“Not as much as I would like, especially for pine. The market is flooded.”
Johann nodded. István slowed to allow the senior House head to precede him into the billiard room.
Duke Ernest Jindrich Zibulka z Kolovrat cut a striking figure, human or True-dragon. Dark indigo on his head and muzzle, his scales shaded into black at his tail-tip, with ebony talons and paler blue eyes. Duke Ernest led a Moravian House that almost bordered on István’s own. At the moment he was in deep conversation with Prince Potoki, his round ears swirling and tail tip patting the floor.
“Who’s missing?” Johann von Hohen-Drachenburg asked, looking around the well-lit room.
“Prince Wetzel, but I understand he’s been a little ill recently.”
“Feeling his age, according to what I heard. He is over four hundred, you know.”
István almost fainted. “Ah, no, I thought he was only two fifty or perhaps a bit older.” Four hundred years old? No wonder he acts as if he knows everything—he probably damn near does!
The conversation ended and Prince Potoki clapped his hands, drawing the men and women’s attention.
“I apologize for calling you out of the reception, but there is a bit of House business that needs to be addressed before the main council meets later this week.”
«There are two accessions pending. Prince Wetzel Rozemberk will be passing very soon, if he has not already done so, leaving a Guardianship open. The other is House Hohenzollern.» Duke Jindrich waited for the exclamations of surprise to die down. «The former emperor has abdicated that position as well. I have been in contact with the junior branch of the House, and it appears that it will dissolve as a formal House, releasing all members from their duties and vows.»
A grey-haired man standing beside Leona von Brixen spoke up. “Will the family retain the properties or will they be distributed, Your Grace, Your Highness?”
“As of this morning,” Potoki said, “those of the junior branch will remain in the family as per German law and custom. The senior branch no longer has property besides their personal belongings.”
A wave of gasps and hisses flowed through the House leaders, and Leona von Brixen shook her head a little, but no one seemed surprised. Dismayed, and in at least one case a little more gleeful that was probably charitable, but not surprised.
«I doubt that will affect our dealings, aside from marriage contracts, perhaps, but you need to be aware of it nonetheless. This does leave Brandenburg without a Guardian, but,» Duke Jindrich rumpled his tail and spread his forefeet. «the Power also appears dormant, if such a thing is possible.»
The Guardians in the room all shrugged.
Well, István thought as he digested the news, this has been a much more educational evening than I’d planned. And it wasn’t even time for supper yet! What else would transpire before the evening ended?
Nothing untoward, as it happened, although Lady Kosciusko managed to upset her soup into her lap and departed early, much to the relief of those seated around her.
“She is not exactly my aunt,” Weronica explained after the noble lady’s departure. “She’s a third cousin by marriage, but her mother brought her to all the social gatherings, and people include her because she knows everyone.”
Her tone, accompanied by a subtle lift of the eyebrow and twist of the mouth suggested that the invitations stemmed more from caution than fondness. István knew the problem well, and added that to the list of Things That Would Not Continue should he marry Weronica.
Aside from Lady Koscisuko’s “sudden increase in liquidity,” as one of the younger set smirked, the evening proved to be pleasant, or at least not intolerable. István found Weronica a nice enough dinner companion, and the food certainly deserved the praises heaped upon it. István preferred fewer fish dishes, but the prince was Polish, after all, and the Slavs possessed a near mania for carp, salmon, trout, and other finned foods. The guests made a determined effort to keep conversation away from politics and financial matters, and several times István found himself feeling a bit confused, wondering if it were 1923 or 1913. Then he’d meet a pair of young-old eyes and know exactly when he was.
His walk the next day through the green-and-white sprawl of the Hofburg palace provided more reminders of the present’s woes. He saw crippled men, some missing legs or arms, trying to work, clumsy with their metal and wooden limbs. A few wore masks, hiding terrible facial injuries and burns. Still more concealed their injuries within their bodies, as István did himself.
To think that I chuckled with wonder when I read about General Roberts down in South Africa, fighting with a piece of spear buried in his leg. How little I knew.
István did his best to tip heavily the Army men whose paths he crossed, and donated from his personal funds to the Church’s charities for the injured and for families without fathers. He’d read that Berlin and the other large German cities, as well as London, swarmed with the injured because of the hellish conditions on the Western Front. That was not war. War was cavalry and honor and . . . And now I know better. War is indeed hell, but there are other, worse hells.
On that cheerful note, he presented his papers to the guards. They saluted and opened a small gate, granting him access into the heart of the thousands of kilometers of passageways and chambers. Like the Empire it had once led, the Hofburg had grown through accretion, a wing here and a new set of rooms there, until István suspected no one knew every closet and chamber in the complex. But he was out of the wind, and his destination lay near the outside of the mass, opposite the royal wings. The war had also thinned the number of Habsburg cousins with space in the building, although, given Josef Karl and Sophia’s marital devotion, that would change with the next generation. Ten stair-step ginger-haired archdukes and archduchesses stood in the official portrait of the family, and István suspected one or two more might join the line. Or perhaps not.
“Welcome, Col. Count Eszterházy.” Attila Gabor’s voice startled István out of his musings.
“Thank you and good morning,” István replied, handing his things to one of the omnipresent servants. Two white enamel heaters in the corners warmed the reception room nicely, despite the wind whistling by outside. “How fares your House?”
Gabor ran a hand over short, white hair. Stress had aged him since 1918, paring him down until he reminded István of a Visla hound. Like István, his House spanned two countries. Unlike István, he also had two courts to deal with, one of them hostile to Hungarians, Saxons, and Skelzey alike.
“We survive. The situation in Bucharest has improved, from insanely chaotic to merely mildly despotic. But the despot appears willing to ignore us so long as we pay our taxes and,” a white eyebrow rose over a dark-brown eye. “Our small gifts and contributions to His Majesty’s benevolences and those of his appointees.”
So bribery remained endemic in Romania, István noted—probably another legacy of the Turks’ long presence, exacerbated by too close proximity to Russia.
“I am coming to find that being ignored and left to molder away is not such a bad thing.”
“Indeed no, it is not.” Gabor shrugged a little. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Lord.”
István crossed himself. He did not agree with Gabor’s Calvinism, but he respected the strength of the Head of House Bathory’s faith.
“When? Last night? God rest his soul,” István heard. He and Gabor turned to see General Duke Felix Starhemberg de Este crossing himself. Count Kristofer Aleman-Dietrichstein nodded and both men sighed a little.
That must be Prince Wetzel, God bless his soul. We’ll miss him. Prince Wetzel Rozemberk, Guardian for House Rozemberk, had been small of stature, pastel of color, and sharp of wit. He’d reveled in his title of “the most irritating Guardian in the Holy Roman Empire.” István had valued his council and his ability to use humor to deflect and redirect conflict and distractions.
“We are none of us immortal,” Aleman-Dietrichstein observed. His had b
een the first accession István had attended as an adult, and the first failed Testing István ever witnessed. Thus far it had been the last failure as well, and if István never saw another Heir lying dead on the ground, a look of utter surprise on his face, he’d pass from this life content. He suspected the same held true for Johann von Hohen-Drachenburg, who had held the sword as Tester that night. House Dietrichstein-Ost had called Kristofer from the gathered family to replace Konrad Martin, the official Heir. Thus far Kristofer had led the House well, or so István gathered. Felix noticed István and Gabor and motioned for them to approach.
“Well met, Eszterházy, Gabor. What’s this I hear that you are on the market again, István?”
István gritted his teeth and counted to ten in Latin, then again in Hungarian. “The House is encouraging me to consider remarrying. As is His Majesty.”
The other three made sympathetic noises and Felix managed to look a little contrite. “Sorry old man, I didn’t realize it came from that direction.”
“The House wants a Lady, and Erzsébet is a bit young to be hosting formal dinners and receptions,” István said.
Kristofer smiled a little. “It is a bit difficult to direct servants when the hostess can’t see over the dinner table yet.”
István had to smile. “Yes, it is.”
“Oh. That’s something to think about.” Felix’s expression changed from humor to growing dread. “When does the Heir start participating in society?”
Gabor winked at István, keeping a straight face as he explained, “Not until he’s weaned. Although some modern Houses prefer that he be out of diapers before he attends major social affairs.”
Felix looked stunned, and it was all István could do to keep from laughing. Felix and his wife Hemma had produced twin girls, then a very lively boy. If I thought Imre had his moments, I can just imagine what Karl Leopold is like. Serves Felix right for waiting so long to get married, and then teasing me about my wife.
Before Felix could start using some of his Army vocabulary, István took pity on his old friend. “Your Grace, it depends upon the Heir and the situation. Imre has been presented to the House but has not attended a formal gathering yet, outside of family events.”
The Benedictine brothers at St. Martin’s Monastery School had done wonders civilizing the boy, but he was still a nine-year-old. Almost a nine year old. Dear Lord have mercy, where have the years gone?
“My lords,” a voice called.
The men turned as two servants opened the doors to the room where they would meet with the king. More House leaders had trickled into the reception chamber and now flowed into the larger hall, a brightly lit gold-and-blue room decorated with gilt-framed mirrors and vaguely Chinese patterns on the walls. An ornate chair sat on a small dais at the head of the room, below a banner bearing the Habsburg double-headed eagle and dragon. Cooler than the outer room, the meeting hall still felt warmer than outdoors, or István’s office at Nagymatra. The men, women, and a few True-dragons found places by rank and time-in-service. István outranked Felix by time, as well as by his triple position as Head, Guardian, and War Lord. The internal grin faded as he glanced over his shoulder at the new faces. The war had caused too many premature accessions and replacements. Thump, thump, thump sounded as a footman pounded the wooden floor with a heavy staff.
“His Majesty Josef Karl, king of Austria, Bohemia, and Hungary, Head of House Habsburg.”
Everyone stood, then bowed or curtsied as Josef Karl entered the room, Archduke Rudolph trailing a few paces behind. The king sat, then called out, “You may rise, then be seated.”
Rudolph remained on his feet, standing in a corner of the room, his blue suit almost blending into the decorations.
“It is with great sadness that we must begin by informing you of the passing of Prince Wetzel Rozemberk, Guardian of House Rozemberk,” Josef Karl began. “You may well be surprised to know that His Highness died in his sleep, despite many wagers and threats to the contrary.” A hint of laughter colored the king’s words, and István was not the only one smiling at the memories. “His council and good cheer will be missed, even if his unfailingly irreverent comments will not be.”
“Former President Poincaré of France will not be missed either, at least not by those outside the Entente nations.” That drew murmurs of a different sort. “He appears to have had an apoplectic fit during the reparations meeting in Geneva yesterday and collapsed, and his physicians were not able to revive him. All international financial transactions involving reparations, loans, and related matters have been halted for the rest of this week, or until a new French representative to the committee can be appointed, approved, and briefed. You will read about it in lurid detail in the papers tomorrow, I am certain, but it seemed appropriate to mention the news, given the effects it may have on our Houses interests.”
Josef Karl did not sound terribly pleased, although István had a shrewd suspicion that his Majesty would not be sponsoring a requiem mass for Poincaré’s soul’s rest, either.
Well, the rest of the day should be quiet compared to that little bit of news.
After the House leaders’ gathering, which took two very long days, István remained in Vienna following up several business prospects and returning to society. He had forgotten the intricacies of teas, dinners, and other events, but relearned quickly. He also paid several more visits to Prince Potoki’s residence and met more of the prince’s family. Word had flown through the Houses and other noble families that he might be considering remarrying, and invitations arrived at his hotel rather like snowflakes in a blizzard—not all of them from familiar names. Several came from the newly rich, and István set those aside to have a secretary deal with. There was no point in causing offense with a straight snub, but he preferred to deal with his own kind.
“ . . . I do not see why he was invited,” he overheard one of the dowagers whispering under the clink of china and glass at Demels one afternoon.
“Because Count Tarn and Baron Deneuve worship the ground he walks on. Or at least, they act as if they do when he is in the room. And,” the second voice dropped a little, “I suspect they owe him money. He bought out two Czech mining firms and that big construction interest, you know, as well as partnering in that Jewish bank.”
István turned the page in his newspaper, not really seeing the racing results. I wonder who they are talking about? Sounds like Rothschild, or a Löw.
“Well I do not care for him,” the first voice sniffed. “Those odd colored eyes are not natural. And he gives me a headache with his fawning and pretty speech.”
István almost dropped his paper, and had to catch himself before his knee hit the little marble table and upset his coffee and water. Shit, that has to be Tisza. No one else fits that description. He braced the paper against the table and drank the coffee, then finished his torte. So Tisza was insinuating himself into the magnates. Charming. István calmed himself, left twenty crowns trinkgeld, and hung the paper on the hook as he left. He ignored his reflection in the mirrors, other than a quick glance to ensure that his eyes remained their proper brown. One thing he had to admit about the latest fashions for ladies, he thought as he threaded his way past the dowagers’ table toward the door: the smaller hats made it easier to navigate Demels’ snug dining rooms.
An hour later he walked through the brand new Stadtpark, Lady Weronica on his arm, her sister trailing behind a few paces to give them the appearance of privacy. István was not unhappy to have a chaperone, because it reduced gossip. He’d rather have gone riding, but it turned out that Lady Weronica could not ride well. “The Sisters only had cart horses, and those were very old,” she’d explained. So instead they walked along the paths, past the gilded statue of Strauss and the grumpy portrait of Beethoven, taking in the cold, fresh air. The trees had shed already, and Advent loomed ever closer, followed by the beginning of New Year’s festivities and the whirl of the social season and Fasching. As they rounded a corner at the end of the newest pl
antings, she gave a little sigh.
“The park will be lovely come spring, my lord, but I wonder if the walls should have been left standing instead.”
István looked around them. New buildings had sprung up in the five years since the majority of the wall had come down, and even though the builders had tried to mimic the older style, everything struck him as too shiny. This part of the city lacked the worn and comfortable grace of the old town palaces on one hand, and the well-loved, if cramped, feeling of the districts built during Franz Joseph’s reign. He preferred Budapest, himself, but Vienna was the capital still. The new ring road only called attention to the absence of the old city wall and reminded the world what the Entente had stolen.
“I find myself inclined to agree, Lady Weronica. I am glad the residents of the city appreciate and enjoy the park, and Strauss is rather amusing, but the walls gave the city a certain, hmm, well, a sense of stability and dignity.” And kept the rabble out of the palace district. “I think, once the trees finish filling in, that will help.”
Lady Magdalina, walking behind them, made a confirming sort of sound. István turned a little. “You agree, my lady?”
“Yes, Lord István. These sticks do not fill the eye. They look unfinished, like rest of park.” Weronica’s older sister nodded once, making the little feather on her hat bob as if echoing her sentiment. After passing another statue, this one excessively modern, Weronica eased closer to István.
“My lord, do you know anything about a Colonel Georg Tisza?”
Twice in one day? I do not care for this. He chose his words with great care.
“I have some knowledge of him from the war, my lady, but not a great deal that is current.”
“Ah.” She pulled away in order to avoid a damp spot before continuing. “Magdalina says that she has heard that Col. Tisza has asked our brother for permission to court me. Is he Catholic?”
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