The man dropped the book onto an already open volume, and István thought he heard paper tearing. He hid a wince, then bent over and studied the page. A sharp-nailed finger poked at a line in red ink.
“That is the fee for a sublease in Czechoslovakia, paid to the Czech Forestry Ministry.”
That one especially stung every time István approved the payment, since the land had been House property.
“And you can prove this, my lord?” Farago’s sneer slurred the title.
“Yes.” István refused to let his temper rise.
Farago waved and another ledger appeared.
“And this?”
After two hours of interrogation, István felt himself starting to shift. He excused himself to the washroom for a moment of peace—only a moment, but it was enough. Farago and his men could not find what they wanted. Neither could the men from the Forestry Ministry’s permits department. The Forestry workers grumbled, demanded copies of several permits, and then left after the clerks complied. Mr. Farago insisted on removing several ledger volumes, including two not related to taxes. That set off warning bells.
“Very well, but I need receipts.”
When Farago tried to leave, István and his men blocked the door. István held out a page with the list of books.
“No, Mr. Farago, not until you sign and state what use you have for the volumes.”
“I have every right to take these.”
“Yes, you do,” István agreed, sounding calmer than he felt. “And I have every right to signed confirmation that you are taking them.”
A few of the clerks and secretaries gasped at his boldness.
“Do you not trust the Ministry?”
“The Ministry? Yes. My business competitors? No.”
Farago twitched, and István dropped his shields, reaching for and reading the man’s surface thoughts.
“And if the Forestry Ministry sends another inspection group, I will need proof of the location of those volumes, especially the lease receipt book.”
István felt a surge of anger in the man, and a dose of fear, and caught a brief glimpse of an all-too-familiar face with odd colored eyes.
“Very well,” Farago snarled.
He pulled the page out of István’s fingers, snatched up a pen from Gereb’s desk, and signed the page, dated it, and dropped it to the floor, then shouldered his way out past István, who let him go and gestured for the others to clear a path. The reporters lurking outside tried to rush in, but were met with fists and curses from the Finance men as István and the others hid smiles and nods. The door was locked once more.
“Let’s put things back where they belong, shall we?” The House employees set to work. Gereb retrieved the page from the floor and handed it to István, who folded it and, after glancing around for other eyes, hid it behind the portrait of His Majesty. Miss Kiss appeared in the doorway ten minutes later.
“My lord, Mr. Kerestes for you.”
István wished he had Archduke Rudolph’s little flask. What did the lawyer want?
“Very good, I’ll meet him in the reception room.”
What Kerestes brought left István alternating between curses and despair. He settled for curses aimed at two sawmill operators.
“No, I have no . . .” he let the words trail off, his eyes narrowing as he tried to recall some stray bit of memory. “Kerestes, how would they know of our interest in that parcel?”
The long-jawed lawyer blinked. “Because of the bids placed with— ah.”
“You see my concern.”
“Yes, my lord, I certainly do. That does suggest some impropriety on the part of the leaseholder, does it not, my lord?” Kerestes’s green eyes began to gleam, and a little smile touched his full lips. “Those bids are to remain sealed until the deadline has passed. And the deadline is three days from today.”
“Exactly.”
Now, how did they learn that the House had placed a bid, since that too should have been sealed, and had been placed through the lumberyard, not the main office? Probably by opening the bids early, then tracing the yard back to the managing business, István thought. Now why someone would bother doing that, well, he had a few suspicions.
Although, given the way we Hungarians are cutting our own throats as the Germans continue dumping trash wood on our heads, honor and the law and other minor considerations have probably collapsed like a winter-kill tree.
Kerestes did not rub his hands with glee, but he certainly gave off the air of a man looking forward to winning a fight. Miss Kiss saw him out, then ducked out of sight as István’s second-least favorite relative appeared in the doorway. Well, if bad luck comes in threes, this will be the end of it. István leaned back in his chair.
“Hello, Imre.”
Imre smiled.
“Good afternoon, Cousin. Are you standing for election again or having a sale on newsprint?”
“Neither. And I am not in a mood to discuss things.”
“Too bad, because I had a most interesting chat with the foreman down at your lumberyard.”
Imre waited for István to rise to his bait.
“No doubt.” István stood. “I have matters to attend to, Imre.”
He started to walk past Imre to return to his office, but Imre caught his arm.
“No, my lord, you need to hear this.” Imre looked over his shoulder, then back at István. He lowered his voice. “While I was down there, trying to talk sense into the foreman, two of the men came and started talking about a third they’d caught with something. He was trying to take papers from the office there. He denied it at first, but then, according to the workers, said he’d promised someone a few pages a week. At that point the manager shushed the men and saw me out.” Imre straightened up. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it doesn’t sound good for anyone, Cousin. If you are blocking the men from unionizing . . .”
He left the rest of the threat unsaid when he saw István’s shake his head, then take a deep breath.
“No, you’re right. It doesn’t sound good at all.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “And here I thought that folly with the Social Democrats gave me headaches.”
It was Imre’s turn to snort, even as he gave Miss Kiss an appreciative look.
“The Social Democrats are collapsing as we speak. They’ve come apart like wet newspaper. Not that Crown and Land is much better.”
István couldn’t bring himself to rise to the bait.
“Everyone’s gone mad.”
Abruptly sober, Imre nodded. “They have, and the Germans are scaring everyone. Not that Romania’s much better. ‘National socialists?’ That makes as much sense as a lion eating grass.”
It was not until the next evening that István realized what Imre had likely caught wind of. That—what if . . . His thoughts churned and tumbled as he tried to sort the pieces. What if someone was blackmailing a yard worker? That would explain how the information had been leaked, if the other bidders had not been informed illegally. And according to Kerestes, they swore that they had not opened the bids yet, and had been as surprised as István to hear of the two sawmill owners’ accusations. István had done his best to avoid the newspapers, but headlines declaring “Royal Advisor Accused of Tax Theft” had been difficult to ignore. The papers took care to insist that it remained a mere accusation at this point, but the hints and innuendoes about “sources inside the Ministry” and “Forestry’s permit department has expressed concern” would leave their mark. After Frankopans’s experience, István assumed he would be left to deal with matters on his own. Thus far his suspicions were proving correct.
What if the man from the yard, one Mr. Novak, had been blackmailed into giving papers to someone? What could István do? The manager had already reassigned the man to a different position, one that kept him away from the office. The union steward had raised a fuss, but it died down quickly after it was pointed out to him that Novak’s work hours and pay remained unchanged. If Novak had passed pages to so
meone, like a certain Tisza, then what? István suspected that enough research and investigation would produce a Tisza connection, just like the one he’d seen in Mr. Farago’s mind.
István stared at the fire in the library fireplace and imagined Tisza in the flames of hell. Twenty years before he would have raced out, found the bastard, and challenged him to a duel—or horsewhipped him. Now, he had to obey the laws other men broke. He clenched his hand and heard something shatter. The nut in the nutcracker’s jaws, now reduced to powder and chunks of shell, scattered onto the carpet and table.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Weronica inquired.
“Yes, but not here. A business matter just became a little clearer.”
“If you allowed the managers to do their job, István, business would not bother you so much.”
Her reproachful tone did not improve his mood.
“My lady, I cannot in good conscience allow my name to be used in business without knowing what goes on and what that name is affixed to. The House would not permit it, either, I fear.”
“Why not? You are the Head. You have more important things to deal with than books of numbers. My brother never dirties his hands with business.”
István picked up a walnut and crushed it in his bare fist. He started to say a dozen things, all of them hurtful or hard, before changing course.
“That is true. Poland and Galicia are also different places than Hungary, and your brother does not have the same political and financial challenges that House Szárkány faces.”
He brushed the nut powder off his palm. He wanted to send a message to Rudolph, asking the Archduke to petition the king to intervene. He drummed his fingers on his trouser leg, wondering how best to phrase his request. If House Szárkány bled to death financially, it would endanger the Guardianship, with all that that implied. If István collapsed, or his marriage frayed, the diplomatic entanglements would undo everything the alliance marriage stood for. Surely his Majesty would not allow that?
Except . . . István remembered the latest news from Vienna and Berlin and Paris. And from Prague, where the nationalists were trying to use the rise of Herr Hitler in Germany to push German-speaking Czechs out of business and off the land, and as an excuse to demand King Josef Karl’s abdication in favor of a “pure Bohemian.” Although where they intended to find such a creature, István had yet to hear. And Hungary’s woes only made matters more frustrating. The western powers insisted on punishing Austria, or trying to, almost twenty years after the war. And Josef Karl stood in the middle, trying to balance his peoples’ needs and the demands of the Confederation with those of the Powers and Houses and outside world.
I can’t do it. Not yet, not until I have absolute, clear, irrefutable evidence that Tisza is attacking the House. Not me personally, but attacking the House, because otherwise no one will believe my claims.
“We are going to the mountains for Christmas?” Weronica asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Yes, my dear. After November twentieth we will go to Nagymatra and stay until after Christmas.”
She smiled before returning to her book. “Good. I like the mountains. They make me feel calm.”
Me too, István thought. But would trouble follow them?
Unlike the original bold print headlines, the official report of the exoneration of Count Eszterházy by both the Finance and Forestry Ministries occupied only five lines on the third-to-last page of the front section of the paper. The Royalist press at least had the grace to put it on the second page, István grumbled. He folded the paper and lit a cigarette, watching the grey trail of smoke rise from the tip as it disappeared in the ceiling’s shadows.
Only two letters prevented him from hunting down Tisza and taking his revenge. He wanted to hurt the man, to hurt him dearly. He wanted to drag him into the main square, or onto the parade ground outside the palace on Buda Hill, and beat him until he cried for mercy. Or horsewhip him, inflicting two lashes for each whisper and sideways glance István’s family had had to endure. He inhaled a long breath of smoke, leaned his head back, and sent the blessed, calming vapor rushing up toward the heavens like a Red Indian’s incense. He wouldn’t do it. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to. But two letters and the House stayed his hand.
The House had suffered no injury and would not support his desire for personal justice. He knew, having asked and been rebuffed, although the House agreed that an injustice had been done. But it had not affected the House or István in his role as Head and War Lord. Had I been arrested, perhaps they might feel otherwise. István listened to the sounds outside the door as Weronica directed the staff, who were preparing for the count and countess’s departure. He’d pled the need to sort and destroy papers in his office and now hid.
Weronica. His wife remained cool toward him. She’d given him the rough edge of her tongue for not demanding satisfaction from the Ministries, and again for acquiescing to Crown and Land’s polite and formal “suggestion” that he not stand for reelection for his seat in parliament. It had been hinted that, if he acquiesced, he would be nominated back into the upper chamber when Crown and Land and the Royalist coalition regained power. At the moment, István thought as he finished his smoke and ground out the remains of his indulgence, he’d be delighted to rub his refusal in the face of Frankopans, Szapolyai, Illyés and the rest of the party leadership. He had neither heard nor read anything from them until after the Ministries finished their investigations and found exactly one problem—a four koruna fee from 1919 that had gone unpaid because of Mátyás’s death!
István looked at the two letters. Both bore elaborate crests on them, one of the Archduke of Styria and the Tirol, the other from His Majesty himself. Two official letters, each assuring István that he retained His Majesty’s trust and honor, and that a place on the Royal Council remained his.
I will obey, and I will stay my hand, Your Majesty, Your Grace, because of these. But as God is my witness, I cannot abide in peace forever.
What cannot last, will not—or so István recalled reading somewhere. He watched snow dance on the wind outside the house at Nagymatra. The winter, mild through the Feast of St. Stephen, closed in on the mountains with the new year. Even Weronica agreed that the isolation came as a relief this once, as much as she regretted missing most of the social season. He suspected that she sensed the lingering suspicion from the other magnates and nobles. Or perhaps the growing nationalist power wore on her as much as it did on him.
“What do you see?” She asked, coming up behind him to peer around his shoulder at the white ice flowers dancing down between the trees. She rested one soft hand on his arm, the first time she’d touched him that day.
He smiled at her. “Oh, not much of anything, my dear. I fear there’s not enough Gypsy in the family for me to read the snowflakes.”
“Can they really do that?”
He shook his head.
“I doubt it, or truly read the future in tea leaves, or cards, for that matter. They read people, not the future.”
“Ah. They never came to the palace, and the porter turned them away from the convent and school.”
She withdrew, returning to the warmth of the library and István joined her. He should have been reading policy papers, or answering correspondence from the new head of Crown and Land, Lazlo Veres. Instead, he read a book about hunting in Africa and listened to his wife as she wrote letters. The logs in the fireplace popped and crackled. The bell on the clock chimed three times, and Tadeas came in on silent feet, refilled the wood basket, and disappeared again.
“I do not approve of his Grace’s interest in Tadeas,” Weronica announced after the True-dragon maid left and closed the door behind her.
“I see.”
István wondered what he was supposed to do, two months and more since the archduke’s last visit.
Weronica sniffed. “Rescind your permission for him to seduce her, István. And reassign her the next time he comes to visit. I am tired of him using his rank t
o lead her into sin.”
Oh dear. István looked at the fire as he considered how to respond.
“I will speak to him, my lady. And to her, should the occasion arise.”
“Do so.”
Her imperious reply set his teeth on edge. Weronica returned to her letters and István closed his eyes. Barbara would never have used that tone of voice to him. Weronica is not Barbara. And Weronica has asked for another child, despite everything. Do not upset her. Their world was upset enough as it was.
And they would be returning to society in two weeks, weather permitting. The Royal Council planned to meet in early March, just after the elections. The rumors around the pending vote swirled almost as much as did the snow. Rumors among the Houses traveled just as fast, along with some news that István wished had remained mere rumor. The Germans had indeed disenfranchised HalfDragons and True-dragons, along with Communists and others, in their last round of lawmaking. Would the Black Arrows do the same thing in Hungary? A whisper from Austria warned that the Austrian fascists supported Hitler’s proclamation, although it did not specifically mention the removal of non-humans from the voter rolls.
I never wanted this, Lord, István prayed, eyes still closed. This is not what being Head of the House is supposed to be. Even the Mongols and Turks didn’t try to divide us from the Houses. They just separated our souls from our bodies and chased the survivors into the hills. And what transpired in the Soviet Union—that scared him even more. What had he done to be Head in such a terror-filled time? Help us survive, please, Holy Lord. Blessed Lady, Queen of Mercy, please intercede with Your Son for us. Grant us mercy and peace in these hours of confusion.
He heard a cart rolling into the library and opened his eyes to see coffee, nut cakes, and Agmánd’s concerned expression.
“Oh, thank you!” He heard Weronica exclaim.
At least that had not changed. Weronica loved Mrs. Pozony’s nut cakes.
“What now, Your Grace?” István asked.
Rudolph looked at the gathered House Council members and made a placating gesture. “His Majesty will be here soon.”
Against a Rising Tide Page 15
