A Carpathian Campaign: The Powers Book 1

by Alma Boykin

  As he waited for eight, István read a book of legends and tales he pulled from the well-stocked bedroom shelf. He wished the liquor cabinet were as well provisioned, but apparently the Habsburg-de Este family preferred their guests not to imbibe alone. Despite himself, István managed to get distracted by the book, enough so that when the maid tapped on the door to summon him to breakfast, he jumped and almost dropped the little volume. Scheisse! I can’t let myself get that distracted. He told his racing heart to calm down and followed the young woman to a breakfast room with doors that opened onto the enormous verandah along the back of the lodge. It made the deep porch at Nagymatra look like a narrow sidewalk. A pale figure in black raised a hand and István bowed.

  “I appreciate promptness,” Archduke Rudolph said. “Sit please. This will be a less formal meal than what faces me for the next week or so.”

  István took the chair across from Rudolph, accepted real coffee from the footman, and unfolded a cream-colored napkin with pheasants embroidered on the corners. A basket of hot buns, fresh butter, soft-boiled eggs in porcelain cups, four kinds of sausages, and fresh berries all arrived with silent speed. Rudolph prayed, then picked up knife and fork, gesturing for István to do the same. They ate in silence for several minutes until Rudolph finished his eggs and sausage. He broke open a roll, letting the steam wisp away from the fluffy white interior before adding a touch of butter. “The last fine bread until Christmas, I fear,” he sighed.

  Why? Has Emperor Fran— Josef Karl placed his household on short rations? Or is it doctor’s orders? István recalled some strange recommendations from spa doctors about eating whole grain or that red, sweetish flour to steady the digestion or something. He kept quiet and buttered his own roll, savoring the scent and flavor.

  “His Majesty has declared that as part of the war effort, his own household will share in his peoples’ shortage at least until after harvest is completed,” Rudolph said at last. “A noble act, but hard on those of us who prefer white bread to black.” He smiled a little and finished the second half of his roll before breaking open a second one.

  “I see, Your Grace.”

  “You do, but only in part.” Rudolph buttered the first bite of bread without looking, eyes locked on István’s. “The time has come for you to learn more about the empire, little Eszterházy, more than just managing your woods and fighting the Russians.” Rudolph’s eyes shifted from light brown to slit-pupilled red brown, two shades paler than dried blood. “Because the Empire’s enemies wait, planning to,” he bit hard into the roll. “Devour us.”

  “Russia and Italy, Your Grace?”

  “The Russians, yes, but even more so the Germans, at least those blinded by folly and the Hohenzollerns’ ambitions.” Rudolph sipped his coffee. “Oh, the Italians as well, and I suspect that the French have promised them something—territory likely—for betraying us. Romania makes noises about taking Transylvania. Fortunately we’ve managed to beat the Serbs back into a bit of sense, and that’s keeping the Croats quiet for now. No,” he set his cup down so the footman could refill it. “Germany needs to be watched. Open enemies are one thing, but false friends . . .”

  “Interesting, Your Grace.” István drank his coffee quickly, willing the hot dark liquid to burn the bitter taste out of his mouth and the sourness out of his stomach. Such a good breakfast did not deserve to be ruined by Italian idiocy.

  Luckily he’d already finished eating, so when Rudolph set his napkin down, István did not have to abandon an uneaten repast. “Come with me, young Eszterházy.” The sense of command under Rudolph’s words permitted no refusal. István waited for his host to stand, then followed the archduke out of the breakfast area to an enormous library, reading room, and trophy room combined. István had seen smaller monastic libraries. Rudolph beckoned, and then pointed to two green, leather-covered chairs set up facing the window. A small table sat between them. “Sit while I retrieve something.”

  István sat. He realized that he could see out the window and watch the main door. He relaxed. Archduke Rudolph made clattering and dragging sounds from just out of István’s line of sight, and swore under his breath twice, once in German and once in Old Drakonic. “I am going to have that mechanism repaired or replaced, my uncle’s fondness for antiquities be damned.” A large stack of ribbon-tied papers thumped onto the table at István’s right elbow. Rudolph himself thumped into the chair beside the papers. “The one on top is the most important, for now. Skim it.”

  István did. When he finished, he stared at the typed pages, mouthed a curse, and closed the folder. “A most provincial definition of Burgfried, Your Grace,” he managed to say once his anger faded enough that he could speak.

  “Is it not? King Wilhelm seems determined to rewrite the dictionary as well as remaking the map of central Europe.” Rudolph’s lips tightened. “You begin to see the diplomatic difficulty?”

  “Diplomatic difficulty, Your Grace?” István blinked, almost speechless. The Germans wanted the very land he’d fought for, had seen men die for, had shed his own blood to recapture! “They want to dismember the Empire. Silesia is ours, has been since the 1300s, almost as long as Trieste. And trying to move the entire Ruthenian population out of Galicia, others as well, to replace them with Germans from Russia? Dear holy Lord God, they are as vicious as the Russians. Even I know what the Russians have been doing to the Poles and Jews, Your Grace.”

  “And you wonder why the Power of Galicia hides. Here you see it, young Eszterházy.” Rudolph crooned the words, or rather the Power looking through his eyes did. “And they strip animals, men, plants, equipment—anything they can move out of Poland and Galicia—as they go. They are turning Poland and Galicia, what they have of it, into a wasteland. And the Germans suggest doing the like, driving out the Poles and Ruthenes in order to settle Germans in the land, make them a permanent wall between a Great German Empire and the wounded bear.”

  István could see it in his mind’s eye, and his fingers reached for his St. István medallion. “The Empire cannot hold if the fools try it. Every Croat, Serb, Ruthene, Pole, Magyar, and Skelzy will rise up to prevent the House of Habsburg’s German citizens from doing the same, especially if those foolish Great German fanatics start braying.”

  “And the neutrals, like the Americans, will complain as well. Already there are rumors that the American president with the odd name, Wilson, talks about allowing nations to form their own countries if they so desire.”

  István rolled his eyes. “He has no idea. And he is a hypocrite, unless he intends to allow those Africans and Red Indians to have their own countries as well.”

  Rudolph wagged a finger. “Worse than that. He appears to be an idealist who dreams of saving the world. God help us all.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” István thought about what he’d just read. “Your Grace, I can understand the idea of a defensive space between Germany and Russia. That certainly would improve the Burgfried that the Germans envision. But to chase out people who have lived there since—well, a thousand years at least? I cannot believe that it will be as simple as they suggest.”

  “No, it would not be,” Rudolph’s voice took a deeper tone. “Already House attacks House in the Balkans. The Rumanian-Serbian border is on fire, even though we have received the capitulation of the Serb government. Hohenzollern would see the same on our lands. And yet he blames us for the war, complaining to the Americans and Spanish that it was Austria who forced war upon them.”

  The red mist of fury rose again before István’s eyes and he took a deep, settling breath. Then he took a second, forcing his hands to relax before he tore the leather of the chair arms. “Your Grace, pardon the forwardness, but I need a cigarette.” And who decried being encircled by the French, British, and Russians, yet chided us for worrying about Russia and the Turks in the Balkans? He took another deep breath.

  “You may smoke if you need to.”

  After István lit the little comforter and inhaled, letting the rus
h replace his anger, he ventured, “I presume as part of their, what is the term?” He paged through the report again with his free hand. “Ah, the rationalization of their borders, that is the phrase, Your Grace. As part of that rationalization the Hohenzollerns will expect us to turn over Silesia.”

  “One presumes so.” Rudolph drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair as he stared out the window. “Which cannot be permitted, as you well know. Nor does his Majesty favor the Hohenzollerns establishing a puppet Poland, or claiming all of Russian Poland for their own defense, as their war plan envisions.”

  Although it might be briefly entertaining to watch them deal with the Polish Nationalist Party storming their Parliament. István let himself imagine the scene, then wiped it out of his mind. “No, Your Grace. Especially not in the manner this” he tapped the folder in his lap, “describes.” He pulled a little more on his cigarette, glanced over at the table, and discovered that an ashtray had appeared as if Rudolph had willed it into existence from empty space.

  After several quiet minutes, Rudolph shifted in his seat. He resumed a more human appearance. “You have my permission to make free use of the library for the rest of your visit, Lord István. You will excuse me. My cousin will be sleeping for a few more hours and I intend to take full advantage of my free time.” He stood and walked out of the room, his feet making no sound on the hard floor. The smooth motion, almost a gliding step, brought back the sense of strangeness István had come to associate with Archduke Rudolph. He did not cross himself, but the urge remained.

  Instead István got up and began looking at the shelves. He grinned at the bound copies of automobile magazines and papers. Apparently Rudolph was not such a traditionalist as to prefer horses. That or he’d decided to make motorcars his indulgence. István grinned, imagining Rudolph, a cowering mechanic in the seat beside him, driving goggles on, scattering chickens and slow grandmothers out of the village streets as he raced through the Wienerwald. Rudolph was a man, after all, despite his duties to the House and Powers. The heavily annotated studbooks beside the auto books confirmed István’s suspicions. I wager he’s a neck and knee rider, like the late empress’s sister was. And being a horse and auto aficionado provided cover for a number of activities and travels. István nodded thoughtfully before returning to the chair and the next document on the stack.

  After he finished skimming the reports, István decided to peruse more of the extensive and eclectic book collection. Hmm, this is supposed to be prohibited—listed on the Index, he tutted silently at more than one volume. He had worked his way around two-thirds of the shelves on the lower level when he heard his father’s voice. “Yes, I see him. Thank you.” István replaced a rare book about the rocks of the Carpathians and Matra Mountains. His family owned copies one and two. Rudolph’s library contained copy number three, this one with additional color plates and maps tucked into the back. “I see you were up early,” Janos observed.

  As Janos walked into the room, István glanced back at the stack of papers beside the chair. They had disappeared, a fact both impressive and disconcerting. “Yes, my lord father.” István bowed a little. “I hope you rested well.” His father looked much better than he had the night before.

  “I did. A servant told me that His Grace met with you this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. I had breakfast with His Grace and he informed me of some foreign policy matters he felt I should know about because they have the potential to affect our House. He then gave me permission to make use of the library.”

  Janos’s eyebrows rose. “That is a signal compliment, István. Perhaps in the future,” he gestured with one hand. “But we need to depart for Budapest this afternoon. The protocols for the Viennese coronation have been announced, as well as for the ceremonies at Veszprém. I am needed at the palace in Buda, to assist in preparing the regalia to go to the cathedral ahead of the ceremony. His Majesty will bring the crown with him.”

  “Of course. I will go finish packing, if the staff have not already seen to it.” István suspected that they had, once they knew who needed to depart.

  “Do that. I will meet you in the entrance hall in a quarter hour.”

  István found his bags packed and waiting, along with a package of food and a wrapped parcel for Barbara and little Mátyás. He reached the hall before Janos did and paused to admire an enormous wapiti head mounted facing the door to the public reception room. Franz Ferdinand’s father had shot the beast in the United States in 1893, according to the little brass plaque under the mount. Janos walked up and stood beside István. “Could we introduce wapiti to the Matra, Pater?”

  Janos tipped his head a little to the side as he considered the mount and the idea. “I do not know. Despite His late Highness’s less-than-subtle hints, I have never tasked your brother with studying what wapiti and North American deer need, or if they would do well in the Matra.” A servant coughed behind them, and the two men followed him out to a rather nice motorcar, one István recognized from the catalogues. Janos blinked. “My. This is . . . different.”

  “It is a high honor, I believe, my lord father,” István said.

  Even on the rutted dirt road, it took less than ten minutes to reach the train station. Another twenty minutes passed and István and Janos were on their way east, starting the first portion of their trip.

  Black ribbons hung from every possible place inside the train, and István saw many black banners and other signs of public grief in the towns that they passed. Were the people mourning his late majesty or mourning the certainty he had stood for, István wondered—well behind his shields. Possibly both, he decided. After all, Franz Josef had been the only monarch most people in the empire had ever known, coming to the throne in 1847. He’d been the one stable thing in Europe for decades, sober and measured, a check on the behavior of the German princes and Magyar lords, as well as balancing the Hohenzollerns and Romanovs. Josef Karl faced a daunting challenge just trying to live up to Franz Josef’s reputation, let alone guiding the Empire through the war. God grant him strength and wisdom, István prayed.

  At least Josef Karl faced no succession questions. He and his wife, Sofia Marie Odile Hildegard von Tarn und Würtenburg had four children already, two boys and two girls. And as devout as the couple were reputed to be, well, more would likely come into the world, if the Lord permitted. István ducked a little as he recalled his own wife’s condition. After this little one comes, I will be much, much more careful.

  Despite the usual hubbub of the Westbahnhof, and the traffic-slowed transfer to the Südbahnhof, father and son arrived with an hour to spare. Janos purchased a newspaper and led the way to the First Class waiting area. István stopped by a toy vendor and considered a floppy rabbit in an army uniform, then decided against it. His son would be seeing uniforms soon enough, and he had no idea what sort of toy might be in the parcel from Rudolph. As a result, Janos had read well into the paper before István arrived. “Good news,” Janos said.

  Mindful of listeners, István guessed. “Oh? Italy has fallen into the sea?”

  Janos frowned, but only a little. “No. Not only have the Serbs surrendered, but the Russians have fled east from Warsaw. It seems likely they will have returned to the 1700 borders before St. Martin’s feast.”

  “That is good news indeed.” A round-faced man seemed overly interested in their conversation so István added, “God grant that the Russians see reason and sue for peace.” And that the Germans see reason as well, he added inside his own head.

  “From your lips to the Lord,” Janos averred, and several men and women crossed themselves.

  The train stopped briefly in Pressberg to allow a west-bound troop train to pass. István took advantage of the stop to walk a little through the carriage, trying to ease his back. The bouncing must have caused a problem, or perhaps something with the seat, or his nerves. His leg hurt as well, but not terribly. As he paced, István wondered what the fighting was like in the southern square, the set of fortresses and
fortified cities that guarded the approaches to the Alpine passes from Italy. He also wondered what would happen if he lit a cigarette, but decided not to try after getting more suspicious looks from women and men on board the train. Janos must have noticed as well, because he inquired in a voice that could be heard through the length of the first-class car, “Is there any prospect of your returning to the regiment?”

  “No, my lord father. I cannot ride or even sit for long periods, and the military doctors said that I will likely lose use of my right leg before too long, paralysis.” István sat again, carefully, trying not to drop into the seat.

  His father sighed. “Too bad. I fear that with his majesty’s passing our enemies will try something foolish, and we need all able men at the front.” Janos sounded disappointed, perhaps just a hint disgusted as well, as if his son’s disability irritated him. István glanced around under cover of picking up the copy of the Budapest paper that his father had purchased, and saw the other people in the train had stopped scowling in his direction.

  He wanted to be angry. In fact, he was angry, but not at the people and their assumptions. No, he wanted to rip out the throat of the Russian artillerymen who had causes the first injury—and Gregor Tisza’s throat as well. He used the messenger to get me out of his way, so he could continue lining his pockets, even if it hurt the war effort. I know it. István glared down at the paper until his temper settled down. His father gave him a little smile, then frowned a touch and ran a finger under his starched collar, before shifting in his seat so that he could lean back a little, as if easing his own stiffness.

  The late afternoon shadows had begun stretching to the east by the time they disembarked in Budapest. Janos had sent a telegram ahead and Jenö, one of the stable servants, waited with a pony-trap. “Your pardon, my lords, but her ladyship and Lady Barbara, and Ladies Catherine and Sofia von Raab, took the carriage and are doing charity work.”