassination.

The senior warden waited for us at the end of the passageway, keys in hand.

“Your Majesty. Commander Ó Deághaidh.”

“How is our friend?” I asked.

“Well enough. Curious. We’ve said nothing, as you wished.”

The cell where they had put Michael Okoye was larger than the others, with a small vent in the outer wall to let in fresh air and sunlight, but it was nevertheless a bare bleak room, with its walls of gray stone, the dented metal washbasin, and the chamber pot tucked into one corner. The air was chilled, more like winter than spring.

Michael Okoye sat on the cot, his gaze pinned on the vent, which was covered with a network of iron bars. Though they must have roused him from his bed, he was dressed in a fine dark suit and stiff white shirt. His manner was still and contained, his expression remote, as though he had wiped away all emotion, all expectation. He did not acknowledge our presence.

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh spoke first. “Mister Okoye. I have come to ask you some questions.”

Okoye glanced from him to me. “Why am I here?”

“Because your delegation chose you,” I said.

“No. I chose myself. Now tell me. Why am I in this cell?”

His voice was cool and soft, the vowels faintly rounded as was usual for the Anglian tongue. I caught a hint of anger in those few words, however much he had tried to hide it, and I exchanged a glance with Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. He too had heard something in Okoye’s tone. He motioned for the warden to unlock the cell door.

“We shall be comfortable enough,” he told the man. “Lock the door behind me, and leave us until we send for you. Her Majesty wishes to observe.”

A bench with pillows was fetched. I took my seat and the warden left us.

Okoye watched these preparations impassively. He had spent three weeks waiting for an audience with me. It seemed he was willing to wait longer.

Aidrean did not begin his questions at once. He sat on a wooden stool, which I had not noticed before, and leaned against the wall, studying Okoye with a pleasant smile. Okoye met his gaze steadily, even as the silence extended to a quarter of an hour and beyond, and I felt myself grow invisible to the two men inside the cell.

Then, “How old are you, Mister Okoye?”

Michael Okoye drew a quick breath, startled against his will. “Surely, you know everything about me, Commander. Éire has spies enough in our country.”

“Please answer the question, Mister Okoye.”

“First tell me why you have arrested me. I’ve committed no crime—”

“Answer the question, or I shall charge you with treason.”

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh spoke mildly, and the pleasant smile never left his face. I had not witnessed this aspect of his character before.

Okoye remained silent a moment longer, then said, “Twenty-six.”

Younger than I had guessed.

“Where were you born?”

“If I answer, will you tell me why—?”

“Where were you born, Mister Okoye?”

“In Londain,” Okoye said with a sigh. “Why must you ask me these questions, when surely you have the answers already?”

Because ink and paper are only the outermost details,
I thought.
Because Aidrean Ó Deághaidh will learn more about your character from the timbre of your voice, the silences and hesitations, the almost infinitesimal changes in the direction of your gaze, and the tension in your mouth. I know this because I have lived my entire life in Court, reading the character of men and women as Aidrean Ó Deághaidh now reads yours.

Aidrean merely shrugged and asked another question—this one concerning the number of siblings and their names. A dozen more seemingly irrelevant questions followed. From them I learned that Michael Okoye was the second oldest of five children. He had three brothers and one sister, the youngest. From twelve to sixteen, he lived with his father’s relatives in the Nri Republic, where he perfected his knowledge of the Igbo language, as well as learning the family business—a trade consortium his great-grandfather had founded.

Behind Okoye’s answers, I heard the squabbling of brothers and sisters, and affection, too. I saw a large family immersed in duty to an even larger family that extended from Africa to Éire to the Western Continent. I saw a young man with a restless curiosity who was adept at languages and poetry, as well as the far different world of trade.

I also saw a young man with a passion for justice. Such a passion must have led him to join the cause for Anglian liberty, and from there to Peter Godwin’s useless and dangerous faction.

“You attended Awveline University,” Aidrean Ó Deághaidh said. “And graduated with honors, with degrees in economics and philosophy. An interesting mix.”

“A compromise,” Michael said. “My father wished me to be competent in our business, and I wished for an education beyond goods and freight and currencies. As long as I satisfied his demands, he agreed to indulge mine.”

“I can understand,” Aidrean said. “It was for that reason I studied mathematics, and for the same reason I gave over those studies.” He glanced around the cell, as though searching for a few last, almost forgotten clues, then abruptly stood. “Thank you, Mister Okoye.”