Written in the Blood (10 page)

‘Shall I drive us back?’

‘What?’

He pointed through the windscreen. ‘If you want this badly enough, you’ll do it.’

‘Why all these tests?’

‘View it as therapy.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the one who needs it.’ She opened her mouth, hesitated. ‘Give me something in return.’

‘I’m not sure you’re in a position to bargain right now.’

‘Your visitors. Outside on the lawn last night. Tell me what they were.’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Then you were even more foolish coming here than I thought. If you’re not careful, your ignorance is going to kill you.’

‘So help me out. Educate me.’

‘They were
lélek tolvajok
.’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Exactly. You have no clue what I’m talking about, do you?’

Leah shook her head.

‘You grew up with
hosszú életek
, yet they’ve prepared you hardly at all.’ He stared through the windscreen at the mountains beyond. ‘Perhaps they thought the
tolvajok
had all died out. Or perhaps it’s only
kirekesztett
they prey upon now. Whatever the reason, it’s still inexcusable. They should have told you.’

‘Prey upon?’ She watched his eyes, unease clawing at her.

‘The
tolvajok
have preyed upon
hosszú életek
for as long as we’ve both existed.’

‘You said earlier they’re only a danger to some.’

‘They’re a danger to all. But yes, some more than others. You, especially so.’

Those claws sank deeper now. ‘Why me?’

‘Because of your age. Because of what they’ll want from you.’

‘Which is?’

He pointed through the window at one of the cable cars sliding into the building.

‘We need to go. Now. Or we’re going to miss our ride.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t, Luca.’

‘If you want this enough, you will.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Yes. It is.’

Inside the building, Luca purchased their tickets and they boarded the next car to dock. Leah’s heart was a hummingbird in her chest. The car was wider than a bus and virtually all glass. It swung gently as it began to rise – bizarrely quiet – and she heard herself moan as her stomach slipped away from her.

Quickly the valley floor receded, the building from which they’d emerged dwindling first to the size of a shoebox, then a matchbox. Leah clenched her teeth so hard she expected, at any moment, to feel them shatter. She wanted to close her eyes but, morbidly fascinated, found that she couldn’t.

They rose higher. This was no cable car route that skimmed the surface of its mountain slope. Soon they were impossibly high above the earth. She could see the whole of the Lauterbrunnen now, opening up like a vast canyon below her. Waterfalls plunged over cliffs, misting as they plummeted hundreds of feet past rock.

The cable car trembled and Leah tasted bile.

This is not happening. I am not this high up.

Mercifully, through the front-facing windows, she saw the winching station above them begin to grow larger, its brown steel ribs sharpening into view. Its huge sign read:

Gimmelwald
1367m 4485 ft

A village of traditional log cabins clinging to the mountainside, Gimmelwald was an even smaller community than Stechelberg. Laundry fluttered from washing lines. A few blond-haired children ran through its only street.

Leah breathed out explosively as they lurched to a halt inside the station, but Luca shook his head. ‘Not quite.’

‘Another?’

‘Another.’

‘We couldn’t drive up?’

‘No roads.’

The second cable car took them up to Mürren. According to the sign she saw as they arrived, they’d reached an altitude of 5,413 feet. The doors opened and they filed out, the air greeting them so bitter it drew tears from her eyes. Leah paused to recover her breath, heartbeat beginning to slow as she felt solid ground beneath her feet once more.

Mürren, despite its greater altitude, was a much larger village than the farming community of Gimmelwald. Clearly a tourist destination, it was startlingly beautiful nonetheless. Houses opened onto back gardens that dropped away at surprising angles, hemmed by low wooden fences. There were no cars.

At this altitude, snow still clung to the branches of trees and sat heavy on the rooftops. A wisp of cloud passed overhead, so low that it skimmed the tops of the buildings. Overshadowing everything, the grey stone peaks of the Alps.

Off the main street, Leah followed Luca to a black-painted chalet with bottle-green shutters. He bounded up the concrete steps and yanked on a bell pull.

‘What’s her name?’ she asked, squinting up at the windows. The ground-floor shutters were all closed.

‘Patience,’ he said.

‘That’s her name?’

‘No. That’s some advice.’

‘Unbelievable,’ she replied. Then, ‘Have you told her?’

‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’

‘What’s she like?’

He scratched his chin. ‘Let’s just say she doesn’t get out much.’

The door opened, revealing a dark, wood-panelled hall. A woman’s face appeared around the edge of the jamb and Leah’s stomach twisted into knots.

C
HAPTER
10

Budapest, Hungary

1873

F
ew of the city’s inhabitants walked the streets at this hour, and Izsák wished to avoid the ones that did. The moon was waxing, daubing Pest’s architecture with a spectral luminescence. He kept to the shadows, ducking out of sight when he heard footsteps or the snort and clatter of a horse. The hilt of the
déjnin
blade chafed his side.

He had but one intention: find his father; find the only person left in this city who could make everything right.

All dead soon, little one. All the Long Lives burned in a pile. Bones and ashes. Bones and ashes.

He would not believe it. His uncle had told him that the
tanács
, at the Crown’s request, intended to sacrifice his father. The crippled servant had implied the rest of the
hosszú életek
would soon follow.

It couldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

If he could get to the Citadella, he could uncover the truth. He could prove to himself that the last two days had been a nightmare and nothing more. He accepted that his father was to be punished, but the man’s blood would not be spilled.

If Izsák could find him, if he could stand beside József as he was judged, perhaps the
tanács
would be shamed into showing even greater leniency. Perhaps they could both be back in Gödöllö by tomorrow night.

Stand next to your father? You couldn’t even summon the courage to warn Szilárd!

But this was different.

This was all he had.

The Citadella stood at the top of Gellért Hill on the Danube’s west bank, the highest elevation for miles around. The stone fortress had been built by the Habsburgs twenty years earlier, a strategic position from which its cannon could target both Pest and Buda should the cities choose to revolt.

Izsák could reach the foot of the hill via the Széchenyi chain bridge, but he dared not risk crossing it at night. Someone was sure to challenge him.

Instead he walked the streets of Pest, waiting for sunrise. He passed the huge Academy of Sciences building, and sat for a while tucked behind a pillar at the top of the steps to St Stephen’s Basilica. Wind stirred the leaves of a newspaper beside him. It was a mournful sound. He wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes. If only Jakab were here; his brother would know exactly what to do. Izsák accepted that Jakab had done a bad thing over in Buda, but perhaps that had been a mistake, too. A dreadful misunderstanding.

No. He’s a rapist. You know that.

When Izsák opened his eyes hours later, the sun had risen and he could hear birdsong. His backside ached where it pressed against stone. Pain thumped behind his eyes. He climbed to his feet and dusted himself down. Pulling the knife from his belt, he slipped it into an inside pocket; with the arrival of dawn, he’d be unwise to display a weapon so openly.

By the time he crossed the chain bridge over the Danube’s wide brown ribbon, the morning’s river traffic was already moving. He saw tugboats, full-sailed schooners, a paddle steamer churning the water to foam. Gulls hovered and cried.

Even this early, the sun was warm on his back. The notion, now, that his father would die this day had shrunk to the status of an infant’s night terror. The crippled servant had frightened him, yes. But Izsák’s reaction, fleeing from the man and the house, had been foolish, panicked. Once he heard the
Főnök
speak, once he saw his father and proved to himself that József was safe, he would talk to his uncle. The servant would be disciplined. There would be an end to it.

He arrived on the Buda side of the river and began the climb up Gellért Hill to the Citadella. The building squatted on the summit, a graceless fortification of pale stone, punched with square holes for its battery of cannon. Some walls curved, others zigzagged. A group of soldiers, in blue tunics and peaked caps, lounged around outside the entrance. Most had rifles slung over their shoulders; one, holding a sheaf of papers, wore a sword at his belt. Relieved, Izsák saw they were making casual conversation, cracking jokes. It felt far from the atmosphere of an execution.

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
F
ő
nök
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
F
ő
nök
. 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
F
ő
nök
.

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
F
ő
nök
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
F
ő
nök
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.