by Alma Boykin
“Here. How does this sound?” Felix demanded, saving his friend from potential embarrassment.
I could get used to this, István thought, luxuriating in the well-heated room and warm bath. Unfortunately, Barbara is a little too used to it already. Barbara, now Lady Eszterházy Rosenberg Barbara, thoroughly enjoyed having servants waiting on her hand and foot, and did not object in the least to rear-feed heating stoves, endless hot water on demand, and tea and chocolate that arrived on silent feet whenever she rang the little silver bell on the table beside her chair. Maybe I should have graciously declined Cousin Miklos’s gift, except I couldn’t—not without irking Father and the entire House. Not that the House is especially happy at the moment anyway. All the more reason to go to Trieste.
Cousin Miklos “Nicholas” Eszterházy, Palatine of Hungary, former treasury minister for the Habsburg Empire, now head of the railroads and in semi-retirement, believed in keeping the family’s primary residence at Eisenstadt, just south of Vienna, equipped with the latest amenities and more servants than István could imagine. “Enjoy yourself, little cousin,” the prince had smiled. “Maria and I will be in Vienna for the season. It’s our gift to you for flushing out the idiots in Galicia for me.” Miklos had winked one black eye as István fought the urge to squirm. Col. Marbach had made good on his threat to inform Miklos of what had transpired, and now the regional rail officers couldn’t do enough for the military, for some reason. István didn’t ask. Nor did he ask how his first class tickets had been upgraded to an entire private carriage on the express train all the way to Trieste and back.
The wedding had been a little much by the northern branch of the family’s standards, but Cousin Miklos pronounced it “rustic” and “Spartan.” István and Barbara had wed in the Karlskirche instead of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, but even so a full choir had sung the nuptial mass, and Archduke Antony von Habsburg and Prince Cristofer von Lichtenstein had been present as witnesses, along with members of both families. They’d been allowed to hold the reception at the Belvedere Palace, and the music and dancing had lasted well into the wee hours of the morning. Poor Barbara had been exhausted, in part because she’d not realized just how important her new family was to the imperial government. Well, a distant branch of her new family. Apparently her father had not mentioned that little detail, and her mother . . . Bless her, but Lady Agatha should have warned Barbara about more than just untrustworthy servants. At least Barbara’s aunt told her what marriage entailed, so she wasn’t shocked by that as well. He’d been in hot water with her as it was.
Well, he had to get out of the bath water and face the day before he caught a chill. As part of the wedding gifts, and in acknowledgment of his new status, his father had increased his allowance, paying for a full-time valet. István was not entirely sure of the man yet, but Attila Szombor came with high references, having been trained by Archduke Rudolph’s valet. Working for István probably seemed like a combination of provincial exile and refreshing normality compared to Rudolph. As soon as he got to his feet, the drab manservant handed István a warm, very thick towel, then asked, “Would my lord Major prefer tea or coffee?”
“Coffee with sugar.” István toweled off, dressed as far as his shirt, and accepted the steaming cup as other servants emptied the tub and carried off the used towels. István had decided that he didn’t need to shave yet. One of the blessings of being a Half Dragon: he grew facial hair only with great effort, permitting him three or four days before fuzz turned to scruff. Szombor presented his employer with two suits and István chose the heavy tweed. No matter how foolish British politics and foreign policy may be, the Scots still make some of the best winter-weight wools. He tugged the jacket straight and asked, “Is my wife awake?”
“Yes, my lord Major. She will be in the morning room shortly.”
“Very well.”
István finished dressing and went down the hall, through the receiving room to the bright, airy morning room. The staff had already set out breakfast for two, and indeed, Barbara swept in only moments after he did, brandishing a newspaper. “Oh! Good morning, dear,” she blurted.
“Good morning. Something amiss?” He held her chair as she sat, then took his place as a footman uncovered eggs, sausage, hot rolls, and other savories.
“Not entirely, but what is going on with the Germans and the Russians?” She tapped the newspaper. “It says that the Russian ambassador to the court in Berlin, Marbach, delivered an unhappy letter from the Tsar about what King Wilhelm said in a speech at the Wilhelmshaven shipyard last week.”
István buttered his roll and shook his head. “No idea, my lady. His majesty tends to, ah, speak from the heart without thinking of how others might interpret his words.” Which makes me feel a touch sorry for the staff of the Foreign Ministry in Berlin that have to explain what his majesty did or did not mean. That seemed to appease Barbara, who set to her breakfast with a hearty appetite. After they did justice to the excellent repast, he asked, “Is there anything you would like to do today?”
“I’d like to ride the park, if the weather permits.” She turned so she could see the expanse of snow-covered gardens and well-managed woodland visible from the windows. “It does not seem that cold out at the moment, but I don’t like the clouds.”
“They do look more like rain than snow,” he agreed. István started reaching for the land and caught himself. Not here, he remembered just in time—the Power here wouldn’t answer his call. Or worse, it might respond in a way that he’d just as soon not experience. “But if we stay close, we should be fine.”
“Shall I tell the stable master, my lord major?” the footman inquired as he removed the now-empty dishes and refreshed the coffee pot.
“Yes, please do.”
After another cup of coffee, Barbara excused herself to go change from her morning gown into riding clothes. István wondered again why women went through so many changes of clothes in the day. Well, they were women. His father had confessed just before New Years that after thirty and more years of marriage, he still didn’t understand the creatures, not entirely. The admission had made István feel better. He did appreciate the light, fluttery morning dresses, however. He finished his coffee, picked up the paper, and took it with him as he returned to his room to get his boots and an overcoat. The headline screamed of diplomatic disturbances and he shook his head once again at the breathless tone of the popular press. Alarums, wars, and rumors of wars, and gossip and innuendo about their betters, but they never print useful news. And how did they get that naughty bit past the censors, I wonder? Probably by saying “a rumor has it that the eldest son of an old and noble family was seen,” and staying temptingly vague.
A few heavy flakes of snow fluttered down as István and Barbara rode around the edge of the inner estate, but the storm passed them by. In fact, the air felt so warm that once he got to the stable, István decided to leave his heavy coat behind, trusting his gloves, muffler, and hat to keep him warm. No wind moved the unusually warm air, and the snow felt rotten under the horses’ hoofs, melting from below. He decided to try Miklos’s bay thoroughbred. The spirited gelding wanted to pull the reins out of his hands, and demanded a firm seat and steady hand, but trotted like the racer that he was, and took fences with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. Barbara’s more sedate dark-brown Hungarian plains horse needed more coaxing, but acted game enough once Barbara reminded the mare to lift her forefeet over the hedges.
They rode for two hours before returning to the grand house. Rebuilt after the last Turkish war, its yellow walls glowed in the dim late-morning light. From this side they couldn’t see the twin neo-Classical stone buildings in front that served as stable and carriage house—totally inappropriate for the main building, and a legacy of Miklos’s grandfather’s vast ambitions but quarter-vast funds. Barbara reined to a stop and looked at the house, then turned to her new husband. “Why does our branch of the family not have anything like this?”
“This style of b
uilding or a country palace of this size?”
“A country palace, dear. This style would look passing strange in the hills.”
Oh dear. I hope she’s not asking for one. “Because when the family divided the properties six generations ago, the eldest son chose and claimed the western properties. His younger brother, András, my great-great-great grandfather, preferred to stay in the north, where he had better income and less chance of losing everything to another Turkish attack. At the time, András wrote that he’d gotten the better half of the estates. And despite my father’s skills, most men in the northern branch lack the gift of being good courtiers and diplomats.” And we have more True-dragon blood, and despite there being True-dragons in the Habsburg line, True-dragons and Vienna don’t always agree with each other—especially since the fashion for fine china on every flat surface swept in from Saxony and England.
“Ah, that makes sense,” she exclaimed. “We don’t have to entertain royalty.”
“Only younger sons, and Nagymatra is more than suitable if his majesty wanted to hunt in the Matra rather than the Alps.”
To his mild surprise she looked slightly relieved, if he read her expression correctly. Then she smiled and a wicked gleam appeared in her eyes. “Race to the stable.” She touched heel and stick to the mare’s flanks and the beast surged into motion.
“Tsaa!” He liked fiery horses and spirited women, and István easily caught up with her, although he didn’t push the thoroughbred on the slippery ground.
Later that night, Barbara snuggled beside him in bed and began, “Ah, I’m not sure if this is a good time to mention this . . .”
“Mention what?”
“Is the family unhappy that we’re going to Trieste?”
He blinked, staring up at the bed canopy. Er, how to . . . but father says she can sense something, and I guess I’d better be honest. “Not my immediate family, but the House, our side of Clan Eszterházy.”
Her next words shocked him almost out of the bed. “Oh, you mean the True-dragons, like Hans your hunt master and Aunt Claudia? Why should they be concerned? Is there a True-dragon disease down there?”
“Ah, erm, no, not that I know of, and yes, some of the House members are True-Dragons.” He rolled onto his side so he could see her better in the dark. “How do you know about that, dear?”
She shook her head a little and rolled her eyes. “Papa told me. I mean, it would be beyond rude for me to have a shrieking fit whenever Aunt Ludmilla or Cousin Heinrich came by to visit, especially since Cousin Heinrich will be Head of House Karlovic.” Her complete nonchalance told István that she wasn’t joking.
“Wait, I thought Wetzel Antonin was in line to become Head.” He’d met Wetzel at his and Barbara’s engagement party, and although they didn’t become immediate fast friends, Wetzel seemed like a tolerablly decent sort, if a little fuzzy at times.
“No. Wetzel is the public heir, but his father, Heinrich, will be actual Head. Heinrich’s charming, but he’s a bit too flamboyant to do well in a professional gathering.” Before he could ask she explained, “He’s yellow and purple with red eyes, and he acts like his colors, although Papa says it’s just acting—after he tangled with the Power at Kutna Hora, he’s had a dark streak in him.”
István stared at her, shocked beyond words. She yawned, “Good night,” rolled onto her side away from him, and fell asleep. He stared at the flow of hair spilling over the pillow and blanket and wondered what the hell he’d married into. Well, that will make introducing her to the staff easier, I think. Maybe. And what did she mean about her cousin and the Power at Kutna Hora? Do I want to know?
He still hadn’t decided the next day when they boarded the train for Trieste. He revised his concerns about Barbara’s multiple outfits after watching the porters struggling to load Countess Petöfi’s enormous trunks and dozen hatboxes, train cases, and otherwise unidentifiable traveling impedimenta. It didn’t help that she belabored the men as they worked, almost shrieking, “I am not missing this train! If it had not been for the fools in Vienna I would be well on my way, but no . . .” István and Barbara did their best to ignore the commotion as they walked up the train, looking for their carriage. The porters handled the couple’s baggage with practiced ease and a great deal of deference, once they realized that it belonged in the private rail car. István felt a little self conscious at first, then told himself to act his rank and took the bows and salutes as his due. Barbara swept along the platform with as much dignity as the empress herself, parting the crowd of commoners. István noticed some speculating looks, but didn’t sense any hostility as they boarded the gleaming black, blue, and crimson car.
The blue-and-gray interior matched the ornate decorations outside. A sitting area, separate sleeping compartment, and two servants waited for them. Barbara ensconced herself in the deep chair beside the large window, facing the front of the train, and settled in with a book and a deck of cards. Szombor spoke briefly with one of the servants, then found his own little nook at the very front of the car, on the other side of the tiny washroom. The polished brass fittings and trim gleamed, and the lush horsehair and velvet upholstery spoke of his cousin’s taste and wealth. A little before three they heard the warning whistles, felt a small lurch, then a heavier pull, and the train puffed out of the Eisenstadt station, headed west under a cloud of steam and coal smoke.
According to the rail map, they’d travel west to join the main line at Wiener Neustadt, then go southwest to Graz, south to Marburg, then west-southwest to Laibach in Karina before wending their way through the mountains to Trieste at the head of the Adriatic and the Gulf of Venice. He’d seen part of the area, but not all of it, and looked forward to the change in scenery. Barbara had never been farther from home than Vienna, although she spoke a little Italian and French, of course.
István sat back, watching the winter-brown landscape passing by, and wondered how many Roman legions had followed parts of their route. People had started turning up Roman bits and pieces near Klagenfurt, as well as Vienna, Óbuda, Esztergom, and other places. How had they managed their empire, with all its odd bits and pieces? The same way the Habsburgs did, he recalled. So long as people paid their taxes, worshipped the gods of Rome, and obeyed the law, Rome left them alone. Although I don’t suppose Emperor Trajen had to worry about idiots proclaiming the superiority of the Illyrian soul to that of the—what was it, oh yes—cold, inhibited Romans. Felix Starhemberg had passed along that bit of nationalist nonsense. The Rumanian claims of Roman ancestry always left István shaking his head.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely fair to laugh at them, István reminded himself. His own House’s records contained enough accounts of rapine, assault, looting, revenge killings, and conquest to cure almost anyone of illusions about the glorious, noble, saintly ancestry of House Sárkány-Karpátok. Some of the House chroniclers had been a touch too truthful, in István’s opinion. And the records only extended to the 1250s, after everyone had crawled back out of the caves and had begun trying to salvage what little the Mongols had left. How many times had his family been driven to take shelter in the wilds? Well, not since 1686, thanks be to God and the Habsburgs, and he intended to keep it that way. A black-clad steward put a tea glass on the polished wood of the table. As he reached for it, the amber liquid started tilting as the train labored up the first incline, into the edge of the Vienna Woods.
“A pfennig for your thoughts, dear?” Barbara asked.
He smiled. “Just thinking about old history and pedigrees. We’ll be passing through more of the old Roman areas once we get into Kärnten and Kraina.”
She set her book down and sipped the tea. She’d worn a dark blue suit and matching hat with a large, light-blue bow that he found rather fetching. “Hmm. Is it true that the Habsburg family can trace its roots to Troy?”
“Not really, although they used to.” He chuckled a little. “During the Middle Ages everyone who wanted to be anyone managed to find relatives going back to King D
avid, Troy, or Emperor Augustus. And of course Charlemagne figured into every family tree north of the Alps.”
Her red lips curved in a knowing smiled and she raised one eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He wondered what she really knew about medieval history. Probably a great deal more than her mother would approve of, István realized. “What are we doing for meals?” she asked, shifting topics.
“If my lady desires, stewards will bring your meals and afternoon tea here,” the senior footman explained as he set down a plate of sandwiches and a little three-layer stand holding small cakes and other sweets. “Or my lady is welcome to walk to the first class saloon and dining car.” Barbara made an intrigued sound.
“Thank you.” She waited until he finished pouring more tea before helping herself to a sandwich and bit of cake.
István and Barbara were both glad to get out and stretch their legs two days later, when they arrived at last in Trieste. As lovely as the private car was, and as interesting as the scenery had been, being confined for so long left István edgy and snappish. Barbara took it better, but even she had almost lunged down the steps onto the platform, where two men in spotless Imperial Railway uniforms waited for them. The heavy, wet air made István glad he’d brought winter things. But it felt warmer than Eisenstadt had. The senior official bowed. “Welcome to Trieste, my lord Major, my lady.” He handed Barbara a bouquet of flowers.
“Oh, thank you!”
István smiled to himself as he took his wife’s arm and followed their hosts to the waiting horse cab, two porters hurrying along behind with their luggage. I wonder how long it took the news from Galicia to reach the coast? Railway gossip probably flies as fast as rumor does in the Army, I wager.
The Hotel di Mare met his standards quite nicely. The staff was attentive, but did not hover, and their suite of rooms included a small adjoining chamber for Szombor. Large windows opened onto a balcony facing a garden and the sea. The couple freshened up and then strolled along the waterfront walk, away from the industrial harbor. North and east of the ancient port, a stark, pine-clad plateau jutted up behind the castle hill. The grey clouds had begun breaking up a little over the hills, giving peeks of pale blue skies above. Barbara stared around, enthralled by the expanse of grey water and the fishing boats rocking at their moorings. “I’m sorry we cannot take the time to go to Italy,” he began. “It is far more colorful this time of year.” And warmer.