by Alma Boykin
Imre shook his head and gave István a patient look, as if he were talking to a slow child. “It goes beyond that. The nations need to be separate. We Magyars have been here far longer than any German, and should rule ourselves. No German or Slav can understand the Magyar heart. We’re Catholic, they’re Lutheran or Orthodox. We look to ourselves, while they look to Russia or Berlin for instructions. We’re warriors. Slavs are, well, slaves, farmers, peasants. They’re brave enough in a mob, or when cornered, but not noble like we are. The Germans are too tied to order, too easily led, not like us. Having a German king over Magyars never worked. And it won’t work in the future. Better to let the Slavs and Germans and Turks and Italians have their own countries so they can fail and not drag us along with them.”
István could not believe his ears. Had Imre lost his mind? How could the House prosper without all its members—Slav, Magyar, True-dragon? Maybe Imre was trying to goad István into losing his temper again. “What about True-dragons, Cousin? Where do they fit in? Or Jews?”
“They don’t. Oh, the Jews can have something somewhere, maybe in Canada,” Imre waved his hand, dismissing the matter. “Unless they become fully Magyar and convert, quit insisting on being different. And the True-dragons are family, many have Magyar blood by now, so what is the problem?”
István counted to ten before answering, looking at the stripes on the wall rather than at his mad cousin. “The Houses won’t—can’t—stand for that. House Szárkány certainly can’t. You are saying that we should expel the Bohemians and Germans from the House, leave them to make their way elsewhere, in a Bohemian or German country, despite all they’ve done over the centuries. Millennia, in some cases. And what of House Habsburg? Their lands are home to a dozen nations, possibly more. We’ve done well as the empire and it should stay that way. All this talk about nations of blood is just an excuse for politicians and French adventurers, anyway.”
“You fool!” Imre exploded, leaping to his feet, face turning crimson. “You absolute blind fool, István Eszterházy. Come down from your mountain and look around, really look and listen. Get away from the House and see what waits in the streets and cities and you’ll see that you are completely wrong. Nations are real, Cousin. The Slavs in the Czech, Moravian, and Slovak lands won’t put up with having Magyars and Germans lord over them any more, not when they can be free to stand on their own, to speak their own language in public, to make laws for themselves.
“Blood calls to blood, Cousin,” Imre planted his hands on István’s desk, looming over him, or trying to. “Either we go our ways in peace or blood will flow, Habsburg blood most likely, them and their supporters. Slavs and Magyars are tied to the soil, to Rip Hill in Bohemia, to the Great Plain and the Hunyadi lands of the Magyar kingdom. There’s no brotherhood across bloodlines, Cousin. Dissolve the House, divide the land and money, and start earning your keep like the rest of us mortals.”
“And who will lead?” István kept his voice quiet and locked his shaking hands together to keep from reaching up and strangling Imre.
“Those who should, the true sons of Arpad, real Magyars chosen by the people, just as the war-bands chose from the sons of the gods back in the founding.” Imre stopped for an instant. “Well, not from divine offspring, but from men who understand what Magyars need and how we belong to the land.”
“And they will order the Magyars to attack the Slavs north and south, to refight Lechfeld and avenge the years under the German yoke, is that it? Which Magyar kingdom, Imre? Which Slav kingdom? When Bulgaria controlled the entire Balkans? Or when the Serbs claimed it all before that fool, so-called Tsar Stephen Dushan, lost to the Turks at Kosovo? The Slovaks never had a country.” Now István got to his feet. “The Houses are expelling True-dragons because they are not human. Will the Magyars expel part-Slav Hungarians?”
“You still don’t understand, István. If a Slav country is created, they’ll want to leave, to be with their people.” Imre folded his arms and tried to look fierce, but it didn’t move his cousin.
“I understand the needs of the House, and what is best for our people. I understand the absolute disaster that will unfold if we start allowing anyone who promises gold and land to the mob to lead the government.” István leaned forward, locking eyes with Imre. “The House needs the empire. The empire serves the Houses, as well as everyone else. We cannot stand on our own, mystical blood ties to sacred soil be damned. You are playing straight into the hands of Wilson and the Americans.”
István brought himself back under full control before Imre could interrupt. “You have voiced your opinion. I have explained why it is my opinion that you are full of—” another deep breath, “feathers and nonsense. I will not give you news I promised not to give. If Mr. Horthy chooses to break his word, that is between him, the diet, and his god, assuming he has one besides himself. The topic is closed for this evening.”
Imre stuck his jaw out, or tried to. He’d also inherited his father’s weak chin and only succeeded in pouting. “So be it. I take it I am not welcome for supper?”
“Only if you brought your own food. The markets ran short today. I suspect the weather.”
Now on safe ground Imre sighed and ran a hand through his dull brown hair. “Probably, Cousin. The river’s rising again, and no one wants to drive cattle or sheep to market in storms. They’d end up in Constantinople or Munich.”
“Or the sheep would drown themselves staring up at the rain, like those birds from the United States.”
Imre snorted and sat. “You mean there’s something stupider than Monsignor Albiani?”
“So I have heard.” He wished Imre would put all that passion into something helpful, or at least harmless, like collecting butterflies. Or have less of it. István’s stomach tried to growl and he shushed it. Those birds are what, five kilos at least? I could eat a whole one right now, I really could.
Over the next few weeks, the ideas Imre and Emperor Josef Karl had voiced swirled around inside István’s head. He tried to ignore them, to concentrate on timber laws and land rents and paying for ever more expensive necessities without selling the family’s—or House’s—property. But the lurking fear of the House splitting, or tearing itself apart, gnawed at István until he reached the breaking point. His thoughts ran slowly, and he needed more time than ever to sort out ideas and words, but by the end of July he knew that he had to ask the House, the entire House, what it would do and how he should plan.
Late summer’s heat baked Budapest, bringing smells out of the river and giving István headaches. It shortened his brother’s temper as well, and the two circled around each other like stags in autumn, watching, neither one willing to be the first to charge. They remained polite and civil, keeping their private differences out of the office and lumber yards, but Mátyás found reasons to leave when István came in, and István spent more time in his office in the parliament building, or at the town palace. As summer’s heat grew heavier, baking the plains and offering hope of the best maize crop in several years, the House began leaning on István to clear the air. He managed to put off dealing with Mátyás until the first of August.
“We’ve lost.”
István looked up from the Latin law book he’d been trying to parse and saw Mátyás limping through the office door. “What?”
“I said we’ve lost. His Majesty just admitted it, admitted that we can’t continue to fight. He’s pulling the army back to Transylvania, letting Romania go. And he’s breaking the alliance with the Germans, not that it will stop the Entente from attacking us.”
“We never intended to hold Romania, just punish them for breaking the alliance,” István reminded his brother. “And as much as the shame of breaking our agreements with Germany hurts, we did not ask to be dragged into their fight with France and Britain. Or the United States. Survival comes first, for the empire and for the House.”
Mátyás sagged into a chair, resting his cane against his leg. “And he’s going to have his hands full keep
ing the Communists from killing all of us.” He sounded glum. “I don’t think he can do it, with all respect to His Majesty. We’re exhausted and the Communists are young, optimistic, and armed.”
“You sound as cheerful as Imre, who is still with the nationalists as of two days ago.”
“So he’ll probably march in later this evening singing the Russian Revolutionaries anthem. Or brandish a sword cane, slash holes in the parlor drapes, and announce he’s joined Duke Taxis in the Conservatives.”
István had to laugh at the picture. “I hate to say it, but I could almost see him doing that. Almost. Just until the wind changes direction, but yes.”
His smile faded as Mátyás shook his head and looked more glum than usual. “I am serious about the Communists. History is on their side. The men in the factories and on the docks, the peasants, they are going to rise up and kill anyone who stands in the way of seizing all our property in the name of the people.”
“They tried. They failed.”
“They won’t this time. They know better now, and the Russians are helping them, or will. The peasants have always wanted the estates broken up and given to the farm workers. Now the men in the factories are demanding the same thing.” Mátyás leaned forward in his chair and rested both hands on his cane. “You don’t hear the market and street talk. I do. Half our men won’t look at me, or look at me out of the sides of their eyes. They stop talking when one of the managers walks by. People are being warned not to be seen with Magnates and bankers, or bad things will happen.”
“Someone threatened Silvie?” István asked without thinking.
“Yes, she’s been get—” Mátyás sat up, color draining from his face. “You know?”
“About your mistress and child? Yes. I have since before Father died. He knew as well, but we didn’t say anything because of Mother.” Lady Marie would have had the vapors, then demanded to know where the poor woman lived and have shown up on her doorstep to order her to release Mátyás from her blandishments. Or brought a priest to pray the woman into confessing her sins and repenting.
István should have stopped there, but instead his mouth added, “Mátyás, just marry her and make it legal. We’ve got enough little bastards in the family as it is.”
It Mátyás could have launched himself from the chair he would have beaten his brother into sawdust. Instead his mouth opened and closed, and István saw a hint of color shift in Mátyás’s eyes for the first time ever. “You— How dare you, you smug son of a bitch? God damn it, what do you know about my affairs and private life?”
“I know that you have been supporting Silvie and your daughter for eight years now, that she lives in the area behind the museums, and that she has the right to claim support from the House, as much right as my children do.” István heard himself speaking as Head and wondered if he should just order his brother to marry the woman. “I never said anything because you were supporting them and because you are a man grown. I’m not responsible for your soul, Fr. Antonio’s arguments aside.”
“No, and you are not responsible for anything in my life, House Head or no, Brother.” Mátyás drew himself up ramrod straight. “Silvie’s family assumes that she is dead, for reasons that are none of your business. Yes, we have been together for ten years. No, I have not married her because she has refused my invitations to do so. She wants nothing to do with our family, István Joszef Imre Eszterházy. Silvie loves me for me, Mátyás. I’m not the crippled brother of the Head of a House, or a count’s brother. I’m Mátyás, who loves her and loves our daughter. Silvie doesn’t give a damn that I’m not a HalfDragon, and she didn’t spend years plotting who to marry me off to in order to strengthen House or imperial alliances, only to whip around and tell me on my sickbed that I could never have permission to wed anyone. So sod off, Brother, and leave my family alone. Not everyone loves the Houses, you know, or the nobility.”
István only had to count backward from twenty in Latin to cool off this time. Mátyás, what in St. Florian’s name is wrong with you? Oh hell. Fine. István pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. His temples throbbed in time to the clock’s tick. “Mátyás, if Silvie does not want to marry you, that is between you two. But because her child is yours, and you have acknowledged her by supporting her, she does have a claim on our family even if her mother does not choose to exercise it. Not the House, but the family, just like any other acknowledged”—he caught himself just in time—“child. Have you included her in your will?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” They glared at eachother for a minute, the ticking of the clock and Mátyás’s fast breathing the only sound in the office. “Dare I ask who threatened you with an alliance marriage?”
“No you may not.” The words snapped so hard they could have been used to herd cattle. “Damn it, it’s House this and House that, House alliances and House duties, and I am sick of it. The time of kings and clans died four years ago. So I’m a cripple with a bastard and a whore, that’s what everyone thinks. I do not care anymore. The entire House can go to hell, just leave me here with Silvie and Josephina.”
István counted to fifty in Bohemian. “You sound—” He stopped as something moved around them. What’s that? No. He dropped his shield and reached for the Matra. Instead, something else brushed his mind, a glancing touch that left him blurry eyed from the pain. The Matra answered reluctantly, wary and reticent. Something with Galicia, something interfering with the energies of the land around it, not another Power but death and cold and—
“What’s wrong?” István came to himself as Mátyás pulled him back into a sitting position. “You dropped forward and I thought you were dead.”
If I were dead, I wouldn’t hurt like this. Through the tears in his eyes, the room seemed to swim, and he wanted someone to shoot him. “I— I’m starting to understand why His Grace Archduke Rudolph is touched in the head. Because whatever just touched me in the head hurts worse than when I caught that artillery shell. Sweet St. Cecilia, Blessed Lady, Holy Lord that hurts.”
“Do you need a drink?”
“Thank you, no. I think,” he swallowed and started again, “I think I need to go soak my head in the river, preferably two meters below the surface of the water.” István leaned back and closed his eyes. “Shit. Can I interest you in taking over as Guardian?”
A reassuring snort answered that question. “Shit, Brother, after that little display? I don’t think you could convince even Salman Löw to accept a title and tax-free estate if he saw you right now.”
Well, I’d convert to Judaism if it meant no more headaches like this one, but I think it’s too late. “You may be underestimating the honorable Mr. Löw’s ambitions, but not by much. Ow.”
“Since you are going to live, I repeat, leave Silvie and Josefina out of any grand plans you might have for my life.” Mátyás squeezed his brother’s shoulder and limped heavily back to the chair, leaning on the desk.
István closed his eyes again. “I will. However,” he raised one finger, not the middle one, “I do need your vote as a member of the House. I’m calling a meeting of the entire House, not just the senior members. If, Lord forbid, the empire shatters, we may have people in different countries. Should we divide based on any new borders or hang together?”
The whistle cut through István’s skull and made him whimper. “Sorry.” After a long moment, Mátyás said, “Dividing means reapportioning all the property, leased land income, and emergency accounts as well as the land?”
“I suspect . . . yes, yes it would, much like when the family divided into the mountain and plains branches, but even more complicated.”
Another silence. “I’d vote for staying together, if we can. But no matter what, we need to hide our holdings.”
“I don’t think even Pannonia could do that,” István said, thinking of the fairy tales about churches that disappeared when the Turks and Tatars attacked, hidden by saints or the Blessed Virgin.
The rude no
ise made István smile a little. “I don’t know. If that’s what made you shut up, then I believe it truly can work miracles. But no, I mean on paper, cut the holdings into small parcels that the Communists, or MSP tax collectors, can’t nationalize. Too many people are looking at Russia and dreaming of doing the same on this side of the Dnieper.”
István shuddered, then opened his eyes. The room had stopped wavering and swaying, but his head still ached to the clock’s tick. “I’ll keep that in mind and mention it to the seniors the next time we meet.”
“You look like hell.”
“I don’t feel much better.”
“I’ll tell Barbara that you were seeing someone. Or something, actually.”
“Don’t you dare. She’ll kill both of us. Or take Magda and Jirina and leave us with Imre and Erzsébet. Both of whom seem determined to shriek every animal out of the mountains.”
Mátyás made a warding off sign. “No thank you. I still remember the diapers and shrieking stage. Just wait until they start talking.”
“Erzsébet is. She thinks Agmánd is her favorite plaything and keeps calling for him.”
Mátyás tried to look appropriately sympathetic and grave, but failed. “Poor Agmánd.”
“Indeed. He hasn’t started begging me to take the family back to Kassa yet, but I think he’s been looking for monasteries that accept True-dragon postulants.”
The brothers smiled, shaking their heads. “And Aunt Claudia?”
“Indulges her terribly, lets her gnaw on her tail, if you can imagine such a thing. Barbara just closes her eyes. She did mention trying to find a boarding school that accepted toddlers.” Imre had gotten into a small cask of honey, with sticky results that required much labor to clean off of him, the kitchen floor, the pantry floor and walls, and one of the rugs. István was just as happy not to have been at Nagymatra for that little adventure.
“If you want to found one, I suspect you’ll have a waiting list even before construction is finished.” Mátyás grinned.
