Against a Rising Tide

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  «Indeed, Your Grace» Duke Ernest said, nodding. «The news does not warrant rushing. Not yet,» he added, raising a talon to still the inevitable protests from the Hungarian House Heads. «I fear we will be rushing more than enough in the coming years.»

  Johann Graf von Hohen-Drachenberg nodded. He’d grown leaner since István had last seen him and remained a bit weak after nearly losing a battle with pneumonia. “The trickle of former House members from Germany has become a stream, but is not yet a flood.”

  “Thanks be that some of the North American Houses are willing to take us in,” Prince Arnaulf von Taxis-Este added. He ran his hands over his coat-front, as if wiping damp palms on his round chest and stomach. His weight belied his energy level, and István wondered how the prince managed the combination. “We had to charter an entire ship, but eighty True-dragons and over a hundred HalfDragons and all their families who wanted to have immigrated to Argentina and Canada. House Taxis, Tarn, Welf, Hohenzollern,” he wiped his right hand again as the left played with an elk tooth on his watch chain. “I believe every House sent someone west, Your Grace, my lords of Council.”

  István wanted a drink very badly at that bit of news. Drachenberg and Archduke Rudolph nodded, as did Lady Brixin.

  “We have room for a few more True-dragons and their families, but not much. The Italians are pressing again, and the Head, War Lord, and I agree that we can’t settle anyone too close to that border, in case the French and the others decide to do something—what’s the word—unfortunate?”

  «An apt choice of words,» Duke Ernest agreed. «I was informed at Candlemas that word has gone out along the German border that any True-dragons are to be shot on sight if we attempt to cross, since we are not citizens of any nation—are not even human.»

  István thought the prince sounded remarkably calm. He also thought that if Rudolph’s eyes bulged any farther, they would fall out of his skull and roll across the floral parquet floor, probably stopping only when they reached the ornate green-and-white stove in the far corner of the Council room. Rudolph inhaled, but three bangs of a herald’s staff on the wood forestalled the verbal explosion.

  “His Majesty King Josef Karl of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia.”

  The House leaders bowed as the Head of House Habsburg, Guardian of the Lands of the Three Crowns, entered the room and took his seat in the chair at the head of the room. The double eagle of his House rose above his head, carved into the wood of the throne-like seat. Here he was first among near equals. In fact, as István considered the men and women gathered in the lovely chamber, Count Drachenberg had the right to claim seniority of House Founding, with Brixin a close second, then Tarn and Szárkány, among the ten oldest Houses represented that morning.

  “You may be seated.” Everyone took their seats or benches, and Rudolph moved so that he stood at the king’s left shoulder. Rudolph had a faintly wry expression on his face, as if acknowledging the dark humor of his taking the sinister side. “I would that better news greeted our gathering, but it is not to be,” the king began. “At the moment, barring a true miracle such has not been seen in a century within these lands, the Magyar Nationalist Party will win the election and a firm majority of seats in the lower chamber of the Hungarian parliament.”

  The Hungarians in the gathering nodded, sighed, and grumbled as befit their tempers and standing. Count Szecheney seemed the least upset by the situation, but he’d always had a bit of a nationalist streak of the Romantic kind, István recalled. After all, it was his relatives who sponsored the library and all those translations and collections, as well as the Hungarian folk music movement. Behind his shields, István wondered of Zoltan was proud of the results of his clan’s folly, then caught himself. The uncharitable, bitter thought had no place here.

  “At the moment, I remain hopeful that reason and pragmatism will prevail and the new government will not take any actions against the Houses and our members.” Josef Karl did not sound quite as confident as his words suggested. “As you know, until the exact composition of the new government is known, I cannot and will not comment on the results of the election.” He raised one hand. “I have made my unhappiness with the methods used to encourage some parties and discourage others very clear with the leaders of all the parties involved.”

  Thank you, István thought, still shielded.

  “I have also reminded the self-styled king of Romania that he is responsible for the behavior of his people, and that what he claims to be unable to do, is equally impossible for me. Count Gabor, I am aware of the situation and have informed all the party leaders that I expect the new foreign minister to protest in the strongest terms as soon as he receives his portfolio. Trade restrictions are one matter, but allowing the military to drive women and children across the mountains in mid-winter is inexcusable and has nothing to do with the oil tariff, all his protests to the contrary.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. The past weeks have been trying.” Gabor bowed in his seat.

  “You are welcome.” Josef Karl studied the group. “Count Eszterházy, have you sensed anything new from Galicia and Poland?”

  István stood and bowed.

  “Your Majesty, my lords, Galicia struggles. The Matra remains wary and continues to maintain a wall on that border. Life is returning, and the Houses are creating havens of life and order in that battered land, but it remains, ah, sick and gray, for lack of a better way to describe it. Your Majesty, I fear Brandenberg and Nuremberg worry me far more, at this moment, than does Galicia.”

  “Indeed, Count Eszterházy. Thank you.”

  At Josef Karl’s wave, István resumed his seat.

  The meeting shifted to House news, potential alliances, financial matters, and other topics of less interest to István. He remained aware of the flow of discussion, but did not contribute. That morning, Weronica had announced that she did not feel ready for breakfast, and that she would remain abed. István hoped that it meant she carried a child, and not that the Lenten fast had worn too heavily on her. She had no calls or events until late afternoon, so her indisposition required no explanations. He had reread his son Imre’s latest letter from the Romanian border, such as it was. Imre believed that ink cost more than gold, or so his laconic letter suggested. István took the lack of news as a good sign, even from the tense Transylvanian border zone. Although, the way the Romanians seemed to be trying to slit their own throats with their attempt to evict everyone without ancient Romans in their pedigree, and then whining about the lack of skilled workers in the oil fields and how the Germans were not cooperating with the trade agreements, well, István wondered if Hungary really wanted that lumpy, haunted land back. He knew the answer, but still.

  The meeting took most of the day with pauses for coffee and dinner. Even so, an amazing amount of business and discussion took place and István wished once again that parliament could run as smoothly as the Houses did. Of course, His Majesty and Archduke Rudolph contributed to that smoothness, and no one cared to push matters too far. His Majesty had dissolved two Houses not long after his accession, and had disciplined a third so severely that Mr. Supan still refused to look any of the other Heads in the eye. If he had not been snowed in, he would have been at the meeting, and István made a note to ask Felix Starhemberg if he had any dealings with that House. Or perhaps not, since the split of House Starhemberg is still a delicate topic, especially now. Perhaps after Easter, when things calmed down and reason returned to Hungary.

  But reason failed to return.

  “István, what is going on?” Weronica demanded as she swept into his office at the town palace in Buda. She took off her gloves and handed them to the maid who’d followed her into the room. “As I was leaving Countess Petofí’s tea, a group of students accosted us as we waited for our cars. They’d gotten into the estate through the garden gate, apparently, and yelled at us in Hungarian, demanding that we wear white and black ribbons and wanting to know who were the real Hungarians. What is all this? Is it anothe
r University strike?”

  Anger colored her words, and the rising pitch made István’s head ache even more. He wondered what to say.

  “They are supporters of the Magyar National Party.”

  “Well, they should be controlled. Why are they not in class if they are university students?” She glared down at her husband.

  He took a deep breath. “Because they have left the school until more nationalist faculty, approved by the Black Arrows, come in and all Jews and non-Magyars are banned from the university, except as non-degree candidates.”

  Weronica blinked, anger shifting to confused irritation. “That’s no excuse for intruding on their betters.”

  “No, my lady, it is not. The elections seem to have emboldened the less civilized, I am sorry to say.”

  The Nationalists are running loose and none of the rest of us dare stop them, because we are too scattered. No one is willing to cooperate with each other anymore.

  “I see.”

  She swept out of the office, her maid trailing behind. István closed his eyes and wondered what had become of his sweet, young bride of ten years before. The political storms that had swept down from Germany and up from Italy threatened to drown his marriage along with his career, or so it felt some days.

  The folder of Royal Council papers sat on his desk, its red ribbons trailing across other papers like thin strings of blood from old wounds reopened. The MNP had begun pushing the first of their new laws through parliament, and the other parties could not, or would not, muster the numbers to stop them. István picked up one page and shook his head.

  “This will not end well.”

  Gabor, the footman acting as butler, tapped on the door.

  “Your pardon, my lord, but Dobroslov says there is a car at the gate. One Count Felix Starhemberg wishes to speak to you.”

  István jumped to his feet.

  “Let him in, let him in. Tell Zuárd to prepare light refreshments for us.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Gabor bowed himself out, and István jammed the papers back into their folders, tying them closed and restoring a modicum of order to the desk before walking across the main hallway to the receiving room. He found Szombor waiting, holding a proper jacket.

  “Thank you.”

  István’s valet gave him a quick, careful study before disappearing through the servants’ concealed door with István’s tatty old coat—at least, it was according to Szombor.

  “So this is the famous Eszterházy palace.”

  The familiar voice, speaking in German, was followed by a tall, blond man, who limped as he entered the room. Felix Starhemberg de Este, Count Starhemberg, extended a hand. They shook, then exchanged half hugs and back slaps. “I thought you had a zoo inside the walls.”

  I did, but they’ve all gone to school.

  “No, that’s the lowland branch. Or it was until the border shifted.”

  Felix’s bright eyes darkened. “Ah yes.”

  “But come.”

  István led his old friend into the library—a warm, masculine space. Weronica never came here before supper. Marie Denisovich appeared a moment later with a tea tray, which she left.

  “No service?” Felix inquired.

  “I prefer to serve myself when I’m not working.” István caught Felix’s hesitation. “Or is this a business and government call rather than a social one?”

  Felix’s head shook briskly.

  “No, social, although I do need to suss out some things.” He waited until he’d helped himself to coffee and a small toasted cheese bite. “I’ll be blunt: are the rumors about the trade treaties true?”

  István stirred more cream into his coffee. “Which rumors?”

  “That Hungary is going to raise tariffs on meat and leather by at least thirty percent, and on manufactured goods by at least ten percent. More on dairy products.”

  “Those are true. The new leaders in parliament want to boost Hungarian industry and manufacturing for the good of the country.” He raised his free hand as red began rising in his old friend’s face. “No, His Majesty is not pleased. Yes, there will be repercussions from the rest of the Commonwealth, as well as the rest of Europe. Yes, the Americans were fools to think it would work, and no, the Nationalists can’t learn from other people’s mistakes.”

  “You do not support the bills, then.”

  István shook his head before drinking his coffee.

  “Damn.” Felix ate a few more bites. “This will be the final push, then.”

  István looked over the top of his cup and raised his eyebrows.

  “The Austrian Nazi party has been looking for a way to push the last of us out of government and to form a customs union with Germany. Those kinds of tariffs will infuriate most Austrians, enough to convince them to be just as foolish in turn.”

  “The Czechoslovak members of the Royal Council have voiced similar concerns.”

  Felix gave István a faint, knowing smile. “I imagine they have. Did Windischgrätz leave any paint uncharred?”

  “A little, but the windows almost cracked. And half of what he said had to be stricken from the record by royal command, or the Black Arrow thugs would be storming Prague Castle right now.” István stopped, then added, “In four languages no less. I’d forgotten you could swear that much in Latin.”

  “All I remember is liturgical. I’m a soldier, not a scholar.” Felix blinked and looked down at the cup and saucer in his hands. “God, but life was so much easier when we were in the cavalry.”

  “Agreed. I read Imré’s letters and want to either slap him for complaining or run away and join him.”

  Felix stared at István with mock horror.

  “What? Join the Powder Jews? A cavalry man?” Both men laughed at the old—near ancient—joke, from a different time and world.

  Talk shifted to commonplaces, then circled back to the meat of Felix’s visit, as István had feared it would.

  “What will House Szárkány do about the new tariffs?”

  “István Eszterházy will protest, of course. I would petition the member of Diet from Matra if I thought it would do any good, but he’s Magyar Nationalist, elected by Eger, and would use anything from me or the businesses as fire starter.”

  “And?” Felix leaned forward, blue eyes intent.

  “And? House Szárkány will do what it can to work around them, and around whatever the Czechs do in response.”

  Felix sat back.

  “Then you might as well finish rolling over and showing your belly, Eszterházy. And be ready to watch your House vanish as mine did.”

  The log in the fire popped. What does he mean, “vanish as mine did?” Starhemberg split but was not dissolved. Or was it? No—I’d know.

  “So you have not heard.” István shook his head. Felix ran a hand through his grey-touched blond hair and some of the anger left his voice. “House Starhemberg dissolved. The family, we were left with our lands and titles, but the House is no more. The last non-humans have gone to Drachenberg, Brixin, Habsburg, and a few ran to Taxis and were able to get passage to Canada.”

  He sounded calm as he spoke, too calm. He’s about to snap.

  “There are no words, but dear sweet Lord I’m sorry, Felix. What can I do?”

  “Shelter those you can, István, and be ready for the storm. I wasn’t. I should have been. We should have been. We were looking for danger from outside—from France, Italy, and England.” He shook his head again and let his shoulders slump. “It comes from within.”

  Three days later, István read the new prime minister’s first proclamation of office and wondered how much madder his world could become. He stared at the dark walnut panels of the walls in the waiting room within the palace, watching flames lick the beautiful wood, charring age-blackened walls and devouring the past. The Jews have been part of Hungary for a thousand years and more. They are Hungarian if they speak Magyar and follow the laws. But no. Not any more, not even if three generations have been Christian and
married Christians. Who will be next? But he knew.

  Lord Salm looked as if he wanted to kill someone.

  “This was affixed to the door of my residence during the night. With an iron spike driven into the wood.” He showed the rest of the Council. István was not the only one to growl at the crude caricature of a long nosed, dark-haired figure with forelocks and a skull-cap, holding a money bag with the koruna symbol marked out and a Star of David in its place. A second picture showed a horseman in Magyar costume spearing a Jew, like St. George killing a dragon, and a young woman labeled “Hungary” chained to a rock between the two figures. “They have been found all over Pest and Buda, on walls, on doors, not just in the Jewish Quarter.”

  “His Majesty will not stand for this,” Zoltan Szecheney stated.

  “Can his do anything? He is bound by the laws just as we are.”

  Damn, but Salm has a point. What next?

  How dare the sun shine so brightly? How dare a soft wind blow, easing the bite of late winter’s hold on the land? Clouds, black clouds, angry and snarling, throwing hammers of light down onto the treacherous land and booming imprecations of thunder should have filled the sky. Rain, hail, ice, driven by a north wind so cold it froze the birds where they perched and shattered trees in the parks should have filled the air, driving the crowds away from the steps of the cathedral in Pest. Surely the land would rebel, would rise up, tear open like at the Last Day and swallow the sinners, the traitors, the craven?

  But the cobbles of the enormous plaza remained in their places. István’s rage had passed now, leaving him numb as he heard His Majesty’s final phrases, the words that signaled the end of his world.

  “For these reasons I will not, cannot, remain on the throne of Hungary as the crown of St. Stephen is disgraced and degraded in the name of barbaric nationalism.”

  King, once Emperor, Josef Karl Habsburg’s voice rang out from the cathedral steps, carrying over the silent crowd. István forced himself not to look at the faces of the MNP members of parliament and their supporters crowding the side of the south steps. I will not be able to control myself if I see one of those bastards gloating. Better to be thought weak than to commit murder.