Free The Time Roads by Beth Bernobich Page B

higher toward the sky’s limit.
    *   *   *
    In spite of his best efforts, Síomón could not find a cab until he had jogged halfway back to the center of Awveline’s Old City. He arrived at the mathematics quadrant just moments before the clock tower struck three o’clock. Síomón galloped up the steps and into the building for mathematical studies, then around the stairs to the back of the lecture hall. A quick survey of the room showed him that Professor Ó Dónaill had not yet made his appearance. Even better, Evan and Susanna had saved him a seat a few rows down from where he stood. He sidled along the row and sank into the chair between them.
    “Late,” Evan whispered.
    “Within reasonable deviation,” Síomón replied.
    “Certain combinations do prove to be predictable,” Susanna murmured.
    Síomón managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. They had first met in the library, in a furious argument over a rare volume of mathematical theory. The argument had led to a debate, which led in turn to a lasting friendship. Susanna, dark and neat and practical, came from a wealthy family who had immigrated to Éire from Gujarat several generations ago. Evan was the son of a north county family that traced its antecedents back to the first Anglian Wars. He was tall and fair and angular, with looks so much like Síomón’s that many mistook them for brothers.
    “How was Gwen?” Evan asked.
    Síomón had to draw a breath before he could answer calmly. “The same as always.”
    Susanna laid a hand on his arm, lightly. Evan glanced around, then leaned close to Síomón. “An officer, from the Garda I believe, came by the library this morning. A man named Ó Deághaidh. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right.”
    Síomón made a show of arranging his pens and books. “He’s with the Garda, Evan. Of course you did right.”
    He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Ó Deághaidh’s orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite. Did you hear the news? Maeve died last night. They say she was murdered by a lunatic.
    To his great relief, a door swung open at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Ó Dónaill, the senior lecturer in the graduate department for mathematics, stalked to his podium, his white hair floating behind him in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blácach, a third-year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Síomón. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.
    “I’m sure someone robbed the city of all its cabs,” he muttered.
    Síomón shrugged, conscious of Evan’s sidelong glance and how Susanna had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blácach ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Síomón often wondered how he could afford to stay at university.
    Now Blácach leaned over his desk, between Evan and Síomón. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomorrow. Will that do?”
    His breath smelled sour, as though he’d been drinking already. Susanna shifted uncomfortably. Evan bent over his books, clearly unwilling to acknowledge Blácach. Reluctantly, Síomón glanced over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.
    Blácach smirked. “Oh, how very chaste we are today. I thought you two might not dare—”
    He broke off, and Síomón was abruptly aware of a thick silence in the lecture hall, and Professor Ó Dónaill gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” Ó Dónaill said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madóc, Mr. Blácach.”
    Síomón pretended an overwhelming interest in his pens and papers. Blácach muttered something unintelligible, but