by Alma Boykin
Come November, the leaves turned colors and began to fall, the grape harvest finished, the grain harvest sat in the bins and bags, and Emperor Josef Karl called for a feast of thanksgiving for peace and the good harvest because Russia had signed a peace treaty with the empire and Germany, withdrawing from the war. Part of István rejoiced at the news and the sound of the few remaining church bells ringing out the joy. Part of him wondered what in the hell it had all been for? Nothing had changed in the east, aside from the new Poland, or at least those parts of Poland and Lithuania that the Germans were not systematically stripping down to the topsoil. They’d probably take that as well, if Ludendorff and Hindenburg could figure out how to do it, and if the soil grew anything besides fleas, pine trees, and wheat.
On the other hand, the news of Turkey’s collapse reached the mountains in late November. “Horse barbarians and the British brought the Ottomans to their end,” István observed from behind the paper.
«Indeed, my lord,» Agmánd said. «A rather poetic end for the heretics, to be attacked by heathens without and atheists within.»
“Hmm, an interesting observation, Agmánd. I do not disagree.” Although István did wonder how much of the chaos would spill north, into the Balkans. He could practically hear the knives being sharpened as Bulgaria, Romania, Greece, and Russia salivated at the prospect of carving up what remained of the Ottoman Empire. Probably France would want the Mediterranean lands, and England had her fingers locked around the Suez Canal already. Italy seemed to be making noises as well, although what use they would have for the Balkans István failed to comprehend. Do they truly wish to refight the Dacian Wars? Because that would put them on our borders again, in Transylvania. And what are we going to do with Romania? He had a few ideas, the most charitable of which included a wall around the land and a pledge to stay out of the empire’s business for at least a decade. Although, if any of the rumors from Russia held truth, well, Romania and the Ruthenes had far greater concerns looming to the east.
Trouble always came from the east. István folded the paper and put it down. The Avars and Magyars, the Huns, the Tatars, the Ottomans and Russians—every invasion began in the east, even if it swung around the Carpathians and stabbed up the Danube. He imagined building a wall or barrier across the passes and sealing off the empire, shielding the Powers as well. Could it be done? Likely not, and the consequences might prove more interesting than he really wanted to think about. Ah well, he had enough on his hands with family, House, and empire.
Next year, István mused, allowing himself to hope as he caught a glimpse of his children playing on the verandah under Aunt Claudia and Magda’s careful supervision. Next year the war would end, peace would come again, and perhaps all would return to what had been before. Imre would enjoy playing in the sea at Trieste. Please Lord, may this be the beginning of the end, the first steps toward peace. Without Russia, Britain and France have to quit, no matter what noises the Americans are making.
“To His Grace Archduke Rudolph of Inner Austria and the Tirol, Greetings,” István read under his breath. The rest of the family and household had gone to bed already, tired from the relocation to Kassa from Nagymatra. Only now did István have a spare moment and thought to write the overdue letter that Archduke Rudolph had requested.
“Thank you for you kind expressions of concern and sympathy. Lady Marie was indeed full of years, and her charitable works and wise council will be greatly missed.” They had been missed since the previous winter, something Judit still failed to understand. Her last letter had belabored him once more for not mourning for their mother. “Your prayers and the series of Masses are greatly appreciated and bring comfort to Lady Marie’s family and her House.”
István stopped, turned his head, and sneezed. Apparently wet feet really did cause colds. He sniffed hard and returned to reading the letter. “As Your Grace has observed, discontent remains high in the country. Relief at Russia’s peace agreement has faded into resentment that all the soldiers are not home—right now, this moment. Even those who agree with my lord General Schwarzenberg’s slow removal of troops from the Eastern Front, and his shifting fresher men to the Italian and Romanian borders, wonder if he is moving too slowly and cautiously, since no threat exists to the southeast.” At least for the moment, that is. Once the Turks finish falling apart, or if the Russians can’t come to an orderly arrangement for a new government . . . Nothing in the House Chronicles boded well for Russia.
“The continued hunger and dearth raise more complaints. Yes, reforming the ration system and the better harvest have helped, but people want still more, because the war is over. Or so the bulk of the population believes, news from the Italian front notwithstanding. As Your Grace is aware, the Entente continues spreading rumors and insisting on supporting various nationalist groups. The American President’s most recent speeches have found their way to Kassa at the very least, and the offer to recognize each group’s right to have its own country is not smoothing the troubled waters. Your Grace should be aware that the recent election results do seem to favor the Crown, but I have no knowledge of the final vote tallies.” Actually, István had come to agree with those who favored limiting the franchise once more, to veterans who met certain property qualifications, but that faction had been overruled. His Majesty would not go back on his word, not after the effort he’d expended pushing the change through the various diets and parliaments within the empire. Even the Serbs had, with great grumbling and dark murmurs, agreed to the expanded franchise, which allowed all imperial veterans to vote, as well as the previous classes of voters. Or, in the case of Serbia, would eventually allow men to vote once they’d proven their loyalty to the empire.
“The market talk in Kassa and the surrounding area is that while His Majesty is a very good person, and that he does, indeed, mean well for the peoples of the empire, every other group is out to undermine its neighbors. Hungarians point to the Bohemians, who in turn blame Germans and Ruthenes for the unrest and the problems. The Ruthenes and Poles claim that the Germans and Hungarians have used the war as an opportunity to grab the best land, a notion I’m certain Your Grace will find as laughable as I do.” István preferred “foolish in the extreme” to “laughable,” but he’d already moderated his words once and paper cost a great deal of money now.
“Your Grace, the greatest concerns in the market are the high cost of everything, the scarcity of everything, when the men will return home, and when the war will end. All other concerns and complaints fade into mere shadows compared to those four. Even nationalism takes a freight car when hunger rides in a private first class carriage. I believe that if the empire can fend off Italy, and the Entente does not pull a diabolical miracle out of their hat, the empire will stand. His Majesty’s actions and words have soothed people, but a cold winter and hunger may undo some of his efforts.”
István skimmed over the other bits, some in code. Prying eyes had no need to glimpse his concerns for Galicia. Or the rumors about some Houses making noises about dividing into human and non-human branches, or denying rights to True-dragon members. Blast it, nationalism was one thing, and acknowledging the differences that God had placed between the bulk of the different races, but the Houses stood together. Or we’ll die together, István thought, watching shadows in his office. Do the fools not realize that without True-dragons and HalfDragons, our Houses will lose their strength and other advantages? Our right to rule comes from our effort, training, breeding, and the sacrifices we’ve made for our people. Throw that out and we have as much right to govern as do the so-called democrats. And István could well guess how that would turn out. Even Britain had a check on the rabble, or had once had a check. And the Americans? He snorted. Fickle as the wind and less useful, for all their talk of “liberty” and “the rights of men.” Hypocrites, the lot of them, mouthing platitudes about equality and freedom when they treated Red Indians and Negros worse than any Galician or Hungarian lord treated his peasants. Which the peasants knew,
which was why they’d voted so strongly for the Crown’s political parties, or so István kept hearing. He’d be happier when the final results were officially announced.
The letter lay on his desk. He’d re-copy it onto proper paper in the morning. István snuffed the lamp and went to bed. The stack of blankets and feather-filled quilts keep the heat in, and the bed curtains helped too, but even so Barbara seemed to be shivering. He hugged her and she made a soft whimpering sound, then relaxed in his arms.
“Dear, I want another child,” Barbara informed her husband the next morning.
István blinked. You what? Ah, what do I say? If the look in her eyes is correct, I’d better say yes. “Ah, my lady, I will be happy to do all that I can to assist you in gaining your desire.” He also told his body that Barbara probably did not intend to begin at this very instant. His legal rights might permit it, but only an utter fool abused the person he slept with.
“Thank you.” She finished her tea and sighed. “Have you looked at the charity list for Christmas?”
That was far easier to answer. “Yes, my lady, I have. It is long.”
“It is, and Jirina and I have already removed several names, women who have older sons who are working, and even a few daughters who send money and food home.” She frowned, her dark, thin eyebrows drawing down, her full, red lips pursed. “And then there are the Novak daughters.”
“The Novak daughters?”
“They went to work on the farm near Monor, on the plain south of Budapest.”
If he was supposed to remember them, he couldn’t. “What is the difficulty? Have they married out?”
“No.” Her frown deepened. “They, ah, they consorted with some of the Russian prisoners working at the farm. One is with child.”
Anger and weariness warred inside István. “And I take it the father refuses to do his duty to her.”
“No. He wants to marry her and to stay.” Barbara sighed again. “But he is Russian Catholic and speaks no Hungarian. And her father refuses to make a decision.”
“Her father?” István tried to remember. “Janos Novak?”
She nodded. He drank a little of his tea, now almost cold, to buy time as he thought. “I’ll see to it. I’ve been called to Budapest, or rather, will be called to Budapest next week, I suspect, for the formal confirmation of the election results and for other business, and Monor is not that far.” And Barbara was correct: he couldn’t trust Janos Novak to do the right thing, whatever that was—not with a Russian involved. For that matter, István was not certain that even he could think clearly with a Russian soldier in the room, but he was also Head of the House and had to separate himself from his personal feelings. Damn, but his life would be simpler if all young women had as much sense as his wife did.
“Is... is something wrong?” Her plaintive words pulled him out of his building anger, and he caught himself, calming down.
“No, my lady, I just wish that all women had the wisdom that you do.”
She smiled, a smile that hinted at something more, but not for this moment.
Business before pleasure, he reminded himself sternly. Not in front of the servants. We’re Magyars, not Poles or Romanians, and servants are not field serfs.
“Do you have suggestions for the Christmas list, my lady?”
“I do, but later. I hear—” She stopped.
A firm voice carried through half the lodge, “Lord Imre, if you do not stop that at once, Sv. Miklos will leave your name out of his book and the krampus will carry you off!” Jirina’s voice came down the stairs. The sound of feet stopped, then reversed, and he heard giggling that shifted to a cry and “Noooooo!”
István started to ask if Barbara still wanted another child, then bit his tongue. “I see Jirina has been reading my books of stories from the Tirol,” he said instead.
“My nurse told me that the Tatars would carry us off if we were loud.”
If Imre continued as he’d started, his father suspected that he would scare the Tatars off on his own. “Or Suleiman,” István said.
“Social Democrats, eighteen percent. Magyar Party, seventeen percent. Royal Imperial Party, forty-three percent. Catholic Worker Party, eleven percent. All other parties, five percent respectively, and that includes the Romanian Separatists, Land and Crown, and Protestant Workers,” Attila Gabor read to the assembled notables. “All votes have been tallied twice.”
I was right, István thought, smoothing his winter-thick mustache. The peasants and commoners supported the Crown, the cities went Socialist. Judging by who sat near whom in the diet’s main chamber, the Catholic Workers would side with the Royalists to dominate the diet, along with Land and Crown and possibly the Protestant Workers as well. Although István wasn’t so certain about the last, and he caught a glimpse of Gellért Hunyadi whispering behind his hand to Florian Horthy, of the reconstituted Magyar Socialist Party. The MSP leader frowned, eyes so narrow they almost looked shut, and made a cutting motion with one hand. Hunyadi returned his attention to Attila Gabor and Paul Szentgyörgy, the head of the Royal Imperial party.
István had backed the Land and Crown men. He did not have much interest either way at the moment, since his seat in the Assembly of Magnates came with his title and station rather than standing for election. And he’d support the Crown no matter which party happened to lead the Assembly of Commons. He listened to the drone of speech from the head of the chamber and let his mind drift, although he kept his shields high. He needed time to recover from his anger with Mátyás.
At least we didn’t yell at each other. They’d managed to stay civil, expressing their opinions and disagreement without scaring the employees or destroying anything. No unforgivable words had been said, no insults. István did not mention his brother’s mistress, and Mátyás did not summon their father’s ghost to his defense. But the disagreement stung and soured István’s already bad mood.
“I said I did not want to do business with Tisza Enterprizes,” he’d told Mátyás.
“And we have no choice if we are going to get everything repaired. They have a way to get parts, good parts, from Germany and the United States. Don’t preach to me about avoiding the black market, Brother, unless you want to close the mill in Miskolcz and scavenge the equipment to keep this yard running.” Fire snapped in Mátyás’s eyes.
“Which would not be necessary in the first place if the manager here had not ignored Master Gellért’s warning about the bug-killed wood he contracted from the Gabor crooks.” István still could not believe the man had been so stupid.
Mátyás had snarled back, but quietly, enunciating each word. “And he would not have taken it if we had not needed the Gabor business in order to keep the contract with the army, since their sister’s husband approves all army wood contracts. I do not like it either, Brother, but that is the world now.”
“Really.” István put all his thoughts into that one word as his claws started digging into the stack of papers under his left hand. “And your meeting with Georg Tisza had nothing to do with this.”
Brother glared at brother across the office. They had locked gazes, two cats hissing over who ruled the fence. “No. It did not, because I kept my shields up.” Mátyás broke gaze first, running one hand over hair that had retreated at least two centimeters since St. John’s feast and that carried as much grey as black. “You were right, he’s abusing his Gifts. And he’s very strong. Someone is going to have to sort him out if he keeps pushing.”
“Not us, I hope,” István allowed, relaxing his hand before more papers tore. He took several deep breaths to calm down and shift back to his fully human guise.
“Certainly not me. If it comes to that, you’ll need someone to impose a shield on you, another person to shield him and you at full power to force through Tisza’s defenses and hold a gap for a Healer to get in and block him.”
God help us. The prospect made István queasy even now, as he remembered the conversation. That sort of thing burned out Gifts. Istvá
n had not been pleased with his brother’s shifting to a twice-a-week payday from the once-per-fortnight, either, but Mátyás had been vehement.
“You have no idea what things are like in the cities. Prices are rising and food comes at strange times. Even people with extra ration tickets need more cash to buy whatever they can find. Milk and cheese are especially dear, as is medicine.” Something had lurked under Mátyás’s words, something that István had almost pounced on. Almost. That battle had to be saved for a private place and time, not the front office of the family business, with clerks coming in and out and strangers passing by the window and door.
And now István had to go south, to a farm in the rural districts, and find out just what Maria Novak intended to do about her Russian lover. István glanced up at the painting of St. Gellért on the wall and let himself imagine running away to a monastery, perhaps St. Martin’s, near Györ, and spending the rest of his days in prayer and manual labor. Except Barbara and Archduke Rudolph would probably drag him out and scold him to death. He brought his wandering attention back to the men talking at the head of the chamber.
“The Catholic Workers support the Royal Party,” a stentorian voice announced. A snarl from the Social Democrats’ seats greeted the announcement, and a lone voice called, “You betray the workers!” Several delegates shushed the offender before the Sergeant at Arms could identify who had interrupted the proceedings. István glanced at Zoltan Széchenyi, lurking in his bear-like way at the end of the row. He could see the back of Count Széchenyi’s head and nothing else, as Széchenyi watched the disturbance settle. Well, they had not had much excitement since the last MSP outburst, so one was probably overdue.
