Written in the Blood (11 page)

‘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 F
ő
nök
, 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
F
ő
nök
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 F
ő
nök
.

‘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
F
ő
nök
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
F
ő
nök
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
F
ő
nök
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
F
ő
nök
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
Merényl
ő
. Even in the day’s heat, the assassin wore a long leather coat and wide-brimmed hat. 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
F
őnök
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.

On the stage, József found his brother-in-law’s face. Clenching his teeth, the horologist straightened his spine. Briefly, he smiled his thanks.

Blood slopped in the guttering. József’s right leg began to shake. A spasm passed through him.

Incredulous, the
Főnök
saw a globe of phlegm arc towards the stage from the group of the city’s citizens. It spattered against József’s cheek.

‘You deserve to rot, Balázs!’ shouted a voice. ‘You and your bastard sons.’

Some in the crowd gasped. Others surged forward, a hunger burning in their faces. Another missile looped through the air, this one striking József in the chest and leaving a bloody smear. Only when it fell to the floor did the
Főnök
recognise what it was: a purpled chicken liver. A handful now struck the man, one finding his neck, the others leaving dark stains on his shirt.

Szilárd roared, twisting left and right. ‘What is this! Who
does
this?’

On the stage, József’s legs buckled. The guards either side of him took his arms and held him upright, frowning as they scanned the crowd.

A few feet away, a man hawked and spat a thick lump at József’s face. Szilárd roared again. He waded through the press of bodies, slamming his fist into the stranger’s skull. The man went down and the crowd cried out.

‘Enough!’ the
Főnök
shouted. ‘Allow him some dignity!’

A coin bounced off the back of Szilárd’s head. The Bear ignored it. ‘József,
look
at me,’ he growled. ‘Only at me.’

The horologist’s wrists shone red. His mouth hung slack but he raised his eyes and found his brother-in-law’s face.

‘It’ll be over soon,’ Szilárd told him. ‘You’ll be with Bernadett.’

‘She’s in a better place than I’ll see,’ József whispered. He began to gasp.

‘No.
No
, József. You did well. You
did well
. I’ll watch the boy, I promise. I’ll look after him.’

József closed his eyes. Chicken livers hit his chest, his face.

‘Let go,’ Szilárd said. ‘You’ve done everything you can. Go on, József. Let go.’

Izsák opened his mouth to scream as the
Merényl
ő
sliced into József’s flesh, but no cry formed in his throat. His fingers gripped the rough wood of the barrel top, and he could not tear them loose.