An hour later, as he finished replying to another letter from Prince Potoki and wincing over the bills from the house in Buda, István heard someone clearing their throat. He looked up to find Hans in the doorway.
“Yes?”
«Margrave Rudolph has gone out alone. Should one of us follow?»
“No. He’s going to the shrine.”
«Very good, my lord. And it feels like rain is coming later today.»
“Already?” He got up and followed Hans onto the verandah. The shadows had disappeared along with the sun, and a hint of southwest wind stirred the leaves. “Are Their Graces back?”
«They are less than a kilometer away, with two more deer. Her Grace is rather good with a gun, my lord, if I might be so bold.»
“She is.”
Rudolph returned just as the rain began, a steady, quiet shower that would last for several hours at least. The royal couple retired to their chamber after lunch, requesting a late dinner. István finished his work and decided to smoke on the verandah and watch the rain.
He sensed, rather than heard, steps coming around the corner. Rudolph seemed disappointed when he didn’t jump or startle.
“I grew up here, my lord. My brother and I slipped out that window on multiple occasions, and got our hides tanned by my honored father—or Hans, or Agmánd—on almost as many occasions.” He offered Rudolph the lighter, which the leaner man accepted to light his own cigarette.
“Thank you.”
They watched the rain in silence for a time.
“I envy you, you know,” Rudolph observed after several minutes.
How do I reply to that? Or do I? After another minute or so István ventured to try.
“Because of Nagymatra?”
“Not exactly, although I would pay a very nice sum to anyone who could bottle the quiet and bring it back to Vienna. No, I envy you Imre and Erzsébet, and having known a woman who loved you.”
Rudolph pulled on his cigarette, then tapped the ash over the side of the railing into a puddle. István considered the archduke’s words as he watched the rainwater trickle off the corner of the verandah roof onto the bottom step. He had no idea what to say. Rudolph didn’t seem to want a reply, because he finished his smoke, tore the last bit apart, and tossed the scrap into a puddle.
“So do we go fishing this afternoon?”
István shook his head.
“Not unless you wish to stand up to your knees in very cold water while hoping for a miracle, my lord. The trout are smarter than—”
The House slammed into his mind, and István grabbed the post beside him, holding on as the world shifted to the green and silver of House and Power.
«My lord, we found a body» came the sending, along with the image and scent of a decayed corpse. «He has no identification papers beyond» the heading on a business document appeared as seen through another’s eyes. István’s stomach churned and not because of the stench of decay.
“What’s wrong?” he heard Rudolph demanding.
“Foresters found a dead man. Very dead. From Tisza Industries.”
«Do not touch anything. Have you sent word to the police prefect?»
«Not yet, my lord. We’ll cover the body but nothing else. Attila went for the priest.» Bethlem sounded apologetic.
«That’s fine, but do not move the body until the police give permission.»
The sending stopped, and the House returned István to his body, so to speak. He found himself sitting on the verandah floor, looking at Rudolph’s pant leg, Erzsébet clinging to his arm.
“Shh, I’m fine,” he assured her, pulling her close and burying his nose in her hair, smelling the dusty rose and talcum powder of her curls.
“That was a little rude,” Rudolph observed, offering his hand.
István let go of Erzsébet long enough to take the hand, and Rudolph heaved him to his feet.
“We border lords are not known for our manners.”
A snort met his words. “Not you, Eszterházy, your House. Dumping you on your rump without a care for the dignity of the Headship.”
“What’s dignity of Headship?” Erzsébet asked, eyebrows pulled into a V over her nose.
“You’ll understand when you are older, dear,” István said.
The look Rudolph gave him implied that she wouldn’t learn it from István. He managed not to stick his tongue out in reply. Then he remembered the papers, and his blood went cold.
Two weeks later, as he prepared to go to Budapest, István finished a letter to Archduke Rudolph.
“I have made arrangements to continue on to Vienna, Your Grace, then return for the final parliamentary session. As regards the discovery that was made during your Grace’s visit, it has been confirmed that the deceased was one Martin Unger, a timber buyer employed by Tisza Timberworks. Unfortunately, it is impossible to determine the cause of the man’s death because of the state in which the body was found.”
Scorch-like marks on the decedent’s shoes had led the coroner to list the cause of death as a possible lightning strike, and there had been storms two weeks and three weeks prior to the discovery, but other explanations remained possible. What István wanted to know was what a Tisza employee had been doing on House lands.
István did not hate Col. Georg Tisza, but he could not trust him and assumed the worst. He didn’t mention that to Rudolph, however, because the matter warranted no mention beyond the fact that Rudolph had been present, so-to-speak, when the discovery had been made. In fact, István would have been happier if Tisza remained a strictly personal concern. The House, Houses, and countries had more than enough trouble to worry them. A single crooked, manipulative, greedy bastard was less than a speck compared to the comparative boulder that was the destruction of the mark, koruna, and crown by Paris and the Allies.
Railway tickets for István, his daughter, and four servants had cost two thousand koruna. He could scarcely believe it, but he’d had no choice but to pay. The bankers, driven by Paris’s demands for German reparations, had done something to the paper money, driving up the value of British, French and American currency against that of the former Allied powers. István hadn’t followed it all, but he knew that paper had no value compared to gold or wheat, not any more. Money that sat in the bank lost value daily, aside from a very few very special accounts in banks outside of Germany, Austria, and Hungary. And what pretense of value the bills did have changed weekly, or even daily, according to the word from Eger and Budapest and beyond. People were turning to barter, if they had goods to exchange. Even the Czech and Polish banks faced problems as the Germans scrambled to exchange marks for zloty and Czech crowns, driving those values up and cutting into exports.
István sealed the letter and added it to the pile to be mailed. That alone would cost over a hundred koruna. If the House had not held the timber lands and some farms, they’d have been in dire need. It would be the Mongols and the Thirty Years War combined, he thought, except from the west instead of the east and north. And we are in excellent shape compared to Germany, and better than Austria. He closed the last account book and set it on top of the others. Catherine would pack them into boxes for him to take to Budapest.
He’d promised to take Erzsébet out for a walk, so he changed jacket and shoes. His daughter was waiting by the time he finished, dressed in her snug little wool coat and hat, with red mittens knitted by Aunt Claudia. He offered her his hand, and she curtsied and took it, jumping down the steps from the verandah.
“But ladies do not do that, do they?” she asked, suddenly very serious.
“Not in front of guests or strangers. And not in good clothes, or in town.”
“Yes, Pater.”
They walked into the woods. The hunters were working away from the lodge, and he’d told Hans and Wetzel the route he planned on, so they could stay well clear. Even so he remained alert, and in light contact with the House, just in case. Erzsébet bounced along, quiet for once, content to hold his hand and look around.
They stopped at a blackberry tangle, and at his nod she tucked her mittens into her pockets and ate several handfuls of the ripe fruit. He used his hiking stick to keep the worst brambles away from her, but she managed to scratch her hands even so. They found a stream and she squeaked at the chill as she rinsed her hands, then shook them dry, before pulling her mittens on again.
“I envy you Imre and Erzsébet,” he heard in his memory. István wondered if his father, Janos, had ever taken Judit for walks as a child, just the two of them. No, probably not. Janos belonged to a very different time and station, for all that it had only been twenty years ago. I wonder if this is how Great-Grandfather felt, during the time between Napoleon and the Prussian defeat? Trains, the bridge linking Pest and Buda, revolutions, the end of the Ottomans, war every fifty years—did everything seem to be changing as he watched, I wonder? He was glad in a way that his parents could not see Hungary and Austria today.
“I see a white sparkle ahead,” Erzsébet announced.
“Oh?” He peered at the dirt but couldn’t see anything.
She frowned, looking very serious. “I think . . . I think its Andrej.”
István reached through the House and found the kitchen assistant, collecting wood from one of the caches where it had been drying. He raised his shields, then spoke to Erzsébet.
“Dear, raise your shields. Even with me you need to be careful.”
She gave a little sigh, but she did as she was told. “But it’s prettier with my shields down, all green and silver—like night but with the sun up.”
István crouched beside her, pulled her into his arms, and held her as tight as he dared. No, dear Lord, Blessed Lady, no. She’s too young! Please, may she not be the next Guardian. Holy One, please may this cup pass from us, please I beg you.
“What’s wrong, Pater?”
He swallowed hard. “Little one, you must never, ever tell anyone else about what you see unless I give you permission. And you need to shield. There are things in the woods that can smell it if you are not shielded—mean things with sharp teeth.”
“Like the wolf in Red Riding Hood?”
“Very like that, love, very like.”
Despair, that’s what the train smelled like, and the station, and all of Budapest. Haggard faces, people looking down at the ground, perhaps searching for something to sell or, God forbid, food. Coats ragged and shoes with holes. István knew that pride was the only thing stopping the older men and women from asking for help. As he led Erzsébet and Magda through the crowd on the train station platform, he heard a woman weeping quietly. He looked over into a corner and saw an elderly woman burying her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry, mother, but there’s nothing left. They raised prices again last hour, and we can’t afford a ticket. You’ll have to stay.”
“But I need to go home,” the woman moaned. “I have nothing left to sell for food.”
István tugged his daughter, urging her to move faster. Jirina caught his move and hurried forward, shielding Erzsébet from seeing one of the war-crippled men begging near the station’s main doors. István nodded his approval: he didn’t want his little innocent seeing or hearing the troubles around them. Please, may there not be a demonstration or riot, he begged as he lifted her into the waiting carriage. He certainly would not be buying a motorcar this year, not when his people might face hunger despite a good harvest.
He didn’t relax until they crossed the bridge into Buda, and even then he remained wary. Only when the heavy wooden doors of the town palace’s courtyard shut behind them could István let his guard drop. The carriage door opened, and Ivan Denisevich reached in, extending a paw-like hand that enveloped Erzsébet’s mitten. She giggled as she climbed down, and then István followed. Once Magda and Jirina had led Erzsébet through the main door, he turned to Ivan.
“Any difficulties?”
“No, my lord.” Ivan reminded István of a blond tree, or a block of stone. “Mr. Dobroslav sends his respects, but he went with Miss Zora to get the last of the shopping.”
“Very good.”
“My lord, if you go out on foot, Mr. Dobroslav wants to go with—either him or me. The Reds and Whites are causing trouble.” Ivan’s voice dropped to a growl. “The Reds are marching around calling for revolution, my lord. Be very careful.”
Just what I need, to be caught in the street between the nationalists and the Communists, István thought, sighing inwardly.
“Thank you, Ivan. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Well, he always went armed now—had since the assassination attempt on Josef Karl and his family three years before.
István walked up the stone steps and through the main door of the town palace, as always avoiding the place on the top step beside the rail. Ferenk opened the door for him, and Marie Denisevich curtsied before taking his coat and hat. István walked over and looked into the parlor, nodding.
“Ah, good.”
He’d had some of the furniture saved from Kassa moved to Budapest, and the staff had redone the parlor. The flowing curves of the elegant tables and chairs, and the pale, sturdy bookshelves and painted piano no doubt looked out-of-date, but he preferred the quiet colors. The old striped wallpaper had been removed and replaced with a tasteful green fabric with a hint of a shine in the finish, and cream-and-blue curtains covered the windows. It no longer reminded him of his father’s death or his mother’s collapse.
Did every generation feel the same urge to remake and redo? Probably, he decided, closing the door partway. It served to mark territory and to reinforce their claim to a particular time and place. He had a dim memory of his grandmother ordering the staff to move furniture and remove curtains after his great-grandmother’s passing. And then it all goes into an attic and we discover a century later that we own antiques that Americans will pay foolish sums of money for. Or perhaps not, now that sleek metal seemed to be the rage instead of heavy wooden furnishings. Barbara had never cared for the Historicist style, thanks be, so he wasn’t surrounded by faux medieval things. Although a suit of armor might be entertaining, propped up in a corner . . . he shook his head. For that he’d need a castle to go with it, and he doubted his cousins would loan him one of theirs.
Except it no longer belonged to them, as he discovered a few minutes later. A large packet bearing the seal of the Czech Ministry of Finance sat on his desk. István stared at it, wondering if he should open it now or wait. Now, and get it over with, since nothing from the Ministry of Finance—any Ministry of Finance, anywhere—comes with good news. He cut the top of the envelope, pulled out the papers, sat, and began skimming through them.
By the time he finished, a faint red mist covered his vision and he wanted to kill something. He sat back and covered his face with his hands. Dear God, thank you for making me paranoid and making Cousin Imre such an ass. Because otherwise he’d never have asked for the House to vote on concealing their property, in which case he’d be facing the same disaster now that his cousins and other nobles did. Damn it, why did his Majesty allow . . . István took a deep breath and made himself remember. His Majesty was now a constitutional monarch and head of the Commonwealth, not the emperor. If a parliament chose to override him, it could.
All land holdings valued at over a million Czech crowns were subject to confiscation, and no individual could hold more than five hundred hectares of farmland or two thousand hectares of forest. And even then, families had to prove their Czech pedigree or face worse confiscations. So the Eszterházies had lost some properties, including a very nice hunting castle in the new Czechoslovakia. And then there were new property taxes as well. Damn the Socialists.
Between 1918 and 1920 the Socialists had tried to ruin Austria—and Hungary as well, István recalled with a snarl—except that the moderates and Royalists had returned to power after the failed assassination attempt. Even so, it had taken considerable work to undo the mess the Socialists had begun to create. They’d complained about all the Hofrats before the war, and th
en they’d turned around and used government money to pay twice as many of them to run a country a quarter the size of the Empire! István shook his head again. And look what they’d done to Germany.
It’s a lovely idea, everyone being completely equal in all things, he fumed. But everyone is not equal, and never will be, and trying to force the smarter and stronger to yield to the weak and stupid never ends well. And power fosters corruption, especially in people who are tasting it for the first time. And then there’s the Soviet Union’s version of Socialism. No, thank you!
He let his thoughts run as he calmed down. The new laws were all the more reason to keep the House as it was. He’d rather deal with the headache of business on two sides of an international border than with trying to explain to the ghosts of his ancestors why he’d failed to keep the family property intact. I wonder how Felix is doing? House Starhemberg had split, and many of the pure humans and some HalfDragons had opted to leave and go their own ways in the new province of Kroat-Slovenia. István thought they were crazy—they had Italians on one side of them and the Serbs on the other. Well, the French had decided that they disliked the Italians almost as much as they loathed the Austrians, a cold consolation if any. István shook his head, finished reading over the bad news, and made some private notes he’d use the next time the House’s senior membership met.
Speaking of meetings . . . István leaned over and pulled a folder out of a desk drawer. It contained his letters and things from Prince Potoki, as well as information about the family. He skimmed through the pages again, refreshing his memory. Prince Alojyz was Head of the House, but there were no Guardians at present, nor War Lords. That might change as the international situation shifted, though, so István didn’t spend much time on the observation. Alojyz was not the oldest son, but had come into his position after his older brother had recused himself from serving. In addition to Weronica, Alojyz had two other sisters and three brothers, most of whom had already married. One brother and one sister had gone to the Church. István wrinkled his nose a little. Just what he needed: a Jesuit brother-in-law. There had to be something in the water in Poland, to have one Jesuit and one nationalist fanatic in the same generation. They were as bad as Italians.
Against a Rising Tide Page 4
