Against a Rising Tide

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “Yes, they do, because there were evil, nasty, mean, smelly True-dragons out there, just like some people choose to be mean, evil, and nasty.”

  “And smelly, like Petr?”

  “Not quite like your brother,” he lightly tapped her nose. “But yes.”

  He looked at the crèche, just visible through the door to the parlor, and thought about the smell of wet sheep and horses. She sighed and snuggled against him. “Oh good. I don’t care for Charlotta Marie.”

  “Is she a class mate?”

  “No. She’s in charge of making sure we get to meals and chapel on time. She’s going to marry a general or an admiral and be a great lady.”

  István heard Aunt Claudia’s oft-repeated, «Manners make the lady» in his memory and smiled.

  “Perhaps. Now. Would you like some Christmas tea?”

  “Oh, yes, please, Pater, may I?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  He rang for Marie Dinesivich to bring some of the spicy sweet tea.

  Christmas and Epiphany passed, and another letter from Krakow arrived, this in Prince Aloyz’s own hand. István read it, set it carefully down on the desk, and closed his eyes, breathing deep and centering himself lest his dismay show. Weronica wished to remain in Krakow for another few weeks. She had developed a touch of fever, and given the cold and wet weather, and the strains of travel with a small infant, well, Prince Potoki regretted the necessity of insisting that his sister remain with the family until all was well. Am I not family? We have excellent doctors here in Budapest, better than in Krakow. Or had K.T.’s nationalism overflowed and affected Weronica? Likely no, given their last encounter, but something weighed on István, and he closed his eyes again. Would a letter of separation be next? If so, what of their children?

  He sent Petr and Sophia back to their schools with a heavy heart. They’d be safer there, and his sister Judit did him the favor of escorting them herself, since she had business in Györ and the surrounding area. Imre returned to his unit, leaving Erzsébet.

  “Pater,” she said after supper that night.

  “Hmm?”

  “May I live at Nagymatra?”

  And so it begins.

  “Certainly. Do you not want to work with Professor Doctor—” He stopped when he saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I do, but he is no longer allowed in the University. And I am not Magyar enough, not nationalist enough, and too much a woman to be forced to work when men need positions.” She spat the word “forced” with an anger her father had never seen in her before. and her eyes shifted, turning faintly pink. “I cannot bear it in the city any longer, sir. The hatred is growing too strong.”

  He gathered himself and spoke to her as Head to Guardian/Healer. “It is. It wears on all of us, and corrodes our control and will. You have my permission to return to Nagymatra and the House lands for as long as you desire. I will be joining you as soon as the House business permits. The capital is no place for us, not at this season.”

  “Thank you, Pater. Thank you.”

  She left on January twenty-fifth as snow fluttered down, hiding the grime of the coal-sooted city. István sniffed the air, and both Dobroslov and Ivan Denisivich watched, as wary as guard dogs. A waiting feeling, equal parts tension and dread, hung in the air, and the people in the street and the office and shops spoke quietly, wary of others’ ears and eyes.

  “Trouble comes, my lord,” Dobroslov stated.

  “It comes.”

  On Candlemas, the city exploded.

  István sensed the storm breaking as soon as he reached the office. “Get back to Buda and keep my people safe,” he ordered Dobroslav.

  They both looked north, at the stream of men rushing toward the University and parliament, all ducked low and muttering.

  “My lord, come with me. You’re in danger as well.”

  István shook his head. “No. I’ll take care of the staff here. Go. That’s an order.” He put his weight as Head behind his words, and Dobroslov obeyed.

  As soon as he got into the building, István locked the door and closed the shutter. “I’m closing the office,” he told the startled men and women. “I’ll pay you what I have on hand and send the rest, but it is not safe here today.”

  “Sir, what do you know?” one of the younger clerks asked.

  “Not know, but feel. I’ve been around the city when it was like this, the day the Communists tried to seize parliament. Same sense in the air, same wariness, and I do not want any of you near the government quarter if something happens. Jenö, open the safe, please.”

  The nervous manager did as he was bid, and István took the cash out. He paid each employee, then sent them home.

  “Don’t go near the parliament or over to the palace district, please. Take tomorrow off as well.”

  It took longer than he’d wanted, but by ten only he, Jenö, and Miss Kiss remained at the office. Jenö and Kiss began turning out the lights, locking up files, and turning off the gas and making certain the heaters were cold, while István sorted files. He’d already smuggled the most important books and records to the town palace, and had sent more to Nagymatra with Erzsébet. Thank you God that the children are safe. Please, Lord, keep my people safe until I can rejoin them and we get away from here.

  “Sir, the last of the offices are locked—” Miss Kiss began.

  Boom, rattatattatat. A heartbeat of silence, then another, and then the screams and more shots began.

  “Go,” István ordered.

  Jenö bowed and vanished out the back door. Kiss hesitated, then disappeared as well. István finished packing the last ledger into a heavy bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, grabbed his walking stick, and began to follow. He heard the all-too familiar roar of a mob in full cry, and the sound of breaking glass behind him. He prayed under his breath as he locked the back door, then looked left and right, trying to find a safe escape route. He saw people running past to the north, and so turned south, intending to go back toward the train station. As he began walking, he heard running feet, and the door opening behind him. He caught a glimpse of Miss Kiss darting back into the building.

  “No!” He dropped the bag just outside the back door and went after her, following her to the main office. “It’s not safe. I told you, you have to go home.”

  “Damn you, I don’t have to obey your orders, you old fool,” she snarled, turning on him. István took a step back as the force of her anger and the venom in her voice knocked him back over a decade. It could have been his brother Mátyás snarling at him. She continued, “This is mine, or will be. The inheritance you refused my mother and I is mine, all mine now. My love was right, you are a liar and a monster.”

  “What?” He could hear the mob coming closer, and smelled the acrid, foul smoke of rubber and paint burning. “It’s not safe. We can discuss this later.”

  “No! This is mine now. You, István Eszterházy, denied my mother and I want what is ours. You let my father die alone of the plague, but I remembered you, and Georg, he showed me what to look for, how to learn and watch.”

  As another explosion rocked the air, this one from the north, or so it sounded, István put the pieces together.

  “You are Josefina, Silvie’s daughter, my brother’s child. The one we couldn’t find, the one Matyás, your father, hid from us.”

  “Couldn’t find, hell. You never looked,” she spat, green eyes narrow, lips curled into a snarl as she waved at the office around them. “You let my father die. Your precious family couldn’t bother trying to help my mother when she needed it, never kept your promise.” Her voice rose in both pitch and volume. “Was it because Daddy was crippled? Georg says you hate the imperfect, you greedy mongrel. That’s why you destroyed his business, you and that Jew-bastard Salm and the mad prince ruined Georg because he was not one of your precious blood.”

  István wanted to slap her for impudence, shake her to see if he could break her mad fixation, and pour water on her to snap her out of her hysteria. Instead
they both froze for an instant as someone threw a brick through the glass of the door.

  “Down with the Jew scum! Destroy the Communists!”

  He grabbed Josefina’s hand, dragging her with all his strength. She tried to fight, until another brick and a third shattered more glass.

  “Come!” He pulled her down the hall and out the back. Behind them they heard voices yelling, and something smashing against the locked interior doors. The way south still looked open, and he released her to snatch up the bag of ledgers. “That mob isn’t going to listen, not to either of us. Run, as you love the memory of your father run.”

  “No, I won’t go. You owe me, Georg says you owe me, and I won’t go until I get what is mine.”

  “If you don’t run then all you’ll get is a beating, and that’s if you are fortunate.”

  She stared at him and he swore, then took hold of her arm again.

  “It’s a girl!”

  “One of the Jew bitches!”

  “Get them!”

  That decided her, and she began running. István released her and ran as well, mindful of the warning pain in his back. They couldn’t reach the river, not with the mob along the quay, and he thought he recalled a second cross alley that led toward the museum district. Smoke filled the air, and he could hear gunshots and screams as well as the sound of a riot. I’m never coming to the Pest side again, he thought once more, gasping for air. I’m never coming to the city again. Imre can have the town palace. Or the lowlanders can have it for all I care. I want the mountains.

  His niece stayed with him for some reason. He didn’t ask, just led her downstream and away from the fires and chaos.

  “Where?” She panted at last when they paused.

  “Josef Bridge. You go east, the apartments with the gardens? Safe there,” he gasped.

  She shook her head. He swore.

  “Then come with me, across the bridge to Buda.”

  They heard a baying sound behind them, and screams. She took his hand and they hurried west. Once more, it felt as if he and his brother were trying to outrun the mob as they had so many years before. Dear Lord, holy God, protect us. Be with my people, please may they have reached safety. Please help the innocents trapped, please please please.

  Instead they stopped as they saw a group of men in black and tan milling around in the street, blocking the way. Had the toughs seen them? Were they Black Arrow or something else? Doesn’t matter, not now. I’m a crippled man with an attractive young woman. We’re in danger, deadly danger.

  “Back here,” István hissed.

  They ducked into a tiny niche between the back of a business and a row of apartments. She released his hand, allowing him to shift his walking stick to it and lean.

  “You . . . you’re not what Georg said.”

  Too intent on breathing to answer, István let her comment pass. Could he call Dobroslov or Ivan? Did he dare? No, he’d told Dobroslov to keep the people in the town palace safe, and he wouldn’t change that order. He stopped breathing and froze as the black and tan mass rushed past eastbound.

  “I think I know where we can hide,” the girl whispered in his ear. “One more block, then Barohz, that new district?”

  István had run out of ideas and just nodded. They waited a minute more, then eased out of their hiding place. The mob seemed to have passed for the moment, and no one called after them as the darted across the street. From there they walked, quickly but steadily, acting as if they had every right to be leaving. They were not the only ones, and as many people seemed to be fleeing as lived in Pest.

  “Where are the fire trucks?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.

  “Too dangerous, miss,” an older man spat. “ ’Sides, it’s Jew property burning, nothing important.” He laughed, then spat again. “Serves the Christ-killers right.”

  She knew enough not to challenge the man’s words, István noticed. Instead, she crossed herself and hurried to catch up with István. They reached the branch in the road and turned southeast, following the old line of the road.

  “Here, I think . . .” She led the way into a half-finished building.

  István set down the ledgers, found a pile of lumber that looked steady, and sat. He heard the sound of a match and looked up to see Miss Kiss—his niece—lighting a cigarette, her hands shaking. She shook the match very well, then dropped it and rubbed it with her shoe. She saw him watching and gave a nervous smile.

  “Fire and sawdust. I remember that much.”

  “Good.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to reach Dobroslov. Something blocked him, and he tried again. The block turned into a shove and he bit his tongue, tasting blood. What? Surely not Pannonia? Or was it? He rested his aching head in his hands. That was it. He was never leaving the mountains again. He thought he heard a car door, but other thumps drowned it out. Why was it his Gifts never worked when he needed them the most?

  “Georg!” István looked up to see Miss Kiss rushing to greet a horrible, bland-faced man, so ordinary-looking. “I remembered what you said, to come here if I could if there were ever trouble.”

  A red film appeared over István’s vision and he tasted ashes. His own blood had betrayed him. The world swirled and spun, disappearing into flame and bitterness. He saw it now, so clearly. Miss Kiss had given Tisza what he needed to blackmail the lumberyard man, and had passed information to the Department of Forestry help Tisza try to destroy the House. István closed his eyes. Why? Because he had not looked for her, because he had not done his duty to all the House members as he had sworn to do, because he had not kept his promise to Mátyás.

  “Well done,” the hateful voice purred. “I knew I could trust you.”

  “Georg, love, what are you . . . what?”

  “You’ve served my purposes, Miss Eszterházy.”

  István opened his eyes in time to see Tisza pull a heavy revolver out of the satchel he’d brought from the car and into the building. He pointed it at the girl. Without a word or a thought, István launched from where he sat. He could not permit another murder. Tisza dodged but so did Kiss, who ducked behind another lumber stack.

  “No,” she cried. “I thought, you said—”

  Tisza recovered and shot at István, who ducked, skidding a little on some sawdust and sliding to the ground, his back complaining at the twisting and at the hard contact with the ground. The shot sailed over his head. Tisza cursed and turned back toward Kiss. The foolish girl had gotten up from behind the pile of lumber and stood in plain view, wringing her hands, tears running down her face.

  “But you loved me.”

  “No.”

  Tisza fired. István scrambled to his feet, rushing toward his old enemy. He hit the monster with his shoulder but not before the revolver roared again and the girl screamed. István’s body screamed as well, and so did something else. He rolled, trying to get away from Tisza, as the world flashed into double sight, Guardian and normal.

  Dear God not again, not now! This time Siebenburgen lashed out, but not at the Matra or Pannonia. It fought something to the east, struggling and throwing energy. Then it reached for the Matra, and the Matra linked to it. István could see, feel, and taste the black evil to the east, smelling rank decay fouler than anything he’d met during the war, something worse than death of the body. The Matra fed energy into Siebenburgen, trying to fend off the attack. István, locked into the link, summoned the House, drawing on their energy as well.

  It hurt. He could feel Pannonia watching, shifting its own defenses, looming over him. Something else moved, something closer, trying to interfere. István fought for control, trying to fend off the “hand” reaching for the energy. He shut out the awareness of Pannonia, shut out the new pain from his body, focused on defending his land and his House. Something clean and bright poured into him from the west and he took it, feeding life energy into the Matra. Battle raged in the east and István felt himself outside of time. “We may not live to see the dawn,” he heard Ru
dolph say in his memory, and he knew it to be true. He would burn out. So be it. István poured everything into the link.

  It broke, throwing him back into the physical world. He returned to pain, screams, and fire. Someone was trying to drag him, someone else yelled. He opened his eyes and smoke stung them. He could barely move for the pain in his back, and one leg almost refused to answer.

  “Help, please, help.”

  “What?” He coughed, dragging himself to a sitting position with Kiss’s help.

  “Georg, Tisza, the bastard. Shot me in the arm, then I don’t know. You, he shot you, but then fire . . . the match? The gun? Men outside? Help.”

  He heard more screams. He got to his knees and saw Tisza half-hidden by smoke and a curtain of flame. Tisza was on the left, crouching as if to spring like a wild beast, the open doorway and safety on the right.

  “Go,” he pointed.

  “But you—”

  “Go.” He snarled the words, letting his full rage take over, adrenaline giving him a last burst of energy. “Get out, go to the town palace. Tell Dobroslov the truth. House will help you. Go.”

  István saw the revolver near the flames. Kiss turned and staggered out, toward the door. István crawled to the revolver, grasped it—it held two shots yet. He looked at Tisza and rose onto one knee, bracing. A pile of lumber and other building material surrounded Tisza, and István guessed he’d staggered into it, smoke-blinded, and it had fallen onto him.

  “Help me, damn you, my foot’s trapped!”

  “May God have mercy on us both.”

  István sighted and fired.

  He dropped the gun, sank onto all fours, and began dragging himself toward the open doorway. One meter, he told himself over and over, one meter more, one meter more, as the pain devoured his strength. His leg stopped working, his eyes could no longer focus, and his left arm barely supported his weight. He could see, or thought he saw, people outside. Red shimmered in front of him, and he heard a wrenching, tearing sound. The world gave way beneath him. Pain tore a scream from his throat and all was black.