Map: Austria-Hungary-Czechoslovakia, ca. 1919
1923
1: The Prices of Defeat
2: Hunting the Highlands
3: War and Love
4: Conferences, Complaints, and a Modest Proposal
5: Holy Days and New Year’s Passing
6: Enemies and Surprises
7: Fury, The Future, and the First-born
1935
8: New Decade, Old Enemy
9: The Great Powers?
10: Parry and Trust
11: The Center Cannot Hold
12: Duty, Honors, Family
13: Refuge in the Storm
14: Hidden Sins and Open Enemies
15: Shattered World
16: Unto the Hills
1945
17: One Final Duty
18: Racing to Refuge
The Cat Among Dragons Series
The Colplatschki Chronicles
The Powers
Further Reading
About the Author
(For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)
“Thanks be that we have land.” István Eszterházy shook his head a little as he read the days-old newspaper from Budapest. “Otherwise we’d starve or be bankrupt.” He carefully avoided looking at Agmánd and Aunt Claudia, lest the True-dragons think that he was referring to them. He was, but not directly. All God’s creatures had to eat, and if True-dragons ate more than humans or HalfDragons, well they were larger, and had stronger psionic Gifts. As he turned the page, István contemplated what Hans, the True-dragon huntmaster, would do to Minister Poincaré should their paths cross, and smiled at the rather bloody mental image. Although just cornering the vicious, vengeful French bastard in his office might be humiliating enough. The hateful creature would probably soil himself if Hans smiled and extended his forefoot to shake.
Orange and grey Agmánd finished setting the coffee pot down before responding. «My lord, has anyone spoken with the Gallic Houses about the hardships being caused?»
“Not that I know of, although I understand several of the Houses remain very bitter toward House Hohenzollern and the Germans, and that carries over to those of us still allied with House Habsburg.” The World War had ended five years before, but the French refused to believe it. István closed and folded the newspaper and applied himself to breakfast. By prewar standards, the rolls, eggs, and slices of venison sausage and ham slivers failed to meet his definition of breakfast. Compared to what they’d been forced to make-do with during the war, it was plentiful and luxurious.
Aunt Claudia looked up from trying to keep Erzsébet, now six years old, from wiping her fingers on the tablecloth instead of her napkin.
«My lord, will there be another war?»
The concern in her voice matched the look in her crimson eyes, and her round pink ears tipped back toward her skull.
“Not if His Majesty can prevent it, Aunt Claudia. Although the Russians do seem determined to cause mischief, again, don’t they?” And the French, well, Lord save any Frenchman who dared to tell a German or Hungarian that they deserved to go bankrupt and starve. Poincaré had even threatened the Bohe— No, they are Czechs now István reminded himself—threatened the Czechs with economic punishment for daring to choose to remain within the Habsburg Commonwealth, along with the Croats and South Tirolians. Between Poincaré and Wilson, and no thanks to that bastard Lenin, Europe might well stay unsettled and impoverished for years.
«At least the armies are gone,» Claudia said. «No, Miss Erzsébet, that is not allowed.» She deftly removed the table knife from her charge’s fist and set it back on the table. «Manners make the lady.»
Erzsébet stuck her lower lip out, brown eyes getting wide and soft, and István felt himself starting to take pity on his daughter. Then he caught a look from Aunt Claudia and steeled his will. There was a reason Mátyás Imre took breakfast in his room this week, and indulging Erzsébet would just lead to more trouble. István still had difficulty believing Imre had managed to get the door to the cellar chamber open and had moved the two cases of tinned meat away from that door by himself. Well, he wouldn’t touch the coins and other things down there again, at least not until he could sit down. István hated swatting his son, but no meant no, especially with dangerous things. And eight years old was more than old enough to obey the order to stay out of the cellar.
István finished breakfast, savored the last of his coffee, and set his napkin down on the table. Grey-green Tadeas whisked the dishes away, her talons making no sound on the floor as she balanced the tray on her forefeet and carried it off to the kitchen. Agmánd had trained her well. István nodded his approval, stood, and walked over to his daughter’s chair. He bent down and kissed her bouncing brown curls, then went to brush his teeth before starting office work. He indulged the children shamefully, but after losing their mother and an unborn sibling to the influenza, he’d decided that a little laxity and affection at home would not hurt them.
Count István Joszef Imre Martin Eszterházy, Head, War Lord, and Guardian of House Szárkány-Kárpátok, representative of the Matra District in the Hungarian Diet’s upper chamber, and royal councilor, glanced at the papers and ledgers on the table beside his desk and stopped by the window, staring out at the forest surrounding the hunting lodge of Nagymatra. He’d rather be outside, teaching his son the ways of the forest, tracking deer and boar, supervising the woodsmen, than in his office. But responsibility and duty came first. He glanced over at the papers and missed his brother keenly. Mátyás had been the businessman. But the same influenza that stole Barbara had taken Mátyás as well, along with so many others. István still felt their absence, still wanted sink into mourning and let the House tend to itself. But duty forbade it—duty and his children. Those losses had spurred István to redo the interior of the lodge, changing the parlor into his office. The bright, airy space felt better than his former office—dark and snug—had done. And it allowed room for all the documents and records now living at Nagymatra.
István sat carefully, as always mindful of his war-damaged back, and cast a doleful look at the papers. Well, he sighed. The longer I wait, the worse things will be. Literally, at the rate the pound and franc are rising against the Hungarian koruna. France and Britain remained at war with the Habsburg Confederation and Germany, but instead of bullets they were using coins. The damn Germans are not helping either. He didn’t blame the Germans for the strike in the Ruhr and Saarland mines, but they’d given that thrice-cursed Frenchman an excuse to grind the Habsburg Confederation further into the dirt. At least the rate of currency decline had slowed for the koruna and shilling compared to the German mark. It would be another starvation winter in Germany at this rate, and then the Americans would wonder why food riots had become the new postwar sport in Germany. Naïve children—they mean well, but that damned Wilson and his every-nation-a-state politics and lines on maps. István picked up a timber report and began reading.
He managed two hours before he had to stop. István leaned back and stretched, then stood and stretched more, taking his time, reaching down then up, twisting a little each direction, bending a little to each side. Mistress Nagy, the House Healer, reminded him every time they met that he had to keep the muscles strong but relaxed. More damage, and he’d lose use of at least one leg. István cursed the Russian artillery soldier once again, then wondered which side the man had ended up on: Red, White, or under the ground? The Russians were still fighting each other, despite the official end of the Civil War, so who knew? That was one reason for the Habsburg Confederation’s survival. István wondered if the Soviet government would ever import timber. It was probably not a market worth considering, given
the size of Russia’s forests.
And the Russian currency was the only thing besides the mark worth less than a koruna or shilling. He’d taken gold and silver coins out of the family’s secret reserve the last time he’d gone to Budapest and left them with Ferenk and Dobroslov so they could pay the staff and purchase supplies. They would know how to hide the coins, and where to exchange them for food and other necessities without attracting too much attention. Gold and silver and barter were the only ways to pay, unless you could earn enough in the morning to carry the currency in a wheelbarrow. And the money lost value every day, even worse than during the war. He was glad he didn’t have to deal with those bills himself right at this moment.
István looked at a smaller, separate stack of letters perched on the end of his desk. They referred to another topic he’d prefer not to think about, but the House had made its feelings plain. He needed to consider remarrying. He did not want to. Barbara had died less than five years before, and he still loved and missed her. The children were doing well, and his mother-in-law would have the vapors at the very thought of his “replacing” her daughter with another woman. Which was exactly what she’d threatened him with the last time the topic had come up, in reference to another House union. But House Sárkány wanted him to at least consider the possibility. Worse, so did House Habsburg. István had complained, in a sideways and respectful manner, to Archduke Rudolph about the growing pressure. Rudolph’s response had been so personal that it had left István stunned. I will never, ever complain again, even to myself, about what the House asks of me. Ever.
As he sat back down, Jirina appeared in the doorway. She dropped a small curtsy and asked, “My lord, Luka would like to know when my lord wishes to eat dinner. And if my lord would like tea.”
István glanced at the heavy, ornate gold clock on the end of the shelf over the fireplace. “Dinner at one, please, and yes to the tea.”
“One and tea, thank you, my lord.”
She disappeared as silently as she had come. István sighed, wondering yet again how he was going to find her a husband. A lot less easily than I could find a wife, especially now. He took a deep breath and read the first letter, impressed by the heavy rag paper and blue-purple ink. They must come from a prewar supply. Richard Schwarzenberg, General Schwarzenberg’s son, inquiring about István’s health and mentioning that his niece Paula Margareta had finished her schooling and would be joining the social season at court this winter, and did István know of any dowagers or couples who might be interested in helping sponsor her? No, István didn’t. Duchess Rozemberg might, but he was not inviting his mother-in-law to manage more of his family’s life, thank you. She’d already tried to take over raising his children twice.
The second one bore Archduke Rudolph von Habsburg’s personal seal and István set it aside. If Rudolph had started matchmaking, István would abdicate and flee to Australia.
The third letter came from Krakow. Huh, who do I know? He opened it and out fell a card with a very ornate shield on it. Oh, Prince Potoki. I know him by reputation, anyway—or is that right? István leaned back, looking up at the white-painted ceiling and trying to remember. No, he recalled old Prince Potoki, Wladislav, not the current head of the family. The letter came from Prince Alojyz Wladislav Gabryjl Potoki, with an invitation to a social gathering at the Potoki town palace in Vienna in November. István set that one in a different pile. Which Potoki was he trying to remember, something political, something . . . Karol Tadeus, that’s who! KTP can’t be related to the House, surely not. Unless it was by a very distant acknowledged bastard or adoption. Not KTP the fire-breathing Polish nationalist who hates Russians only a touch more than he hates Germans, Ukrainians, and the Habsburgs and Czechs. The one who makes Cousin Imre look like a model of moderation. KTP had been the first nationalist István crossed paths with who was not a Pan-Slav as well. KTP would not even piss on a burning Russian. Well, the Poles might be Slavs but they looked west, not east. And they’d seen Russian management first hand, even before the Russian Revolution spilled into their borders and the new Polish Army had had to fight both the Reds and Whites right back out again.
István’s tea arrived. “Thank you,” he said, adding the Potoki letter to the “to consider” pile. At least Prince Potoki was not throwing a niece or daughter at István, unlike some. Even the House had been appalled by Lady Szecheney’s behavior, and her nephew had apologized profusely after dragging his aunt away from István. Full mourning had meant nothing to Odile Szecheney. István wrinkled his nose as he drank, recalling the distasteful scene.
“Is something wrong, my lord?” Catherine Novak, the maid on duty, asked.
“What? No, nothing wrong with the tea. Just remembering someone’s absolute lack of manners.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She refilled his empty cup, curtsied, and disappeared.
Yet another wounded soul under István’s care, he sighed to himself. He’d rescued her, her sister and a Russian soldier from a farmer down on the Alföld who’d raped every girl on the farm. Catherine had delivered the farmer’s child and refused to even look at the little girl, so Petr Klarfeld and his wife had taken the baby and were raising her as their own, with the House’s support. Thanks be, Ivan and Marie’s boy looked just like Ivan, but smaller. Ivan was proving to be an excellent addition to the House, and István understood what Marie had seen in him, even if he was a Russian prisoner of war. Their son Peter Stephen was a HalfDragon, and Ivan had weak passive telepathy and strong something else, although even Mistress Nagy couldn’t say exactly what his second Gift was.
István poured himself a third cup of tea and picked up Archduke Rudolph’s letter. He opened it, unfolded the heavy paper, and discovered that Rudolph had apparently purchased a typewriter. That’s strange. The letter made no sense, either. The words and sentences were in German, but they did not make proper paragraphs, which set off warning bells in István’s mind. Either the Powers had finally driven Rudolph insane, or he did not trust someone within his inner circle and had encoded his message. And Rudolph being Rudolph, he hadn’t bothered to warn István or give him the key in advance. István heard someone coming and set the page down, dropping an invoice from the other stack on top of it just in case.
“Da! Da, I’m done with everything,” Imre called out, charging into the room.
“Young man, I’m afraid you are too big to be running like that in the house,” István said, ruffling his son’s fair hair. Imre remained shorter and lighter than István thought he should be for his age. But all the war children were small.
“I’m big? I’m big now?”
“You are getting big. Have you finished your lessons?”
“Almost, sir.” Imre said, then added an afterthought. “I don’t like math.”
His father didn’t like math either. “If you finish your math before dinner, and do it right, without rushing,” István said, “you can come look at deer trails with me this afternoon.”
Imre’s eyes got big.
“May I?”
“Yes, if you do your math and Frau Magda is satisfied with your work.” The nurse had become the boy’s summer tutor, at least for now.
“Yes, Pater. I’ll do very well.” István leaned over and gave Imre a hug, then stood and took his hand, leading the blond blur out of the office. Imre disappeared around the corner and István stretched, used the washroom, and only then returned to the mystery letter.
The invoice had fallen across the page, so that he could see only the first word of each line. István glanced at the words, then read them slowly. He slid the invoice over by one word, but the resulting column of text made no sense. The third column did make sense, and the final column also contained information. When he’d finished reading the whole of the message, István wondered if moving to Australia would be far enough away. Emperor Josef Karl wanted to come to the Matra and hunt. Which meant that Rudolph would probably come as well. “Since the Galician harvest remains poor,” Rudolph said.
Galicia . . . István’s mind shied away from the memories of what had happened to Galicia and Ukrainia, and he felt the Power of the Matra shifting as well, the ancient creature echoing his discomfort.
At least he had a few weeks of notice. István rang the silver bell on the table beside his desk, and Agmánd appeared within moments.
«My lord?»
“We will be having guests during hunting season. Very important guests.”
Agmánd’s whiskers fluttered as he tried to sort out who this might mean, and his ears tipped different directions. Then the amber whiskers shot out, perfectly horizontal and stiff as steel rods on either side of his flat muzzle. He raised one forefoot talon. «Ah, my lord means a very, very important guest, a very Powerful guest?»
“Precisely, Agmánd. I do not have official word yet, but I suspect we will be asked for an invitation very soon. Plan on a couple, with perhaps two older children, and a single gentleman, plus their servants.”
The butler gulped, the tip of his tail beating a frantic rhythm on the Turkish rug.
«Very good, my lord.»
“I wouldn’t say that, Agmánd, but at least we have been warned.”
The tail tip slowed a fraction.
«That is true, my lord.»
“Hans and I will sort out where and what we will hunt, so that is not your concern.”
The whiskers dropped, as limp as they had been stiff, and pure relief suffused Agmánd’s voice.
«Very good, my lord. Thank you, my lord.»
István hid his smile. “You are welcome, and you are dismissed. I would not announce anything to the staff until we have official word, just in case plans change.”
The True-dragon’s vigorous head nod stopped abruptly as a sweet voice called out.
“ ’Arkany! I see my ’Arkany.”
Erzsébet trotted in and hugged Agmánd’s tail before he could pull it away. To István’s shock, he and Agmánd both heard more.
«’Arkany hurt. I can fix ’Arkany, make ’Arkany better.»
Against a Rising Tide Page 1