Written in the Blood Page 11

  A procession of carriages had accompanied him up the hill. Beside the fort’s entrance they began to deposit their passengers. All were hosszú életek, and their faces were set: tight mouths, downcast eyes. Individually or in small groups, they consulted with the soldiers before passing through the gatehouse. Izsák followed the next party. He was nearing the arch when one of the bluecoats called out to him.

  ‘You, boy! Where do you think you’re going?’

  He spun around, skin prickling as the soldier approached.

  ‘I asked you where you’re going.’

  ‘I . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I have a message for our Főnök, sir.’

  ‘Your Főök isn’t here.’

  ‘I know that. But the tanács, sir. I need to find one of them. They’ll pass on the message when he arrives.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Áron, sir. I’ve come all the way from Pest.’

  ‘Well, Áron, you can piss off all the way back to Pest. No one goes inside unless their name is on that list.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go on, else I put my boot in your arse.’

  The officer wearing the sword had been watching the exchange, and now he strode over. He frowned at his subordinate, thrusting his chin towards the entrance. ‘Let him in.’

  ‘We—’

  ‘Look at his eyes, Smid. Are you blind? He’s one of them.’ The officer turned to Izsák. ‘You know who you’re seeing?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Quick, then. Find him, pass on your message, and get out. I don’t want to have to send my men to look for you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  Balázs József sat at the writing desk in the tanács town house and gazed down at the street outside. The room was well appointed, painted canary yellow and furnished with good quality furniture. A Persian rug covered most of the oak floor; gilt-framed oils of hunting scenes hung on the walls. Behind him stood a four-poster bed, and in one corner a walnut bureau contained the few belongings he had brought here. On the bureau’s surface, a silver tray held a collection of spirit bottles and a pair of crystal tumblers.

  He heard the clatter of a key and the sound of the door swinging open. Then, the unmistakable rattling breath of the Főnök.

  ‘József, it’s time,’ the old leader said.

  He nodded, placing the graver he had been using down on the desk before him. Holding up a pocket watch to the light, he turned it over in his hands. Sunlight bounced off its gold hunter case; a circle of white, like a darting fish, flickered across the wall.

  József looked down at the inscription he had made.

  He was no master engraver, but the job would have to do.

  ‘József?’

  He stood, turned, surprised at what he saw. The Főnök appeared sunken, as if the man had aged a thousand years in the past week. His flesh hung slack around his face. Only his eyes remained sharp: chips of jade and azure.

  József held out the watch. ‘Here. It’s for my son. Will you give it to him?’

  The Főnök took the watch, running his thumb over the inscription. ‘It’s a handsome piece. I’ll ensure the boy receives it.’

  ‘Not yet. For his végzet.’

  ‘József—’

  ‘Yes. For his végzet. I’ve left the year blank. I won’t be here for him. Somebody will have to complete the engraving.’

  The old man breathed deep and the flecks of jade in his eyes faded. He wound the watch’s chain around his fingers. ‘My old friend—’

  ‘Please,’ Josef said, holding up his hands. ‘No more words. I’m ready.’

  Perhaps one hundred hosszú életek had gathered on the grassy quad inside the Citadella’s walls. They formed a loose and silent semi-circle before the wooden stage. From his hiding place among a stack of barrels on a half-loaded cart, Izsák wished he could join them. Despite their grim expressions, the uniform solemnity of their dress, they felt like a lost family, a safe haven denied him by more than mere physical distance. But now that he had positioned himself among the barrels, he dared not reveal his presence. Along one wall, a line of bluecoats stood at attention. Additional soldiers patrolled the battlements.

  Wind snapped the pennants flying from the quad’s flagpoles. Among them he recognised the Hungarian national flag – a crown between two angels on a tricolour of red, white and green – and the dual-crown flag of Austria–Hungary.

  The stage was empty except for two plinths constructed from delicate ironwork, standing waist-height to a man. Each was topped by a shallow metal bowl filled with burning coals. Grey smoke fluttered on the breeze.

  Izsák saw a party of dignitaries appear on the far side of the archway. Not hosszú életek, this group, although their faces were just as stony. They took up a position to the left of the stage. Although he did not recognise them, he suspected from their deportment who these men must be: representatives of Crown and State.

  Following the dignitaries, a second group entered. Walking inside a protective circle of bluecoats, they comprised perhaps twenty citizens of the city. Their faces displayed a curious mix of emotion: unease, loathing, triumph. They shot cautious glances at the gathered statesmen, poisonous stares at the hosszú életek.

  At their very midst, supported by an older couple, walked a straight-backed young woman, tanned from the sun. She wore a grimy dress gathered in at the waist. Her hair was tucked beneath a cap and her mouth was a tight line. Izsák noticed that she was trembling; a moment later, he realised who she must be.

  With the arrival of the newcomers, the atmosphere in the quad changed. The soldiers on the walls ceased their circuits and stood motionless, staring down at the crowd. Somewhere, a bell began to toll. A flock of pigeons rose into the air, wings slapping. Now a third group filed through the arch, and Izsák felt his heart thump against his ribs.

  Two tall hosszú életek led the procession. Eyes black, they scanned the crowd as they approached the stage. Both wore dark tunics, with a pair of sheathed déjnin knives hanging from their belts. Behind them, aided by a white-suited youth carrying a parasol, walked the Főnök. Behind him, flanked by two more dark-eyed hosszú életek, and followed by the eight members of the tanács, walked Izsák’s father.

  Balázs József, in a navy frock coat over a white shirt, stared straight ahead as he walked, lips moving softly.

  The crowd murmured, watching as the front half of the group walked up the steps to the stage while the tanács peeled off to join the State dignitaries. On the wooden platform, still flanked by the two hosszú élet guards, József halted behind the Főnök.

  The old leader, grey periwig perched on his head, raised his hands and the whispers in the crowd faded. Except for the snapping of the pennants on the flagpoles, the Citadella was silent.

  The Főnök swept the quad with his gaze, and Izsák realised that he was purposely meeting the eyes of every individual who stood before him. Once he was finished with the crowd inside the quad, he raised his head and gazed at each of the soldiers on the wall in turn. Finally, he lowered his hands.

  ‘Friends,’ the Főnök said. He paused, and then he nodded. ‘For that is what we are. Friends united by a shared history. A history that has often been turbulent, a history that has often been bloody. We have suffered hardships together, have suffered wars together, have experienced the cautious joy of reunification together. I address not my fellow hosszú életek with these words. I make no such distinction. I address everyone who has gathered here today, brought either by duty or the desire to see justice.’

  He took a breath. ‘While we, as hosszú életek, have lived among you as friends, we have not always chosen to show our faces. We’ve been too secretive, perhaps. For long periods in our shared history, that was a necessity born from conflict. But it is not, I am prepared to accept, a style of living compatible with the modern age. It is difficult to maintain trust that way. Even among friends.

  ‘Events of the past week have pained many of you
. I share that pain. Those events have sparked anger, resentment, further division. I empathise with your anger. I understand your resentment. More than anything, I seek to heal that division. And, as Örökös Főnök, I tell you I must bear some responsibility. I promised a swift resolution to this outrage, and so far I have failed.

  ‘What must come . . .’ The Főnök hesitated, and Izsák saw his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘What must come today – what we do here – will, I hope, demonstrate the seriousness with which we take our responsibilities as citizens of this great city. When a crime is committed in the modern age, the people are entitled to seek justice. Today, you will witness the first part of that justice. Soon, I promise you, we will find the kirekesztett who has brought this shame upon us. We will gather here again, and you will witness the conclusion.

  ‘All friendships experience challenges, periods of difficulty. But true friendships also endure. True friendships heal. Ask yourself if this is a true friendship and I hope you’ll agree that this is what we have.

  ‘The kirekesztett known as Jakab faced challenges of his own, of that there is no doubt. But they were not insurmountable. With courage, they could have been overcome. Instead, Jakab chose a darker path. He chose to distance himself from his family, and he chose the path of violence, of deceit.

  ‘He will be found. The responsibility for finding him was given first to this man you see before you – his father, Balázs József. Despite the seriousness of the kirekesztett’s crimes, Balázs József chose to ignore that responsibility. He defied a direct order from the ruling tanács. And from his Örökös Főnök.

  ‘We cannot, as our long tradition dictates, allow bad blood to thrive. The right of végzet has been stripped from the Balázs family until the kirekesztett son has been returned. And for his complicity in the kirekesztett’s escape, Balázs József is today brought here before you all, to face a judgement of his own.’

  The Főnök turned and inclined his head to the guards standing beside Izsák’s father. They stepped forward and József moved with them, until he was directly between the two coal-fired braziers.

  Izsák gazed at his father standing tall in his beautiful clothes. He wanted to call out, but he knew to interfere now would be the worst thing he could do. That József was to be punished, here in front of this crowd, was now undeniable. But the Főnök had not yet spoken of that punishment. There was still time to show leniency.

  A second pair of guards approached the stage, carrying between them a long bundle swaddled in cloth. They laid it at József’s feet and began to unwrap it. The crowd edged closer, blocking Izsák’s view. He saw a gleam of polished metal. Leather straps. A murmur rippled through the gathered hosszú életek.

  The guards finished their task and filed off the stage. Izsák craned his neck and what he saw paralysed him. His stomach flopped like a fish.

  The Főnök stared at the faces of the hosszú életek nearest the stage, at the soldiers in their uniforms, at the representatives of Crown and State. Such expressions he saw reflected back at him; such conflicting emotion. He found it difficult to meet their eyes with anything resembling the detachment he knew he must display.

  He had spent the past week debating options of leniency. In the end, it had all been for nought. He knew what his people demanded. The tanács had feigned a willingness to debate the options, but they had swiftly moved to parrot those views.

  Can I blame them? They’re sick with fear. We’ve grown too entrenched here, too entwined. Too immersed in the beating heart of this city, this country, this region. We’ve grown heavy and fat on our wealth, our collective power. We’ve become addicted to our influence, our mystique. And it’s all a myth. An illusion. A crystal tower, standing on sand.

  The Crown wished to see a strong response, and the tanács wished to oblige. The greater good. It was a phrase he had heard too often these last days. He had campaigned as hard as he dared, but he stood in a crystal tower of his own, just as delicate, and he knew there were some in the tanács eager for its fall.

  For every isolated kirekesztett incident, a thousand stories swept through the city and its provinces. Those incidents, while rare, had begun to create a tale – a myth – as dangerous and compelling as that of deliberately seeded propaganda. He wished there were someone more suited to steering them through this mess of their own making. But who else could he trust with their future?

  Balázs József had damned himself by his actions, and not only by his failure to bring his son to justice. Since the death of his wife the man had turned his back on society, had shunned the endless carousel of politics and intrigue. Through his lack of engagement he had lost both his friends and the last vestiges of the community’s warmth. Now, when the hosszú életek needed a sacrifice, the man found himself stranded and alone.

  Above the Citadella, gulls wheeled and cried.

  ‘Balázs József,’ the Főnök said, forcing himself to meet the eyes of their collective sacrifice. ‘You’ve repeatedly acknowledged your complicity in the escape of the kirekesztett son responsible for the defilement of Krisztina Dorfmeister. Do you, at this final time of asking, wish to change that plea?’

  The horologist shook his head, and the Főnök felt ice forming in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Think carefully now, and speak for all to hear.’

  Balázs József filled his lungs. ‘If what I did was a crime, I am guilty, Lord.’

  The crowd murmured.

  ‘Do you have anything else to say?’

  The man stared, eyes a swirling mix of magenta and shadow. Flecks of orange glinted there, like sparks cast from hammered steel. He turned to face the crowd, raising his voice so it carried across the Citadella.

  ‘So many anxious faces I see here today. So much anger.’ József nodded. ‘I’m sorry for the pain my son has caused. I’m sorry for his deeds. And I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for my part in this. I know what I did was wrong. Yet if I had my time again I would do exactly the same thing. I don’t profess to be a perfect man. I don’t profess to be a good man. When my wife Bernadett died I wallowed in self-pity. I neglected my sons. One, as we now know, went on to rape a girl in Buda. Would he have done that had I raised him better? Possibly not. Am I to blame for his crimes? In part, certainly. Could I ever, if given the opportunity again, take Jakab’s life? No. I could not. And I won’t deliver him up for someone else to do the same. For that, I am to be punished, and rightly so. Clearly I am flawed. But perhaps that flaw is what makes me a father. I won’t wet my hands with my son’s blood. I don’t ask for your forgiveness today, nor your mercy. I ask, simply, that you put yourself in my shoes and consider: What, really, would I have done?

  ‘I ask you this for one reason. My eldest son has agreed to bring the kirekesztett back to Budapest to face justice. As I speak to you, Jani is already on that road. His right of végzet has been revoked until he succeeds at his task. I won’t comment on the burden that responsibility has placed on him. I only note that he has agreed to shoulder it.

  ‘I have one son left. A child. Some of you know him. Those that do, know him to be a gentle soul. I beg only this. Let this end with Jakab – and let this end with me. Izsák is not yet twelve years old. An innocent, a victim of this situation as surely as anyone. Please: watch over him. Allow him to grow. And help him to heal.

  ‘I am to be judged today. But tomorrow, in the way you treat an innocent, you will all be judged. Tell my boy I love him. Tell him his mother loved him. And show him that he is loved, still.’

  The Főnök watched his old friend, wondering what impact, if any, the man’s words had made. The crowd was growing restless. He could delay this no longer. Reaching up, he removed the horsehair wig from his head. ‘Balázs József, the judgement of the tanács stands.’ His voice cracked. ‘Your blood must be laid to rest.’

  He sought among the gathered faces until he found his Merénylő. Even in the day’s heat, the assassin wore a long leather coat and wide-brimmed h
at. His eyes, the colour of rotten teeth, glimmered as he approached the stage. In one hand he held a metal capsich, wickedly sharp, and in the other a short-bladed knife.

  József’s shoulders slumped. Already, the guards had removed his frock coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt all the way to his biceps. Each forearm had been lashed to a polished pewter gutter. Three feet in length, the end of each pipe rested on the curved bowl of a brazier.

  The Merénylő bent to József’s right forearm, examining it closely. He balanced the tip of his blade against József’s skin. Then, with a practised movement, and a curious snuffling exhalation, he slashed lengthways with the knife, opening a four-inch furrow. Quickly he slid the razored cone of the capsich into the man’s ulnar artery, and folded the thin metal paddles of the capsich’s cuff around József’s wrist.

  The horologist winced, lifting his face to the sun. Blood began to course down his arm. It dripped into the polished gutter, rolled and gathered speed. The first splashes hit the brazier’s coals with a hiss and a puff of grey smoke. Along the pewter pipe, a narrow river began to form. It pulsed with the beat of József’s heart. As the flow increased, the hiss of the coals intensified. Bubbles swelled and popped on their surfaces, collapsing into ash. Smoke boiled up, whipped away on the breeze, ferrying a smell like roasted meat.

  Licking his lips, the Merénylő pressed his fingers into the crook of József’s left elbow. With a second downwards slash, he opened the artery in that arm too. He attached the second capsich and retreated.

  From the crowd, a man barked, ‘Stand firm, József! God’s speed!’

  The Főnök searched the front row and found the bearded face of Révész Oszkár Szilárd. Blotches of red had appeared on The Bear’s cheeks, and from his eyes glowed scratches of vermilion and jade. He crushed his fists together, chest heaving.