Grasping for the Crowns (The Powers Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  István arrived in Vienna and found a small carriage waiting for him. “Your pardon, my lord,” the driver said. “We need to take a less direct way than usual to the Hofburg Gate.”

  Was there roadwork or some other problem? István got his answer as the plain, fusty-smelling vehicle turned onto the Rennweg, where fashionable ladies and young bloods had promenaded before the war. Now soldiers from the arsenal marched past, looking stern, and the police carried pike-like wooden poles as well as their usual weapons. As the carriage trundled past the arsenal, southeast of the walled inner city, traffic slowed almost to a halt. Police and soldiers lined the sides of the road, and István realized that the pikes served to block people trying to enter the Rennweg from the side streets. The shops had closed, lowering shutters inside or over their show windows. Hundreds of women milled around on the sidewalks, many gesturing toward the north, and István heard a roar in the distance that set his nerves on edge. The driver leaned over and called to one of the policemen. The man answered back, then spoke to the soldiers beside him, and the driver began turning the horses to the southwest. The policemen lowered their pikes and stepped aside, allowing the carriage onto a side street before closing the way once more. It took three more detours before the Hofburg Gate in the wall appeared. The driver whipped the two horses into a fast trot and crossed the open field around the wall with enough speed to put István on alert. Braced for a sudden stop at the gate, he managed to stay in his seat, but his bag slammed into the padded wood of the carriage’s front with a heavy “thump.”

  “Who comes?” The guard, bayonet fixed on the end of his rifle, peered through the glass of the carriage. István held up his identity papers, and the man backed up enough to allow István to open the door and hold the pages out. The sergeant read the page, returned it, and saluted. “You are free to enter Colonel my lord Eszterházy.”

  “Thank you.” The carriage jerked into motion, the horses’ hoofs making music on the stones of the old city’s streets as they drove in toward the Hotel Adlon. Someday the wall would have to come down, István knew, but that day seemed to be receding into an increasingly misty, vague future.

  When they reached the hotel, the carriage driver climbed down from his seat and fumbled with the door, giving István a glimpse of the metal false hand holding the driving whip. “Your pardon, my lord Colonel, for the delay. There’s a food riot in the Stadtpark and the women are threatening to burn down the Rathaus, the new one outside the wall.”

  “Good heavens. A food riot?”

  The veteran nodded. “Aye, my lord Colonel. I suspect it’s another fight over who got what place in the store line that turned into an excuse to stir mischief. Damn youngsters should be in the army, my lord Colonel, that’d teach them the meaning of trouble.”

  István nodded, tipped the man extra, and covered for the driver’s difficulty by saying, “I prefer to carry the bag, thank you. A habit from spending too much time around Italians.”

  The driver rested one finger against his nose. “Yes, my lord Colonel.” He bustled around to the hotel door and opened it before the startled bellman could do his duty. “God be with ye, my lord Colonel.”

  “And with you.”

  István would rather have stayed in the Eszterházy palace, but the prince’s current illness made such a thing problematic at best. As it was, he’d brought mourning clothes with him, in case Prince Miklos died. When István reached the front desk, he noted the reflections in the polished brass and mirrors, and the still-glossy shine to the wood. War or no war, some things remained as they should be, he thought. That approval soured as the clerk sniffed before saying in an oozy tone, which managed to be both condescending and obsequious, “Thank you, my lord Colonel Count Eszterházy. I must regret to inform you that we now require all nights stay paid in advance, in cash.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. And if your lordship wishes to dine with the house, it is necessary to provide us with your ration cards as well.”

  I’d rather starve first, especially after what happened to the Minister-President in your dining room. István reached into an inner pocket in his coat, removed a worn deerskin pouch, and counted out the room cost in gold crowns. The sight of the coins reduced the clerk to near panic and he switched from condescending to overly gracious. István waved off the sudden politeness, took his key, and sent word to the palace of his arrival.

  Within an hour a message came back. “Ah, my lord Colonel,” the bellman stammered, holding out a telegram.

  István read it, noted the place, and nodded. “Thank you.” He tipped the boy and continued on his way out the door. Within the walls he did not have to worry about riots spilling into his supper.

  «Indeed, two women, a Viennese and a Ruthene, got into a spat over who had the earlier place in the line at the store,» Duke Ernest Jindrich Zibulka z Kolovrat told him the next morning. «One sent her child to fetch her sons and within half an hour the hair-pulling and screaming bloomed into a true riot. Thanks be, the police were able to keep it in the park and did not need to call in the army.»

  István shook his head and sipped tea.

  «So, What news from—»

  The door opened and a footman in livery from the previous century announced, “His Grace Archduke Rudolph of Inner Austria and the Tyrol.” István and Duke Ernest both got to their feet, bowing as Rudolph sauntered in. Every last bit of excess flesh had been pared from the archduke’s frame, or so it appeared. Was the House or one of the Powers devouring Rudolph from within? Or was it something common, like a cancer? The archduke carried a ribbon-wrapped folder of papers, which he set on the table beside Duke Ernest’s couch.

  Rudolph took a seat, accepted some of the tea from the fresh pot that appeared as if from the empty air, and waved with his free hand. “Please be seated.” István returned to his chair and Ernest climbed back onto his couch. “Eszterházy, look at the papers. Duke Jindrich has already seen them.” Rudolph drank a sip before adding, “Those few that he did not write himself.”

  Thus warned, István set his tea aside and picked up the folder. It felt heavier than it should be, and István untied the brown ribbons with care. Inside was information about the German army, including something that sent István’s eyebrows shooting up to his hairline and made his blood-pressure rise almost as high. No, don’t think, just skim, he reminded himself, turning pages. He stopped at a small, fat booklet, printed on heavy glazed paper that reminded him of the old cartridge wrappers, but stiffer. The title and contents were in Russian, and after trying to puzzle out the first exhortation-heavy pages, he closed the booklet again and continued leafing through the other documents.

  By the time he finished, Duke Ernest and Archduke Rudolph had finished a private conversation, or were concluding it, judging by the small hand gestures, ear twitches, and the duke’s busy tail-tip. Duke Ernest lacked only a white band around his neck to keep him from looking like a True-dragon priest, at least in dim light. Dark indigo on his head, chest, and forelegs shaded into true black, with silver-black talons, silver whiskers, and dark gold eyes. István wondered privately if Duchess Lili made her husband wear pale colors to bed, so she wouldn’t trip over him if they both got up in the night. István reached for his now-cold tea, finished the cup, and set it down without rattling the china.

  «Your thoughts?»

  István looked from Ernest to Rudolph and back. “Your Grace, this makes me feel less than charitable about our erstwhile allies.”

  “Erstwhile or putative?” Rudolph inquired.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” István considered for a moment. “I am sympathetic to the German complaint about Britain’s conduct on the seas—exquisitely sensitive, given the blockade’s effects within the empire. But even so, I am not entirely convinced that unrestricted submarine warfare will force Britain out of the war before it . . . well, before the Americans and others do something,” he lifted the folder, “if these are correct. The Americans do tend to talk more than th
ey act.”

  Rudolph snorted and Duke Ernest turned his forefoot palm up, wiggling his thumb and fifth talons back and forth. «For all that they are not quite the cowboys of the Wild West shows, the Americans do seem to act on impulse. My contacts in Mexico say that once Pancho Villa killed people in an American desert town, half the U.S. Army came after him.» Ernest picked up his own large teacup. «Granted, they also got lost and failed to arrest Villa after more than a month of searching, using airplanes as well as cars and cavalry, but as you say, when they reacted, they over-reacted.»

  “That said,” Rudolph began, “the American President, Wilson, held his office by promising to stay out of our war, and his Foreign Minister is so against the war that he might as well be a, ah,” he rubbed three fingers together as he sought for the word.

  «A Moravian Brother, Your Grace?» Ernest winked at István.

  “Quaker, that’s it.” Rudolph began playing with the piece of raw garnet hanging from his watch chain. “But I do not trust them if the rest of that nation grows agitated.”

  “Which is quite possible, should the Germans sink enough American shipping, or American citizens are killed on board a British or French, or even Russian, ship.” István reached for his teacup, froze as the footman finished refilling it and removed the pot, then picked up the delicate red-and-gold cup and saucer.

  «I am also not pleased with Ludendorff and Hindenburg’s ideas for Poland and Silesia, your grace, Count Eszterházy.» Duke Ernest waved the tip of his tail as his ears went flat against his head. «They act as if they wish to turn the German state, from factory to farm to the fish in the lakes, into one army supply depot. And to add Poland and our lands to that depot.»

  “They do take the fabled Teutonic efficiency a bit too far, at least in their ideas, Your Grace,” István said. “I don’t think it can be done, not with the Reichstag standing in the way now that their Social Democrats have decided to cease supporting the army without question.”

  “The German people are as hungry as those of the empire,” Rudolph reminded them. “I doubt the workers in the Ruhr or the Pomeranian farmers will be so happy to work harder and receive less for however long is necessary to defeat the French, British, and Russians.”

  «The Houses won’t. No matter how loyal to Kaiser Wilhelm personally, the Houses must take care of their own first, and that does not mean unthinking loyalty to the army.»

  Something inside István stirred, a warning or perhaps a germ of an idea. “Will they Your Graces? House Szekeres has already expelled True-dragons, even a True-dragon who is the mother of the Head of the House. Should the situation become desperate enough, will all the Houses remain true or will more fail their weaker or less convenient members?” House Szárkány had sufficient resources to care for everyone, but that could change. Other Houses did not share that blessing.

  Duke Ernest’s eyes flashed open, his whiskers snapped straight out, and his ears lay so flat they might have been one with his skull. «They what?»

  “Aunt Claudia is now in the care of House Szárkány because she was thrown out without bag, gem, or allowance, Your Grace. I fear there are others we do not yet know about.”

  “Perhaps His Majesty needs to reinforce his earlier example,” a deadly voice purred. István saw that Rudolph’s narrowed eyes had shifted to their true dried-blood color, and his thin lips had spread into a line. The line curved up oh-so-slightly at the ends, and István crossed himself without thinking. Duke Ernest leaned back on his couch, as if preparing to flee. “That is not acceptable behavior for any House, no matter the emergency or the dearth. Count Eszterházy, did Lady Claudia leave of her own free will?”

  “No, Your Grace, she did not. She was forced out, and sent—or rather, my lords—shipped north in a freight car along with a small container of her personal possessions.”

  Whoever made the couch, István observed, had anticipated the grip of an upset True-dragon. The leather puckered, but Duke Ernest’s talons did not pierce the material. “Ich sehe.” I see. Archduke Rudolph’s quiet words chilled István to the marrow. How does he put so much threat into three syllables?

  A clatter of dishes, no doubt deliberate, broke the tension in the air, as a maid and two footmen finished setting out a meal. “And I am, as usual, a poor host for asking you to a discussion without offering the chance to break your fasts.” The deadly power behind the archduke’s words vanished, at least for the moment. “Come.”

  The three men dined on marrow soup with buckwheat pancake strips, chicken, and lightly sweet, creamy custard made from chestnut flour. «Much better than chestnut bread, Your Grace,» Duke Ernest said. «My compliments.»

  “Chestnut bread is tolerable so long as one knows it is chestnut,” Rudolph drawled, playing with his wineglass. The swirling pale red wine inside the thin crystal fascinated István. “It is when one is surprised by chestnut, or maize, that dining loses its pleasure.”

  «Indeed. Unexpected maize in the bread can be» the duke’s amber eyes narrowed, «problematic for some, and socially difficult as well.»

  Oh, yes, the little maize problem True-dragons suffer from. The grain appeared to be one of the few things a True-dragon’s digestion failed to adapt to. That failure had been, on at least one occasion, memorably spectacular.

  István leaned forward. “Your Grace,” he nodded to Rudolph. “Pardon if my frankness crosses the bounds, Your Grace, but if, God forbid, the Americans do become involved in the war, can the Germans deal with them?”

  Rudolph raised one eyebrow and pointed to Ernest with his wineglass.

  Ernest wagged one forefoot, palm down. «Maybe and no, Your Grace, Count Eszterházy. Maybe if Russia collapses and leaves the war. Otherwise, I think not. They are the arsenal for Britain, or close to it, as it stands, despite their purported neutrality. My Mexican contacts believe that should the United States gird themselves for war, they will throw the balance to the Entente simply by weight of numbers. I, for one, am not entirely certain that the United States are willing to fight, given the number of Germans and Irish living there, but Spain thought the like and . . .»

  Rudolph made a cutting gesture with his free hand. “But that is in the future, if it happens at all, and I do not believe the Americans are that foolish. It is Russia that worries me. That booklet?”

  István nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “It seems their Communists make our Social Democrats and Socialists look like exemplars of moderation and wisdom. This Lenin person, the one the Germans have been supporting, for reasons whose wisdom I greatly question,” Rudolph paused to inhale after the spate of words. “Lenin claims his supporters can bring about a revolution in Russia and that the army, peasants, and workers support him and will rush to his banner.”

  “The last time the peasants and workers tried that, it went poorly. When the army officers rebelled, it went equally poorly, Your Grace.” At least, what István recalled reading, which was why Lenin and the others all lived in France and Switzerland and issued calls for blood and bread from comfortable apartments well away from the Czar’s police.

  “But the war was not going as poorly, nor was it led by Tsar Nicholas himself,” Rudolph said, pointing one thin finger at István’s chest. “Tsar Nicholas is a well intentioned weakling who allows his wife and that religious madman to run the empire, with results we all know. And she is German and gave birth to a single son, a sickly boy at that, which is something the people cannot seem to forgive in her, or so our ears in the court and the street claim. Nicholas must make a decision, which he cannot do with everyone yelling in his ear.” Rudolph shook his head. “Another attack from Russia would not surprise me, General Pavel von Schwarzenberg’s assurances notwithstanding. It will be like a wounded animal lashing out.”

  István and Duke Ernest exchanged looks, and Ernest’s whiskers drooped. After all, the Russians had come within ten kilometers of his lands in 1914, and he’d lost factories in Lemburg. István shared the sentiment, but did not s
ay so aloud.

  “Now,” Rudolph said. “What news for me, little Stephen?”

  István sorted through his mental notes. “I suspect 1917 will be recorded as the Year of the Turnips, Your Grace, although we,” he used one hand to take in all three men, “are not as badly off as some. The people are not happy, Your Grace, but I have seen and heard no talk against His Majesty. There is more talk about perfidious Bohemians, or Ruthenes, or Polish separatists, and so on, and more anti-Jewish talk in the open than I recall hearing before. The supplies from Romania helped, especially the livestock, Your Grace. And not losing the mines. The Houses are not happy either, but . . .”

  «But we all earned our rank and station in the past, Your Grace. If God wills that we must re-earn it, then so be it.»

  “Ah, yes, and Your Grace, there are already questions about the children’s trains running again this year. Parents have been approaching my factor and managers to see if we can find places for their children already, Your Grace. And some of my farmers want help again. It seems the fields have another bumper crop of stones already.”

  Rudolph and Ernest both smiled at the last. «Despite the tales from North America, I highly doubt that they truly have that many stone-free hectares, your Grace.»

  “Indeed.” Rudolph allowed the butler and footmen to clear the table of all but the wine decanter before continuing. “The children’s trains will run again. His Majesty is planning on it, again paid for by the imperial household.The War Food office is also preparing a re-allotment of civilian rations, based on better knowledge of who needs how much. And changing the cards again, to try and slow the black marketeers.”

  The men continued discussing matters for another hour before Rudolph dismissed them. “Thank you, Duke Jindrich, Count Eszterházy, for your presence. His Majesty—” A loud thump on the door, followed by quieter knocks, caught their attention. “What?” Even as the archduke spoke, István felt a shift and a ripple at the edge of the House and guessed the news.