A Carpathian Campaign: The Powers Book 1

by Alma Boykin

  Major Tisza stood, back to the door, leafing through the papers from István’s outgoing documents box. István dropped his shields and tried to get a sense of Tisza. He couldn’t—either Tisza had natural shields or he wasn’t projecting anything. Interesting. Why are you going through my correspondence and approvals, hmmm? He left his shields down and cleared his throat.

  Tisza jumped. István smiled as the bland man dropped the papers and spun, almost falling over. “Sir! Your, pardon, you surprised me.” He recovered quickly.

  “So I see, Major. What are you looking for?” And why?

  “The 2nd Battalion’s shell reserves report, sir. For Major Andrade, so he can confirm the resupply schedule with the railroad men.” Tisza raised his eyebrows a centimeter. “He asked me to look and see if you had already sent it on.”

  With his shields down, István could feel Tisza pushing him. It seemed that Tisza was harmless, after all, and just trying to help a fellow soldier for the good of the army. For a tenth of a second István started to push back, to reach into Tisza’s mind and pull the man’s real motive out. Then he caught himself. He had no good cause, no justification—at least not yet. “I did,” István lied. The report lay in a folder under all the other papers.

  Tisza’s eyes narrowed an eyelash width and he tried to push István again, saying, “Ah, I see, sir. Do you happen to recall what the number was, sir?” The pressure tried to redirect István away from . . . from what?

  “No, I do not. If that is all you wanted, you may leave.” He raised his shields hard and high. I’m not giving you the chance to poke around in my thoughts.

  “Thank you . . . sir.” The faint disrespect returned to Tisza’s manner, and he nodded a sort of bow and then brushed past István in the doorway.

  Once the man had left the building, István studied the papers now scattered over the desk. Tisza had been going through the fodder and animal information, and the 33rd Battalion’s personnel notes. István’s teeth clenched as he saw the lists. Tisza had no grounds to be looking at the staff listing, and the page had been in a folder well away from the other documents. István straightened everything back up and dropped into the chair. I do not like this at all. He’s up to something, and is misusing a Gift. But who can I tell?

  No one—he could tell no one, because no one would believe him, at least no one in his current chain of command. Hausmann didn’t care for Tisza, but thought he was valuable and good for the fiddly detail work that the colonel preferred to ignore. The other majors and captains liked Tisza for always being willing to help and for his jokes (and his store of tobacco, alcohol, and other things). István had many suspicions, but no hard proof that Tisza had done anything wrong, besides snooping where he should not have been, and even then he had an excuse. And István knew very well that Col. Hausmann would never believe anyone who approached him with a claim that sounded like a peasant’s tale of witchcraft. István added the incident to a mental list he kept of matters to be monitored, then returned to the task at hand.

  A week later, on Friday March 28, everything went wrong. István had gone out riding. His back and right leg bothered him, but not enough to make him turn back. The fighting around Lemberg seemed to be reaching a crescendo, and he looked forward to hearing news of the recapture. And the rain had eased up, a few spring flowers and green leaves had appeared, and perhaps, just perhaps, he might be transferred back to the cavalry soon, if all went well. No one had said “no” yet. He rode back into the battalion headquarters area and prepared to dismount.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Eszterházy!” As István swung his leg over the horse’s back, a soldier ran up to the horse, waving something. The mare spooked, kicking out and rearing. István lost his balance and tried to kick free of the remaining stirrup, to get away from the hoofs. He landed hard on his back and managed to roll clear, but something felt very wrong. His right leg did not want to obey him. Oh Lord no.

  Two grooms caught the horse, while the stable sergeant gave the corporal a tongue-lashing. “What were you thinking, rushing up to the colonel like that? Damn it, man, anyone with an ounce of brain knows better.”

  His leg refused to support him. With effort István crawled and dragged himself to an open stable doorway. He used the framing to haul himself to his feet. István tried to move his right leg, and it swung a little, but the pain left him breathless and wanting to scream.

  “Major Tisza said it was urgent, that Colonel Hausmann needed Lt. Col. Eszterházy’s signature on these immediately and for me to catch him before he left,” the corporal protested.

  István managed two steps before everything failed and he collapsed again. The world went gray and he tasted blood, biting his lip to keep from screaming from the pain. He wanted to throw up, and he tried to concentrate on breathing. The smells of hay, muck, and horses helped. “What’s wrong, sir?” a stableman asked.

  “Back, leg, landed wrong, may have been stepped on.”

  Men helped him get to his quarters, where his servant stripped him to his shorts and he lay down. His back muscles tightened, and pain like lightning spiked down his leg, then eased.

  Two days passed before he could walk again. “Your records show a back injury from the shell, Colonel,” the battalion surgeon said. “You fell just the right way to re-injure it, probably broke off a bit of bone, or had one shift, so it is pressing your sciatic nerve, like so.” He pressed a spot on István’s low back. Only that little warning kept István from yelping from the pain. “You must not jar your back again, sir. Or you could well be paralyzed on that side.”

  István spent Holy Week in abject misery, physical and mental. This setback he could not blame on his father. Nor did he blame the corporal, not entirely. When questioned, Major Tisza swore that he’d told the corporal to have István sign the papers after he returned to the office, not to headquarters. And István believed him—to a certain point. Yes, you said that. But I wager that you leaned on him to catch me before I left, even though you knew I’d gone out an hour before. Again, no proof would—or even conceivably could—be found, but István harbored no doubts as to who bore responsibility for the so-called accident.

  Felix Starhemberg appeared on Karfreitag, the Friday before Easter. He looked as if he were walking under a personal storm cloud. “Felix! What’s wrong?”

  Starhemberg shook his head and István caught the hint. “Oh, just on my way back to Marburg so I thought I’d stop and overnight here, since nothing will move before tomorrow. I’ve already been to mass.”

  István had as well, so they retreated to what had been the village’s inn, now a place for visiting officers to spend the night. “We’re paying the going rate,” István assured Felix as they walked through the common room. “But there’s a limit to how many people can stay in the stables before the horses complain.”

  Because of the fast day and the shortages of supplies, the supper offered by the sturdy woman running the kitchen was a meager meal of beans, flat bread-like stuff made with maize, and canned carp. But it was hot and edible, which seemed to be what Felix wanted. “So, how are you?” Felix asked when he finished.

  “Oh, a little worse for wear. Fell off a horse, with a little help from a fool, otherwise fine. You?”

  “I’m on my way home.” Felix undid two buttons on his coat and reached into it, removing a black-bordered card. István’s heart plunged as he read the announcement. When he looked up, happy Felix seemed older than the hills, his eyes bleak. “I’m Heir now.” Something lurked below the words.

  After the meal, such as it was, the two men went out into the tiny garden behind the officers’ quarters to smoke. Felix dragged hard on his pipe and blew a long plume of smoke, followed by two rings. “Uncle Adalbert says Ludwig had an accident while cleaning guns.”

  Shit, what do I say? The red tip of István’s cigarette looked too much like the fires of hell just then. “Damn. I’m sorry. What can I do?”

  “Kiss your wife and shoot some Russians for me. Aun
t Teresa says Uncle Adalbert’s dying. Which at his age is not exactly an unusual thing, but his timing is a touch inconvenient.”

  “Just a touch.” They sent more tobacco smoke to the heavens. “Will you take his seat in parliament?”

  Felix swore in German, Czech, and Croatian. “I’d rather march through the Russian army wearing a German uniform and carrying a sign saying that the tsarina’s a Jewess.” He looked at István, tears falling unheeded. “Ludwig was the political one, not me. He and Catherine were supposed to have a dozen children. He actually enjoyed arguing politics and finances, the bastard. How could he do this to me?” Felix leaned forward, elbows on knees, and covered his face with his hands.

  István draped his arm over Felix’s shoulders. That seemed to be enough. “If he weren’t dead I’d kill him, brother or not,” Felix whispered at last.

  “I’d help. Do you want me to come for the ceremony, whenever it is?”

  “Yes, if you can. Please God may Uncle Adalbert hold on until the war’s over.”

  “From your lips to His ear.” They crossed themselves.

  Felix Starhemberg’s words haunted István. Easter, supposedly a joyful feast, passed under the shadow of Ludwig Starhemberg’s suicide. Of course, no one else knew about it, and István kept Felix’s words to himself. The pain in his body and in his heart wore him down. When a letter from his father arrived two weeks later, along with the death notice of the passing of Duke Leopold von Dietrichstein and orders from Vienna for him to go on three weeks leave for “matters of government,” he looked at the pages with more relief than anger.

  “What sort of government business, Eszterházy?” Col. Hausmann gave him a suspicious look.

  “I have no idea, sir.” Which was true.

  “There is a rumor that Count Janos Eszterházy will be named to the Hofkriegsrat this spring.”

  Pigs will fly over Jerusalem before that happens, I believe. “I have not heard, sir. My father and I are not on good terms at the moment.” Which was also true, as far as István knew.

  “Very well. Go, and perhaps your . . . back problem . . . will improve with leave.” Hausmann gave him another measuring look, one eyebrow slightly raised, thin lips pursed slightly as he regarded István out of the side of his eyes.

  What’s that about, sir? No, I can guess. You believe I’m malingering, or someone else does. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Dismissed. And Godspeed.”

  The train ride back to Kassa passed in a blur of pain and frustration. Damn, but he wanted to get back to the regiment and fight! Instead he had to witness a House accession. And if anything happened to his back, would he be able to—if he really was paralyzed? Had the surgeon meant just the leg with the nerve in it, or from the waist down? Because if the latter, well, ah, István really did not want to think about that possibility too much.

  To his surprise his father met him at the Kassa station and rode with him to the townhouse. “Barbara and Mátyás are in Budapest, after celebrating Easter with your mother and I. And Judit may be getting engaged, but do not say a word about it to her. She seems to think that you and I might disapprove.”

  “Why? Does she fancy a university professor or some other strange creature?”

  Janos chuckled. “No, thanks be to the Lord. And no writers, either; the last thing we need is an author in the family.”

  Mistress Nagy met them at the townhouse. “I wish to see how you are faring, Lord István, and if you have had a relapse.”

  Janos excused himself, and István told the Healer the truth. “No, ma’am, I have not had any relapses. I did fall off a horse and injure my back a month ago. The surgeon says that a bit of bone is resting on a nerve and causing a little pain.”

  Her black eyes bored into him. “A little pain, Lord István.”

  He squirmed. “A great deal. Enough so that I have difficulty walking and cannot ride.”

  “Stand, please, and remove your coat.” She walked around so that she stood behind him and watched him move. “Bend at the waist please.” That he managed, but straightening up hurt. “To the right.” He complied. “To the left.” That proved almost impossible and his muscles clenched, the right leg started to give, and he whimpered despite himself.

  A hand touched his back and heat spread, easing the tension and allowing him to stand upright. “The surgeon was not incorrect entirely, young my lord. Your bones shifted out of alignment, pinching the nerve, because of muscles weakened by your earlier injury.” He heard a touch of humor in her voice as she added, “With some help from the horse.”

  The hand lifted and took the pain with it. His leg felt normal and he turned a little left and right, then twisted a bit farther. He turned around and bowed to Mistress Nagy, now seated and leaning back against a chair, eyes half closed with fatigue. He poured her a drink from a coffee set that had appeared on the table. “Thank you, Lord István,” she said after taking a sip.

  “May I ride again, ma’am?”

  “Yes, but once that has been injured, it is forever fragile. I would not ride the jumps, my lord, and try to avoid falling off again in the future.”

  “Unless I land on my head? I will do my best to heed your advice, ma’am.”

  He and Janos ate a light supper before catching a night train south, then north and west to Lower Austria. “What happened to his Grace?” István inquired once they were underway.

  Janos answered from behind a newspaper. “Age. He was twenty years older than his wife, as you will recall, and had been ill for a year at least. It was not unexpected.” His tone suggested that his son should have been aware of this information.

  István wanted to growl, then stopped. What was the point? “Thank you. Preparing for the spring offensive has devoured all my time and attention.”

  “As it should, at least for the moment.”

  Just before eleven the next morning a carriage met them and three guests from House Tarn at the station near Schönbach. “My lords and ladies, staff will show you to your rooms,” the coachman said after he loaded their bags. “A reception has been arranged for this afternoon.”

  Two hours later István bowed to Duchess Louisa von Dietrichstein. She presented her hand and he kissed it. “Please allow me to offer my sincere condolences on the death of your husband.”

  “Thank you, Col. Eszterházy,” she said. He had to strain to hear her murmured words.

  Janos coughed a little and István bowed again, then stepped out of the way of the next person in line. With some reluctance he followed his father through the high-ceilinged, white-walled foyer and into a crowded, overly warm room hung with ancestral portraits and festooned with elaborate plasterwork and black ribbons. The material looked ready to shatter at a touch, and István wondered how many deaths the meters of material had been used for. A goodly number, he seemed to recall, since Herzogin Louisa had lost several children to a typhoid outbreak in Linz, as well as the late duke’s brother dying in a hunting accident, a real one, when his horse stumbled and he fell, breaking his neck.

  “Greetings, Your Grace,” Janos said, bowing to a grey-and-brown True-dragon. Konrad von Dietrichstein wore black mourning bands tied around his forelegs and a black ribbon tie around his throat.

  «Greetings, Count Eszterházy. It is good to see you again, even under such sorrowful circumstances.» Konrad gestured with one taloned forefoot to István, who bowed. «Your son?»

  “Yes, Your Grace. István, His Grace Duke Konrad Martin Heinrich von Dietrichstein, Head-presumptive of House Dietrichstien-Ost. Your Grace, my son and Heir Lieutenant Colonel István Eszterházy, father of Mátyás Imre.”

  Konrad extended his right forefoot and István shook it. He felt no hint of hesitation or concern, no tremor in the cool, scaly forefoot.

  «I am sorry we meet at such a time as this, Colonel. I have heard excellent things about you, and I congratulate you on your son.»

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I, too, am sorry we did not meet sooner.”

  Konra
d turned his head a little, as if looking beyond István. István stepped aside once more, this time not following Janos but instead wending his way between guests and furnishings to stand beside an open window. The air felt fresher, if not cooler, and he had a better view of people coming and going. István made his shoulders relax and tried to recall what he was supposed to see and do.

  The last accession testing he had attended had been . . . how long? At least ten years before, probably longer, because he remembered peering between elbows and around swords. He had been permitted to attend only because the heir to the House had already been tested, after the Head suffered an attack of apoplexy. As a result, the formal public ceremony had been deemed suitable for all Heads and Heirs who had reached the age of reason. István recalled incense, candles, a long speech, questions and answers in Latin and Hungarian, and being itchy and bored. He was itchy all over again.

  A tail whapped him on the back, startling István out of his memories. A lean and undersized True-dragon, with a pair of glasses perched on his muzzle, flashed a toothy grin, revealing two gold teeth among the ivory-colored fangs. «Woolgathering, cousin?»

  “Remembering the last accession I attended,” István said, recovering his composure. “And how is House Rozemberk’s most irritating Guardian this fine day?”

  Wetzel poked him with the tip of his blush-peach tail. «A little respect, Colonel. I earned that title from then Crown Prince Franz Josef, as you may well recall. And fine, aside from the sorrow of this occasion.»