All things religious were always touchy in the wilder regions of Transbalkania, but even close to home: in fact, two blocks away, Eszterhazy had heard a drayman shouting to a troika-driver, “Did you hear what them God-damned Turks have done, the dogs?”
“Yes, the dirty dogs,” the troikanik had howled, “they stole back the Holy Jewels, we ought to send our gunboats down the Black Sea and bombard Consta’ until
they give them back, the dogs!”
The drayman had a caveat.
“We haven’t got no gunboats on the Black Sea, Goddamn it!” “Well, we better get some there then, blood of a vixen, the dirty dogs, shove!” And he cracked his whip over the backs of his horses, as though Ali Pasha, Murad the Midget, and Abdul Hamid themselves were all in the traces.
And now a voice called from the staircase, “Berty, art thou there?” Not many people addressed Engelbert Eszterhazy in the thou-form. Even fewer called him “Berty.”
“To thee, Kristy!” he called back.
Visits from his first-cousin once-removed Count Kristian- Kristofr Eszterhazy - Eszterhazy were rare. When he was not acting in his official capacity as Imperial Equerry, the Count preferred, in his purely personal capacities, to visit places much more amusing than the house at 33, Turkling Street. No merely familial duty nor memories of boyhoods spent much together had brought him here now, his moustache unwaxed, his figure for once unassisted by the usual corset, and smelling rather strongly of cognac, cologne, and extreme agitation. Without pause or further greetings, he made rapidly for the champagne bucket in the corner and, with a hand which trembled slightly, poured himself a drink from the bottle, tossed half of it off, and —
“No,” said Dr. Eszterhaxy, “it is not champagne. It is a mixture of geneva with an Italian wine which has been steeped in a profusion of herbs. Courtesy of the American Minister. He calls it a ‘martini,’ I don’t know why.”
Count Kristy downed the other half, sighed. “Listen, Berty, up, up, and into the saddle. Bobbo has gone round the bend.”
It was one His Royal and Imperial Highness’s amiable little habits, and which much endeared him to his Slovatchko subjects, that he liked to refer to himself in the third person ... at certain times .... by the term which meant, varying slightly in the Glagolitic dialects, Grandfather, Godfather, Foreman, Headman, Father-in-law, or — somewhat mysteriously — a boar with either three tusks. Or three testicles. “What!” he would exclaim, to a delegation from the Hither-Provinces. “What! No rain this year? What! Crops bad? What! Want your land-rates reduced? Ah, my children, you did right to come to Bobbo! Bobbo will take care of it! Pray for Bobbo! Bobbo is your Friend!” And so the Dissolution of the Triune Monarchy would be postponed for another five years. At times the intelligentsia and the underground felt certain that Ignats Louis was a stupid old fool. At other times, they were not so sure.
“What? Like poor old Mazzy?”
“Well ... not quite so bad as that. Doesn’t ride his white horse up and down the stairs hunting for Bonaparte. What he does do: he blubbers, flops on his knees every other minute and prays, shouts, storms, curses, weeps, smacks his riding-crop on his desk, and — It’s these damned Cyprus Regalia things. (Wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t actually glass, myself.) Poor old Bobbo, he has the notion that until and unless the Holy Jewels are found, his Crowns, his real crowns, I mean, are in peril.”
Eszterhazy, whose devotion to the Person of the Imperial Presence was based upon a deep-seated preference for King Log over King (or President, or Comrade) Stork, winced, shook his head.
“This is not quite reasonable,” he said.
“When you are eighty-one years old, and an Emperor,” Count Kirsty pointed out, “you don’t have to be quite reasonable. The Old Un is really in a state, I tell you! Won’t review the Household Troops. Won’t read the Budget. Won’t sign the Appointments or the Decrees. Won’t listen to Madame play the harpsichord—”
“Oh! Oh!” If Ignats Louis would not listen to the twice-daily harpsichord performance by Madame de Moulifre, whose position. . , as maitresse en titre had,
presumably, for many years been so purely titular indeed that it rested chiefly on the remembrance of things past and on the twice-daily performance upon the harpsichord — then, then, things were very bad indeed.
“Weeps, prays, storms, stamps,” Count Kristy recapitulated. “Reminds everyone that it is still part of the Imperial Prerogative to flay his servants up to and including the rank of Minister — Well. And, speaking of which. The Prime —
“The Prime Minister has ordered extra guards around the Turkish Legation, yes. What else?”
“Aunt Tillie asked me to mention that she is also very disturbed.”
The Grandduchess Matilda was the wife of the Heir. And where was the Heir? “Where would he be? If he isn’t murdering grouse, stags, and boars, he’s on maneouvres. Right now — fortunately! — he is on maneouvres just about as far away as he can be, in Little Byzantia, with no posts, no telegraphs, and the heliograph limited to matters purely military.”
Little Byzantia was, in fact, one
of the kernels in the nut. Little Byzantia was, nominally, still a pashalik, although the Triune Monarchy had administered it for forty-two years. During all that time, its eventual annexation to the Triple Crowns had been anticipated. And now, though very sub rosa, final negotiations with the Sublime Porte were underway. The Sublime Porte did not very much care at all. The Byzantian underground nationalists cared very much. Negotiations were very delicate. Anti-Turkish riots were not desired. Or — and this was another kernel in the nut — they were not desired now. The nut, of course, had many kernels. The temper of the Heir, always largely under control when at home and surrounded by ceremony, tended to become less and less under control the farther away from home it got.
There was a very possible and very undesirable order of progression. It went like this: First, Anti-Turkish riots in Bella ... or, for that matter, in Transbalkania, where a minority of several score thousand Turks still slept away their days over their hookahs and their prayer beads. Following such riots: A Reaction, any kind of a Reaction, on the part of Turkey. Following that, and assuming the Heir to find out (and find out he must, sooner or later), precipitate action on the part of the Heir. Following that: A stroke, a heart attack, or any of the other disasters lying in wait for an exited old man of eight-one. And, following that—
The Heir had many lovable qualities. One loved the Heir. One wished him many more long years ... As Heir.
Slowly, Eszterhazy said, “In fact, Kristy, I am working on it now. But I will need time. And I will need help.”
Count Eszterhazy-Eszterhazy said, “I can’t do a damned thing about Time. But as for help, well—” he fished something out his Equerry’s Pouch. “Bobbo ordered me to give you ... this.”
“Jesus Christ!"
“This” was a piece of parchment, deeply imprinted with the Triple Crowns at the top. In the middle, a hand (and Doctor Eszterhazy well knew Whose) had scrawled the one word ASSIST. Underneath ASSIST, The same Hand had drawn the initials:
IL
IR
And, at the bottom (more or less), in wax, the Seal Imperial. And, in each corner, was another initial, forming together the 1NRI.
“I’ve never even held one in my hand before!”