Grasping for the Crowns (The Powers Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  Ferenk coughed from the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  The butler brought a tray into the parlor and set it on a side table. “I believe my lord will want this.” He lifted the dome and revealed a small bowl of hot, thick, fish chowder, two of the dense little rolls the cook had devised, and tea with honey.

  “Perfect. Thank you.” István made short work of the food. Well, he had his answer, he mused, sipping the sweet tea. And Lady Marie could not argue. She would, of course, but even she had to yield to the wishes of the House.

  István informed Lady Marie the next morning. To his great surprise, she hesitated, one hand going to the high, snug collar of her old-fashioned dress. “Will that be wise, István? I mean having any sort of large gathering.”

  “Yes, I believe that there will be no difficulties, Mater. Why?” And what had changed her mind so suddenly, István wondered.

  “Countess Chotek said that she and Her Grace Duchess Starhemberg . . . that they . . . that a mob attacked their car a week ago yesterday. Some men were shouting about workers and down with foreigners, and women in the mob started throwing rocks at the car. Her Grace’s driver was injured but managed to get them to safety.”

  The hair on the back of István’s neck rose. “Where was this?”

  “Near Weiner-Neustadt. Not far from the new aircraft factory, where they had to move all those Galician peasants.” She stroked the pearls on her necklace, fingers still trembling. “István, what is going on?”

  A war, Mother, is going on, and our enemies are trying to get us to tear ourselves apart so that they do not have to. He answered, taking care about some things she did not need to know. “Hunger and resentment are going on, I suspect. The city government of Vienna has suffered some, ah, difficulties, in making certain that all the people fleeing to the city have what they need. Rumors about hoarding, and about foreigners buying up all the food, are probably floating about as well.” And he could easily guess who was being blamed: the Ruthenes, Jews, Poles, and Bohemians who had fled to Vienna or had moved there looking for work. And the rich or powerful as well, because the Communists had been blaming everything on the rich since 1848, if not before.

  “Well, they can go home now, so what are they doing still lounging in Vienna?”

  István blinked. Had his mother been possessed? This did not sound like her at all. “The Russians left nothing behind in Galicia, Mater,” he explained, quiet and patient. “They even removed the railroad tracks and telegraph wires, where they could. And they carried off people, mostly men, to work inside Russia, or so the Red Cross believes.” He knew, but he couldn’t tell her that.

  “Oh.” She blinked, and her face went blank for a long moment, then her gaze sharpened once more. Had he really seen that? Her eyes narrowed, “So when will the christening be?”

  “This Sunday, after the second Mass. Fr. Gellért agrees that small and quiet is best, since Barbara is still tired. Judit and Walter have agreed to stand as godparents.” And possibly someone else would be there, but István was not certain he wanted to mention that personage to his mother.

  The family gathered around the baptismal font at St. Imre’s Church at the foot of Buda Hill. Originally built by the Jesuits, the ornate decoration always made István wonder a little if the order had used up all the gold in the Indies—for the greater glory of the Lord, of course. Rococo plasterwork angels covered every surface that wasn’t marbled, gilded, or bearing a saint. “Three hundred twelve,” his brother hissed as István stared around.

  “Pardon?”

  “There are three hundred twelve angels that you can see from our row,” Mátyás explained. “Fr. Sebastian, rest his soul, did tend to go on and on.”

  István turned a laugh into a cough before his mother could kill him with her fierce look. The cough turned real when he saw who waited by the dark marble baptismal font with Fr. Gellért. It was not Archduke Rudolph Habsburg, thanks be to God. Instead István’s distant cousin Prince Miklos Eszterházy stood at Archduke Thomas’s shoulder. Lady Marie gasped and the entire family bowed or curtsied very low indeed. Archduke Thomas, commander of the Imperial Armies, said, “You may rise. Please, come. It is my honor to welcome a new member of the Eszterházy family into the family of the Lord.”

  István risked a telepathic query to his mother. «Did you ask His Grace or his excellency to stand as godfather?»

  «No. I thought you had.»

  István had a sudden sinking suspicion as to just who had invited the emperor’s great-uncle. Rudolph, you are— Fortunately, Fr. Gellért cleared his throat and began asking the baptismal questions, forestalling the rest of István’s silent growl.

  Judit and Walter Freiherr von Eschingen, and Prince Miklos, stood as godparents. His Grace witnessed, even holding big brother Imre briefly. The boy fussed a little but behaved, apparently fascinated by the archduke’s glittering Order of the Golden Fleece on its ribbon, dangling just out of his reach. When Erzsébet fussed as the water poured over her head, Miklos smiled a little. The smile widened when Magda, the senior nurse, whispered under her breath in Hungarian, “Good. Letting the devil out.”

  After Fr. Gellért presented them with the baptismal certificate and everyone signed the parish register, István ventured, “Thank you for honoring us with your presence, Your Grace.”

  The old man, who was in his seventies if he was anything, smiled under his luxuriant white mustache. “You are welcome, Col. Eszterházy. My nephew sends his regrets. He had hoped to attend, but matters in the Tirol demand his attention. His Majesty sends his congratulations and best wishes for her young ladyship’s future.” Archduke Thomas presented an envelope bearing the imperial seal to István, who bowed as he took it.

  “We are having a quiet gathering at Eszterházy House, Your Grace, Your Highness,” he nodded to the Archduke and Cousin Miklos in turn.

  Thomas looked grave. “Quiet is to be recommended. Thank you for your most gracious invitation, but matters to the north and east require my presence. You must excuse me.”

  “Of course Your Grace.” Everyone bowed or curtsied once more as Archduke Thomas left, gathering a train of aids and guards as he departed.

  Barbara rocked Erzsébet, almost invisible in the two-meter-long christening gown’s lace and fine linen. “Your Highness,” she said to Prince Miklos, “Thank you for inviting his Grace.”

  The head of the junior, but more politically powerful, branch of the family waved one hand, the afternoon light through the windows glinting on two signet rings. “I did not invite him. I received a letter informing me that Archduke Rudolph had mentioned Erszébeth’s arrival and inquiring as to when the christening would be, if it had not been held yet. I did not know that His Grace was considering attending,” Miklos assured everyone.

  The diet’s Easter recess the following week came as a relief. “Get them out of Budapest and let everyone’s tempers cool,” István muttered. He took part in the Holy Week devotions and meditations with more attention that had been his usual wont. The reading of the betrayal in the garden especially moved him, coming as it did with the Italians’ renewed attacks on the Tirol and along the Adriatic. Their naval barrages of Trieste, Fuime, and other ports had been answered with the destruction of several of their ships and the harrying off of others, but the empire could not afford a three-front war. The fools had even tried to stir up the Serbs, albeit with little success. Apparently the South Slavs desired a return of a re-born Roman Empire about as much as they approved of the Habsburg Empire, which is to say not at all. Death also felt closer this year, and István rose from the tenth Station of the Cross, genuflected, and prayed again for his father’s soul and for those lost in the war. And he prayed for peace within the empire.

  He attended Good Friday prayers with Lady Marie at the cathedral, praying as she assisted the other women with the stripping of the altars, removing the paraments and candles as the world sank into dark mourning for the dead Lord. As they left the cathedral, he noticed
groups of working-class men and others clustered here and there on the broad stone steps, or in the plaza around the large, neo-Classical stone building. All appeared quiet, but he felt something in the air beyond the usual Good Friday solemnity. The men watched István, Lady Marie, and the other nobles and worshippers with sullen curiosity. The mood and sense in the air felt too much like the crowd before the riot, when he and Barbara had been in Trieste, and István hurried his mother as best he could without drawing attention to their haste.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demanded, once they’d gotten into their carriage for the ride back across the bridge to Buda.

  “I’m sorry, Mater, but I do not want you going to the Cathedral for Easter Mass.”

  She drew herself up and glared at him from behind her black veil. “What do you mean, telling me not to attend Easter Mass?”

  “Not at the Cathedral, Mater. Not without Ferenk and other male servants if you insist on going.” I will walk you to St. Imre’s or St. Gellért if I have to.

  She grumbled, fumed, and complained, but eventually agreed. The entire family and staff attended the vigil of Easter and the first Mass at St. Imre’s church, then the main Mass at St. Ursula’s. István and Mátyás conferred afterwards in the library cum smoking room, following a family Easter dinner.

  “Something’s going on,” Mátyás stated as they left the formal dining room.

  István nodded. “You feel it too.”

  His younger brother snorted, choked, caught himself, and said, “Feel, hear, and see, Brother dear. No one looks too closely at a cripple, since we can’t cause trouble or get out of the way,” he added in a snarl.

  “Who?” Because I will thrash them.

  Mátyás waved one hand. “No one you need concern yourself with. They thought I was a Jew. They learned otherwise.”

  Two years before István would have replied with a joke about greedy Jews. Now he mulled over his brother’s words and played with an unlit cigarette. “The Social Democrats,” he said at last.

  “Yes, they are still calling for a strike tomorrow, starting at the diet and the Agriculture Ministry. Assuming anyone is capable of getting anywhere on their own two feet on Easter Monday.” He lifted his now-empty glass. “Forgive me, but I miss good Scotch.”

  István gave his brother’s receding hairline a significant nod. “I thought you preferred that hair-curling plum brandy from down south.”

  Mátyás’s eyes went wide. “You had best be joking, István. I happen to like drinks I can taste, thank you. Not black paint-thinner in a bottle, no matter what label they put on it or what shape the bottle.”

  “Tsk, tsk, not a true Magyar then,” István winked. “Cousin Imre still knocks back a bottle every other day, neat.”

  Mátyás—and Barbara, who had been coming through the library door behind him—both shuddered and crossed themselves. “No wonder his smarts are starting to go the way of his sense.”

  Barbara shook her head, passing her brother-in-law and taking the chair beside her husband. “He truly is a weathercock, isn’t he?”

  “When self-interest is involved, yes, he is,” Mátyás agreed. “But he’s always preferred schnapps and brandy to milder drinks. Both of his parents abstain.”

  “Still rebelling, so long as someone else will support him,” István sighed, reaching over and patting Barbara’s hand. “Apparently the family was overdue for a wild son, so he decided to step forward.”

  Barbara chuckled a little, then closed her eyes. “Your children, my lord husband, are asleep.” Her unspoken “at last” made the brothers smile.

  Neither of them was smiling the next morning. They’d gone south through Pest, down to the factory district in Alsó Bikaret, along the north end of the industrial canal and factory island, to check on one of the House’s lumberyards and wholesale storage areas. The trams had stopped running in anticipation of the strike, but the trains seemed to be moving. Although lighter than István had expected, horse-carriage and car traffic moved smoothly. Well, it was Easter Monday, and even though wartime required labor, many men still had the day off. Which was why he and Mátyás had decided to visit the facility now, when they were less likely to be in the way or to be interrupted as they looked at the books and records of materials. A damp south wind blew up the river, making István glad of his heavy old coat. But as they drew closer to the factory island in the Danube and the industrial district, Mátyás’s head came up. “There’s no one on the sidewalks,” he said.

  “No, but it is early yet.”

  “Hmm.” Mátyás stayed on alert, studying the few people that they saw outside the carriage. Then he started sniffing. “There’s no smoke.”

  “What do you mean?” István sniffed and smelled fresh air and the river.

  “The factories. They keep the fires going in the steel mills and foundries and plants all the time, because they have to have steady temperature. I asked once,” Mátyás said. He began running his hand along the neck of his cane. “Even after the ember day half-holidays, there should be coal smoke and soot in the air.”

  “You think the strike is on.” It was not a question.

  Mátyás nodded. “I think we need to get back to Buda as soon as we can. But not without checking the lumberyard.”

  By ten, they’d finished. Neither man found anything amiss, but they had not expected to. The House ran the facility, sharing over half the income among the workers, so no one had any cause to be cheating the books or selling wood on the side (or taking good wood home out of spite). The carriage swayed a little as they rode back north, along Gubacs utca. More men appeared on the streets, all moving north toward the main rail junction or beyond. Now István felt wary as well, and didn’t like the cool stares of the men on the streets. If he’d been alone he would have left the carriage and continued on foot, a less conspicuous target and one able to cross the Vasutihid rail bridge, well south of Gellért Hill. But they had to go on north, to the Ferenk Jozefhid or Erzsébetid. And Mátyás could not run, not for long distances. Could he even still sprint? István hoped they would not have to find out.

  Jenö tapped on the roof and István opened the hatch. “My lord,” the pale-faced driver said, “With your permission, I’ll take Mester and Ruduv up to the lowest bridge rather than the riverfront way.” The route would keep them out of the boat docks and main roads.

  “Do it, and cross at Fer. Jozefhid if you can.”

  They got to Kinizsi utka, a few blocks south of the road onto the Fer. Jozef Bridge. Janö drew rein, stopping the carriage. István and Mátyás exchanged looks, and István opened the hatch. “Trouble?”

  “I believe so, my lord.” István could hear a sound over the noise of traffic, such traffic as there was. And no trains, he realized with a start. No boats moved on the river that were not well out in the channel and steaming with considerable speed, as if trying to avoid lingering in the city.

  “Mátyás, do you still have a stable right at your apartment?”

  “Um, yes, although I’ve not.” He stopped. “Trouble.”

  “Yes. I think we will be better off on foot. Smaller targets.”

  Janö cleared his throat. “My lord, I agree. The last riot, they started chasing the carriages and cars, but ignored most foot traffic. I know how to find Lord Mátyás’s stable, and have a relative by marriage near there.”

  István knew that Janö was not wearing any livery or other signs of being with the Eszterházy family. He and Mátyás had dressed like businessmen or professionals. “Mátyás, are you up to a stroll?”

  “Not really, but I’d rather stroll than run.” He clambered awkwardly out of the carriage, managing not to fall or stumble too much. István felt a little pity, then remembered that he, too, would be crippled before too many more years passed, and even that only if he were fortunate. Otherwise he’d be paralyzed. He dragged his thoughts back to their current problem. “I see smoke,” Mátyás added. “Not chimney smoke, either.”

  “Go, Ja
nö, and return when you can.”

  The brothers turned west, to the river, and followed it north. The closer they got to the bridges and the heart of Pest, the stronger the smoke smell and the more people on the streets. For once István blessed the wartime austerity and their older clothes, which were a little worn and nondescript. Mátyás limped heavily, rolling like a ship in a storm. István kept one eye on the sidewalk and one on the people around them, ears attuned for the sound of shots or other trouble.

  One block from the bridge they heard yells, three bangs, and more yells. Smoke reached them from the north. “Shit,” Mátyás said. “You said stroll, not run.”

  “Would you rather swim?”

  “No thank you, Brother. I know what fish do in water.” Under the banter, István heard fear in Mátyás’s voice.

  “So keep strolling.” They moved closer to the building, staying close to the stone and brick. Half a block ahead they could see the Pest end of the twin-peaked bridge. No cars or carriages, wagons or other vehicles moved over the span. Then a delivery wagon appeared, headed for the Buda side at a trot. “I think we’d best follow him.”

  “Agreed.” They picked up the pace as much as they could. István dropped back, ready to offer Mátyás help if asked.

  They made it barely ten meters onto the bridge before someone called, “Look! Informers! Grab them.”

  Oh damn. I’m about to give up walking. Shirker, informer, the only thing I’ve not been called yet is a Jew or a Lutheran. István felt the back of his neck crawling and wanted to start running, but he didn’t dare leave Mátyás or draw more unwelcome attention. The brothers continued over the bridge, passing the first set of bird-topped towers, each step one closer to safety. If they could reach Gellért Hill, the troops there would discourage the mob from following too closely, especially if István could get the attention of the captain of the watch. “They’re closer,” Mátyás said.