Written in the Blood

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  ‘If there was any way, Izsák,’ she began. ‘Any way at all that tomorrow night we could . . .’

  He shushed her. ‘There isn’t. It’s the way things are.’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘What is?’ He closed his mouth, forbidding himself from continuing that thought aloud: What is fair about Katalin going to the végzet alone? What is fair, that all I have to mark my entrance into adulthood is a pocket watch, the engraving of which will never be completed? What was fair about my father’s execution? My brother’s murder? The treatment of my friends in Tansik House? The treatment of Etienne?

  Katalin led him to the bed and perched on it, careful not to crush her dress. ‘Look at me, Izsák. I want to share something with you.’

  He found her eyes in the lamplight: two mesmerising windows, which, even as he watched, began to change. He clutched Katalin’s fingers, conscious of what she meant to do and knowing that he should look away, that she should not waste this gift and make him her first, when nothing further could ever grow between them.

  He began to pull back from her.

  She clutched him. ‘Please.’

  Those eyes were unavoidable, stripping away his defences and unlacing the very heart of him. He saw threads of emerald weaving at the edges of her irises like twisting snakes of ivy; winking pinpricks of gold; swirling gemstones.

  Izsák felt his heart race in his chest, his skin shiver and contract. His own eyes began to respond, and when they did Katalin gasped, dropping his hands and sliding her fingers around his waist.

  The world receded, and for a time they were like two statues in the lamplight, staring into each other’s faces, sharing the magic that twined there, surrendering to an act of intimacy older than the city itself.

  When, finally, the rose blush of their skin began to fade, Izsák felt the cold weight of sorrow press down on him. To experience this, to experience Katalin in all her unattainable perfection . . . it seemed like the most despicable cruelty.

  But he had a duty not to pursue her. He knew they would never find peace until they gave this up. And while his own future looked uncertain, Katalin’s undoubtedly contained much light. He loved her too much to see her suffer.

  Izsák closed his eyes. He allowed himself to retain a single image of hers as she shared with him the lélekfeltárás, that most intimate act of hosszú élet lovers, and locked it away somewhere deep.

  He breathed out. Let go of her. Blinked. ‘Thank you.’

  The last traces of the display in Katalin’s eyes died. Her chest swelled. ‘Izsák, I—’

  ‘No. Don’t say anything.’ He grinned, and now that he’d persuaded himself that this was the right thing to do, the only thing, he found it easier than he’d expected. ‘You should go back.’

  The first végzet of the season arrived, and Tansik House lit up like a Christmas bauble. While Katalin was the only resident who would attend the festivities, every great hosszú élet family in Budapest was hosting a celebration party. Dr András Benedek had decided to hold the city’s most extravagant.

  Recently installed gaslights blazed outside, illuminating the courtyard and the building’s huge façade. Inside, serving staff lit chandeliers, polished woodwork and uncorked champagne bottles by the hundred. A string quartet played in the entrance hall as entertainment for the arriving guests. Izsák had heard there was to be a full performance of László Hunyadi later, although Béni had ventured downstairs to witness the doctor in a panic at the discovery that none of the singers, nor the orchestra he’d booked at great expense, had yet turned up. They’d laughed a great deal about that.

  Sitting on the bed in Béni’s room, Izsák watched his best friend open another bottle of Perrier-Jouët and refill their mugs. ‘You’re still going into Pest?’

  Béni smirked. ‘Every right-born hosszú élet in Budapest is misbehaving tonight. I don’t see why we should be any different.’

  Izsák nodded towards Pig. ‘You’re taking him with you?’

  ‘Of course. Tonight the Pig becomes a man.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I think it’s a fine idea. What other chance might he get?’

  ‘You have money?’

  ‘The doctor advanced me some of my purse. It’ll be enough.’ He slapped Pig on the back. ‘You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?’

  Already, Pig’s face was flushed from champagne. His smile had a child’s innocence to it. ‘Good fun,’ he said. ‘Want.’

  Béni glanced up at Izsák. ‘And what about you? Are you coming?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’re going to torture yourself instead.’

  ‘I just want to watch her arrive. I think it’ll help.’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Izsák.’

  ‘I know. You’re taking Pig to a riverside brothel and I’m the idiot.’ He sighed. ‘Take care of him.’

  ‘Count on it.’

  Two hours later, Izsák found himself five miles further downstream on the Pest side of the Danube, concealed in undergrowth twenty yards from the boarding ramp to the Örök Hercegnő, a specially commissioned pleasure barge on which Katalin’s kezdet végzet would take place. It was one of two venues procured for tonight’s opening festivities, the second located in the heart of the Buda district.

  The Örök Hercegnő was a long flat-bottomed vessel, timber-hulled. Its graceless lines were softened by the light that glowed from the portholes of its main saloon, and from the cheery hand-blown glass lamps strung along its gunwales. Delicate music drifted from within.

  Izsák watched the carriages of the hosszú életek arrive, depositing their young men and women onto the cobbles. Not for the first time that evening he found himself thinking of his father, and of how different things might have been but for the occurrence of a few tragic events.

  Katalin’s carriage was the last to arrive. The doctor had remained at Tansik House, leaving Trusov the task of chaperon. The man jumped down and took Katalin’s hand as she emerged – a sudden blossoming of blue. She let go of Trusov as soon as she was able, and walked alone up the boarding ramp, disappearing into the saloon without looking back.

  Izsák rested on his haunches. That was it, then. He had wanted to come here and see this; had wanted, however painful, to witness Katalin’s transformation from the girl he had loved into the beautiful young woman tonight’s event celebrated. Now that he had seen her go aboard, there was nothing to do except leave.

  He watched the boat’s crew slide back the ramp and cast off the mooring ropes. Two of them remained ashore, while the three still on board crossed the deck to the entrance doors of the main saloon, which they closed.

  Izsák was just about to start his walk back to Tansik House when he saw one of the men throw a bolt across the doors. The sailor reached into his pocket and pulled out a padlock, which he used to secure the bolt in place.

  The vessel nosed out into the current and Izsák’s stomach flipped. Why would anyone lock the doors – the only doors, by the look of it – to the saloon? He studied the sailors, following their movements as they retreated to the wheelhouse at the stern, and stood up in the darkness. Now he thought about it, the men hardly looked like sailors at all. He didn’t know what he meant by that – what, after all, was a sailor meant to look like? – but the more he watched them, the more convinced he became that his intuition was correct.

  Something’s wrong.

  Breaking into a run, he kept pace with the Örök Hercegnő as it began to build speed, maintaining enough distance from the bank to avoid being seen by those on board. His blood was pumping now, heart kicked into action by a bite of adrenalin.

  Two men emerged from the wheelhouse, carrying buckets. They walked along the deck to the bow, turned and retraced their steps, sloshing the contents of their pails over the saloon’s timber frame.

  Inside the wheelhouse, a light flared.

  The deckhands finished their task and moved to the stern rail, whe
re they began to reel in a rowing boat the vessel towed behind her. As soon as it was close enough, the first man jumped in, followed by the second.

  The remaining sailor emerged from the wheelhouse. In one hand he carried a flaming baton – a slim length of wood dipped in pitch and set alight. Black smoke fluttered up from the flames. Izsák stopped on the bank, unsure of exactly what he was seeing.

  The sailor flung his torch. Without waiting for it to land, he jumped into the waiting rowing boat.

  Izsák watched the baton arc through the air. Tumbling end over end, it hit the barred saloon entrance and its light vanished. An instant later, fire bloomed with serpentine fury. Yellow snakes of flame raced up the walls and leaped into the night. Within seconds they had engulfed the deck, surging the length of the boat. From inside, the sound of violins.

  The men in the rowing boat cast off from the stricken vessel. Izsák shouted but they ignored him, rowing fast for Buda on the opposite side of the river.

  In disbelief, he watched the Örök Hercegnő – pilotless now, a growing inferno – slide into the main current. Tearing off his jacket, he sprinted after it.

  Already, the fire had transformed the river into a ribbon of glittering rubies. He overtook the boat, eyes searching the bank for another moored vessel – anything he could use to get out into the water.

  A hundred yards further downstream a pontoon thrust a crooked finger into the Danube. If only he could reach it before the Örök Hercegnő swept past, he could launch himself off and land, if not on the boat itself, then close to it.

  Onboard, the first screams clove the night. He saw faces crowding at the portholes. Panicked eyes, peering out.

  Izsák accelerated, his stride lengthening, focusing all his will on reaching the pontoon before the boat sailed by. He tripped over stones and rubble, dodged the spindly roots of trees. This far downstream from Budapest’s centre, the riverbank was less developed: vast tracts of scrub were broken by isolated haulage yards and patches of cleared wasteland. The pontoon was a hundred yards away. Eighty. Sixty.

  An explosion of gravel behind him.

  Izsák wheeled, and saw he was being chased. A masked shadow, legs scything.

  Forty yards to the pontoon. Twenty.

  Something crashed out of the darkness to his left. Another figure, this one wielding a knife. Whoever had masterminded the burning of the Örök Hercegnő had placed sentinels along the bank, and now he’d attracted their attention.

  Izsák jinked right, coming within an arm’s length of a flashing blade. He heard his assailant curse, wrong-footed. Saw another figure racing towards him. Three of them now.

  The pontoon waited directly ahead, a floating walkway of greasy planks nailed to a row of barrels lashed together. Izsák hit the first boards, nearly slipped, righted himself. He sprinted down the pontoon, out across the water, the casks reverberating like timpani, dipping and bobbing.

  The burning vessel, its flames now reaching thirty feet into the sky, trailed a dirty black chimney of smoke. Inside, the screaming intensified. As the bow neared the end of the pontoon, Izsák leaped.

  Airborne, he heard shouts from behind, knew that his body was silhouetted. He did not know who his pursuers were, but they had committed an act of such depravity that he knew they would not hesitate to kill him too.

  He hit the water, plunging into a world that was cold and silent and dark. A second later he exploded out of it. The boat slid towards him, a jewel of bright fire and brighter screams. Its bow had not yet caught, nor the front of the saloon, but the rest sloughed off flames and smoke like a gliding phoenix. Resin boiled. Planking hissed and spat.

  Izsák reached for the hull as it wallowed past. The smooth wood offered no hold. Above, a balloon of fire rolled towards him. He ducked his head below the water. When he re-emerged he felt the boat’s tow sucking at his legs. It was going to pass him and there was nothing he could do. He was too far beneath the deck to pull himself onto it.

  No! You don’t give up! Katalin’s inside! You watched your father die and did nothing. You won’t do the same thing again.

  He cried out in frustration. Felt something brush his neck. A loose mooring line, trailing through the water. Izsák caught it. Felt it rip through his fingers, tearing skin.

  He tightened his grip and the rope wrenched him, towing him along beside the boat. A wave broke over his head. He fought through it, spluttering.

  One hand over the other, Izsák began to haul himself along the rope. His biceps felt like glass was piercing them. He lost his grip. Found it again.

  Something cracked, incredibly loud. A part of the hull above his head erupted into splinters.

  They’re shooting at you. Move!

  From where his strength came, he did not know. But somehow he managed to pull himself forward another few feet. The rope was leading him out of the river now. He hauled himself up.

  A pistol fired, its report shockingly close. Half out of the water, still dangling a few feet below the deck, Izsák hesitated, too scared to move. The higher he pulled himself up, the clearer target he presented to those gathered on the bank.

  Another pistol shot. He saw the muzzle flash. Not the bullet’s impact.

  Onboard the Örök Hercegnő, the screaming changed in pitch. Panic replaced by pain, as the air inside the saloon began to roast, and skin began to burn.

  Katalin’s in there. You have to DO something. NOW!

  Calling on the last dregs of his strength, Izsák surged up the rope and pulled himself onto the deck, lungs seared from the exertion. Rising to a crouch, he crabbed around to the opposite side of the saloon, using it to shield himself from the marksmen. The bow section had not yet begun to burn. A row of five portholes gave him his first glance inside the Örök Hercegnő.

  It was a scene he would never forget.

  Smoke billowed across the ceiling. On the floor lay broken chairs and smashed champagne flutes, discarded pewter masks and lace veils. A stage was a graveyard of abandoned instruments and toppled music stands.

  Among the debris young men and women, driven to their knees by lack of air, gagged on smoke. Those who could still stand gathered on the starboard side. Even over the roar of the flames, he could hear their screams as they tried to attract the attention of those on the bank. At the rear of the cabin, three young men were trying to smash their way through the locked doors, using a table as their battering ram. Their white shirts were smouldering, eyes betraying their understanding that the doors would not yield. Still they tried, shouting in despair when flames engulfed one of them. The man flailed in his agony, setting others alight.

  Izsák saw a flash of blue in the swirling smoke, and then he was yelling Katalin’s name. She stood at the bow, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

  Hearing her name, she raced to the porthole. ‘Izsák! We’re trapped!’

  ‘I’m going to get you out.’

  ‘We’re locked in!’

  ‘Stay up this end. You’re safer here.’

  ‘There’s no air.’

  ‘Get down low.’

  She pressed her hand to the glass and when he mirrored her action he cringed at the porthole’s heat.

  Turning away, he looked aft. Half the saloon was an inferno now. The deck, too, had begun to burn. But his clothes were soaked through with river water. They should keep him cool enough to press through the flames to the stern.

  Closing his eyes and his mouth, Izsák stepped through fire, suppressing a cry as it lashed him. By the time he fought his way through, he was shaking from the pain.

  He’d planned to search the wheelhouse for something he could use to force the saloon doors open. But the wind was carrying the fire’s heat directly towards it, concealing the structure in rolling black smoke. No matter. It was his only option.

  Izsák took a breath, held it. Screwing his eyes shut, he moved inside that choking darkness. Hand outstretched, he touched the side of the wheelhouse. Felt his skin blister at the contact.

&nb
sp; He found the door, kicked it open, dived inside. Wanted to take a breath. Couldn’t. Pawed around in the blinding smoke.

  Too long. You’re taking too long.

  He found the wheel. Found the raised edge of a seat. Nothing else.

  Out of air, he sucked in poison. Coughed. Choked. Nothing in the wheelhouse to help him. Nothing at all. Howling, he staggered out as a lick of flame touched its side and burst over it. The heat sent him sprawling. He pressed himself to the deck, eyes stinging, face turned away from the fire. Sounds all around him now. Dreadful sounds: of burning, of screaming, of dying.

  He had seconds before he began to burn too. With no weapon to break down the doors, with no more ideas, he raised himself to his knees and crawled back along the deck towards the bow. A gap appeared in the flames and he scrambled through. Above, he spotted the porthole where he’d last seen Katalin.

  Izsák raised himself to his feet. The glass was too hot to touch, and Katalin was nowhere in sight. He bellowed her name. Flames were spreading inside the saloon now. Young women writhed on the floor, dresses on fire, crackling as they burned. Behind the porthole, a face appeared.

  Katalin’s.

  Cheeks streaked with soot and blood, eyes reflecting the scarlet heart of the inferno within, she opened her mouth and begged him to help her.

  Izsák punched the side of the cabin. ‘I can’t get in, Katalin! I can’t get in!’

  ‘Yes, you can. Please, Izsák. Please!’

  The planking beside his face burst into flames, frying the skin of his cheek. ‘What can I do?’ he shouted. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Izsák, don’t you dare let me burn!’

  He beat his fists on the burning wood. Slammed his elbow against the porthole glass.

  ‘Izsák, don’t you let me BURN!’

  He couldn’t get in. And, because of that, Katalin would die. He watched the reality of her fate dawn on her, and saw her face grow slack. The fire was all around him now. If he didn’t go soon, didn’t fall backwards into the Danube and let it quench his flesh, he’d be dead too.

  But still he couldn’t leave her. He’d failed Katalin, but he wouldn’t abandon her. An eruption of smoke concealed her. When it passed she was watching him still, with those unforgettable hosszú élet eyes.