Written in the Blood by Stephen Lloyd Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

the Pálinka into a whirlpool. ‘His blood will be laid to rest.’
    The boy blinked. He frowned at his uncle, deciding that he hadn’t understood. ‘My brother’s blood?’
    ‘Your father’s, Izsák. József’s.’
    ‘Surely—’
    Szilárd’s eyes were dark. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I’ve loved your father like a brother since the day your mother introduced us. He’s a fine man. A fine man. Whatever you hear in the coming days, always remember that. He made a mistake, that’s all. A moment of weakness, yes, but still one brought about by love. At any other time, perhaps the Fő nök could have shown leniency. But with the Crown involved, with the attention that’s been focused on this, with our own tanács clamouring for a show of steel, his hand’s been forced. The Fő nök has no choice, Izsák. No choice.’
    The boy’s throat was so tight he could barely give breath to his question. ‘When?’
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    He nodded, a stiff jerk of the head. ‘Where will it happen?’
    ‘It’s best you don’t know that.’
    ‘Are you going?’
    ‘I must. For József, I must.’
    ‘Can’t I come with you? Stand by you?’
    ‘Oh, lad.’ Szilárd rested his elbows on the desk and planted his face in his palms. He stayed in that position for a full minute. The boy saw his shoulders shake once, twice. Finally the old bear smeared tears into his hair and scratched at his beard, blowing out his cheeks. ‘It’s a brave thing you ask. József would be proud. Is proud. But it’s no place for a boy; no place for a son. Something bad happens to a crowd when its blood is up. You would not be safe.’
    ‘Can I see him? Before?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, kicsikém .’
    The boy dropped his eyes to the floor. His throat felt like a fist clenched it, choking off his words.
    He hated himself for the question that clawed to the front of his mind just then, disgusted that he should think it even as he digested the horror of his uncle’s news.
    What will happen to me?
    After their meeting, Izsák wandered the house alone, touring its floors, searching for something – anything – to block out that monstrously selfish thought. In Szilárd’s library he pulled books from the shelves and stacked them in the middle of the floor, creating a tower that reached far above his head before it finally toppled. In another room he discovered, hidden in a drawer and wrapped in rags, a bundle of oiled déjnin knives, testing their sharpness by drawing the blades across his skin. In the wine cellar, he trailed his fingers over the necks of bottles at random until he found one with a pleasing shape and smashed it against the wall. Staring at the broken glass and the scarlet splashes on the brickwork, his stomach twisted with shame; he picked up all the pieces and hid them in an empty sack.
    Izsák encountered the servant on the staircase as he was seeking his room at the top of the house.
    The man was running a cloth over the dark wood of the banisters. ‘Orphan in the morning,’ he muttered.
    Breath catching in his throat, Izsák stopped on the stair and turned. He saw the servant bend closer to the wood, as if examining it for blemishes. The question spilled out of him before he had a chance to think. ‘What did you say?’
    When the servant lifted his head, Izsák saw that no hosszú élet eyes confronted him; these were unremarkable, a dusty blue.
    The man’s face was hard and bitter – sharp angles, thin lips, pocked skin. His body seemed twisted somehow, as if his spine had warped as it had grown. One of his legs bowed out at the knee, longer than its twin.
    ‘ Some people sayin’ this is how the end starts,’ he said. The words were thick in his mouth, as if forced past a swollen tongue. ‘ Some people sayin’ you goin’ a be rounded up, driven out. All of you. Some people sayin’ they’ve had enough of Long Lives and their ways. That you can’t be trusted no more.’
    ‘Who’s saying