Rook Sacrifice
A Nádasdy Short
At thirty-four, Máté Nádasdy had already lived a full and conflicted life during the time the Habsburgs ruled Hungary. After a troubled childhood, he served his country in battle, lived abroad in Paris, and now found himself the owner of a popular coffeehouse on the Champs-Élysées of Budapest, Andrássy Avenue, where he hopes to live out a peaceful, if mundane, life as a café proprietor. Despite his efforts to leave the past behind, he’s drawn to helping others with their problems and set things right. His friend Róbert, who owned the clothier’s next door, often helped, though he struggled to keep up with Máté’s quick mind.
1889. 11 August. Saturday. Budapest.
8:15 p.m.
Kovács led Róbert and me to the back row and seated us on stools from where I could see not only the chess table, but the face of near every observer. He was the director of Lipótvárosi Kaszinó, an exclusive men’s club that was only a few blocks from the university library. Róbert and I were his guests, as I would never have been able to enter such a place; I lacked the pedigree and the forints. However, since many of those present were Róbert’s clientele, he moved in these circles with more fluidity than I ever could.
I hadn’t observed a chess match since my days at Ludovika, and I’d forgotten how they seemed to crawl along. Though I was familiar with its basic strategies, I never took to playing. Rather, I seemed to be a man of action most of my days, drawn to the physical, challenging my body and my intellect, working out puzzles of strategy, motion, and emotion. To say I was well suited for the military life would be only to consider my most crude accomplishments, for I also had a sense of an opponent’s mind, his thoughts, his feelings. This allowed me to attack at his weakness and overcome most anyone. Consequently, I brought Róbert along, for he considered himself a connoisseur of the game while I was a student of the human mind.
Vas versus Fekete. We’d all been reading about the eighteen-year-old Benedek Vas, a brilliant chess prodigy. His face showed his youth, for he had a deep blush to his cheeks that seemed ever present, but his eyes—they were reddened and wet. I imagined him sitting over boards for hours each day, analyzing, preparing, worrying. Watching him play was exhausting, even without understanding the complexities of his calculations, such was the tension in his eyes.
Ádám Fekete sat in the opposing seat. I knew little of him except he was not half the master Vas was, and his chess career was well beyond its midpoint. I suspected he took the match as a last gamble to elevate his reputation. A win would gain him entry into a more exclusive realm of competition, with stakes that could provide a comfortable existence. His weary demeanor and soiled suit made one feel this might be his last opportunity. Even the gloves he wore—eccentric, affected—had seen their best days long ago. I shook my head, amused at these chess players, for who wears gloves when playing chess?
The club members themselves put up the prize money, five hundred forints to the winner, enough to guarantee a competitive match. But Fekete didn’t need to win; he would receive prizes of reduced value for reaching different benchmarks: surviving fifteen moves, then twenty moves, preserving his queen to the endgame, and so on.
Like many of the social clubs these days, Lipótvárosi Kaszinó would not involve itself in wagers between members, but it would often be thrust into a position of mediating disagreements. For today’s match, Kovács had hinted the personal stakes were high but shared nothing specific, and indeed, he likely knew very little of what was transpiring between club members.
Róbert leaned to my ear and whispered, “Fekete is falling behind in material and will never catch up. He’s an unconventional character, not up to Vas’s brain.”
That I knew. Kovács had told me Fekete was expected to lose. The boy was too quick, too brilliant. Yet, despite its self-evidence, the director believed there might be some irregularities, and fearing an embarrassing scandal, he invited me to observe.
Now, Róbert and I sat on our stools, him immersed in the board play and me scanning the room for something amiss. Despite the opulent furnishings, a sourness hung in the air, a mix of cigar smoke, perspiration, and liquor. There were no windows and only one door, so the air felt impenetrable, like a sealed cask, which redoubled the tension. A waiter moved about in formal attire, delivering wine and brandy with a stoic face, looking unaffected by the crushing atmosphere.
“Who’s the chap across from Fekete?” I whispered. The man was out of place, as though he’d wandered in from some alleyway, a store-bought suit, shoes in need of a polish, rough all around. But it was his composure that caught my eye, for he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on Fekete.
Róbert shrugged. “His impresario … or maybe a friend?”
Then he grabbed my arm and whispered, “Over there. Friedrich Zeller. Owner of the Magyar Steam Milling Company. A client, very rich and very cunning.”
I’d heard of the success of the flour business, that Budapest was now called “the flour mill of Europe.” Only a handful of men dominated the market, to immense wealth, and Zeller, an Austrian, was one of them.
I followed Zeller’s eyes, for he wasn’t watching the match. He was enchanted by a young woman seated across the room. Zeller’s face was warm and relaxed with the hint of a smile, while she seemed immovable, almost cast in marble. I estimated his age at thirty-five, and the young woman not much out of her teens. Her chaperone sat next to her, who I assumed was her father. He was at least fifty, and wore a great Hungarian mustache which spread into imperial sideburns that reached to his coat. He was a man of bearing, thanks to an impeccable attire, and a large garnet ring that threw crimson sparks about the walls.
Hiding my hand down low, I pointed to the man.
Róbert leaned in again. “Count Miklós. He’s a client of mine and a true nationalist. A fine gentleman, but on the brink of bankruptcy—and his daughter, of course, beautiful and unmarried.”
How surprising the count had brought her along! Her presence commanded attention—not because she was the only woman in the room, but because she carried herself with an undeniable confidence. Perhaps she was a chess aficionado, unusual in a world where women were discouraged from such warlike games. Though I had no interest in chess, her presumed passion intrigued me. I’d always been drawn to those with a strong, independent spirit—unafraid to do what was necessary to win.
Róbert must have caught me staring. “Ő túl nagy falat neked. She’s too big a bite for you, Máté.”
“Can’t a man dream?”
I looked to the board right as Fekete reached to move a piece, but he hesitated, his hand still above the pieces, his fingers shaking, and then he committed and moved the rook in a dramatic gesture. Several of the men inhaled with a start. A few murmured to their companions.
I leaned over to Róbert, and he whispered, “Fekete attempted his signature move, an early rook lift, but now he’s lost the piece. Either a brilliant sacrifice or a fool’s blunder.”
Then I saw the rook, still gripped in Vas’s hand, which he suspended above the board as if to taunt his opponent with the loss. However, Fekete seemed unfazed; his face, his posture unchanged. Vas could not suppress the grin that began to turn up his mouth, and he dropped the arm to his side, still gripping the rook in a tight, shaking fist.
I looked back at Zeller, and he was puffing on a stout cigar, content and impenetrable. Miklós looked as though he might collapse, his mouth opened in astonishment. But his daughter, she allowed an enigmatic smile to grow.
Fekete parried, moving his bishop onto the longest diagonal, the fianchetto position. His face was impassive, almost defiant.
Vas seemed confused, as though he lost his line of reasoning. His face went pale and a few beads of sweat appeared on his brow.
Someone in the audience cleared their throat with a repressed cough, and Vas flinched.
A few moments later, Vas raised his hand and looked around the room. Kovács rushed to him, and the two shared a whispered conversation.
Kovács straightened. “Master Vas requests a short recess. As per the agreed-upon rules, neither of the players may interact with anyone during the recess. Thank you for your cooperation in this.”
Vas scribbled his next move on a scrap of paper and slid it in an envelope.
Kovács accepted it with some ceremony and said, “We shall reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
Vas swabbed his face with his handkerchief, and in one sudden rush, stood and moved behind a paravent set near the back wall. Kovács must have anticipated such a need, for he had created a small lounge area within the room where the players might have a moment of privacy and refresh themselves.
An immediate and impassioned debate erupted. Fekete looked a bit stunned, sitting and staring at the board. No doubt he was figuring how to dig himself out of the hole he’d dug, losing the rook. His bishop’s response was a strong one, but it wouldn’t win the day.
“I suspect there was no plan in losing that rook, else he wouldn’t look as desperate as he does,” Róbert said. “Vas is too skilled to trick. If there were a method behind Fekete’s play, Vas would have seen it and passed on the rook. It was free for the taking, and to not capture such a hanging piece is a blunder in itself.”
A few of the men walked to stand over the board, but Fekete raised his eyes in contempt and Kovács attempted to shoo them back. The rough-looking man had moved from across the room to stand behind Fekete. Not a coach, for his eyes now swept the room and he stood with the posture of a fighter, not a grandmaster.
“Fekete does seem a bit despondent,” I said. “And his friend behind him seems chummy.”
“Indeed. There’s a lot of money on the line. I suspect most here wagered on Fekete not lasting twenty moves. We’re at fifteen and already his prospects are finished. He’s been in trouble since the opening.”
The waiter had returned and was serving champagne. “Courtesy of the club!” Kovács called, and a satisfied murmur went through the room.
I looked over at Fekete again. He was still studying the board, sipping some brandy from an etched crystal glass. Sweat glimmered on his forehead, throwing the light from the brilliant chandelier above.
I walked to Miklós who stood with his daughter on his arm, and I bowed. “Count Miklós, Lieutenant Máté Nádasdy.” I often used my retired rank when meeting nobles, as it was certain to secure a level of grudging respect.
“Lieutenant. Have we met?” He extended his hand, and I took it, surprised by its warmth and strength. He had regained his composure from earlier, and now his expression showed a slight irritation, as if I’d already delivered some offense.
Róbert was already at my side, the maternal in him coming to the rescue. “Count Miklós, I was telling the lieutenant earlier about your interest in the arts and industries of Hungary, how you are very specific which wools we select for your wardrobe.”
But I was looking at his daughter. Róbert saw and gave me a tight smile. “And this is the count’s daughter, Countess Zsófia.”
She smiled and nodded her head ever so. I was captivated by the intense intelligence in her eyes that as much as said, I know your tricks, Nádasdy, but I find you charming despite yourself. I was about to take her hand and kiss it when someone came between us.
Zeller. Standing, he was an imposing form—taller than I had imagined, with eyes black as ink, dull and almost lifeless. “Zsófia! What a pleasure to see you here!” He extended his large, fleshy hand to take hers and kiss it.
Zsófia’s eyes darted to her father, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Zeller. Your man is boxed in a corner after that egregious lapse.”
But Zeller refused to be baited and continued to stare into Zsófia’s eyes. “Are you enjoying the match, countess?” His Hungarian bore the stilted accent of an Austrian, almost comically so.
Her face fell and became quite expressionless, except for a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Indeed. Chess reveals men’s hearts, their ambitions, their weaknesses. Only the most courageous, the most earnest, will win.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, as though an offense had been given but remained recognized by the lesser intellect. I knew the offense wasn’t mine, but the challenge was, and I felt revealed. She was probing me.
“The rook has put itself center stage,” I said, rising to her words.
She raised her eyes to mine. “As it should be, Lieutenant. Fekete loves his rook.”
I smiled. “Sometimes we must sacrifice what we love …”
“True. And I would propose it’s not truly a sacrifice without love.” Her face softened, warming her expression.
I was about to answer when Zeller turned to us, as a comic actor would turn to the audience with an aside. “I abhor chess. Never could understand it—kings, queens, knights—too many rules! I don’t waste time on meaningless games.”
Róbert rescued the conversation. “Herr Zeller, I hear you’ve elevated Budapest to the acme of flour production.”
Zeller turned, displeased at the interruption. “Yes, but I can’t say more than that. I leave it to others to run the shop, so to speak.” He let out a loud chortle and most in the room turned to us. “We must face it, gentlemen. Flour is a bore, yet everyone must have it.”
“The grain farmers see it as a noble endeavor, not boring at all.” The count’s eyes flared. “And a fair price for their work would go a long way to building goodwill between our united kingdoms.”
Zeller had seemed to have already forgotten the countess, for now he stepped in front of the count, their livid faces a mere hand’s breath apart. He blew out a plume of smoke from his cigar just over Miklós’s head.
Zeller smiled. “Austria is not in the business of pampering peasants or counts. The market rewards shrewdness, not goodwill.”
Miklós’s lips parted, but he paused, no doubt weighing his words. Róbert rescued the moment again. “How is your wager faring, Zeller?” he asked.
Zeller took a deep breath, then stepped back from the count. “Well. Fekete will win. Don’t be fooled.”
“And you, Count? On whom is your money tonight?” I asked.
“The Vas chap. It’s obvious he’s the better player. Tricks may win the day, but time will tell the truth.”
A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. Zeller took two glasses and offered one to the countess.
She put her hand to her forehead. “No, thank you, sir. It’s impossible to follow the moves when my head is muddled.”
“Well, then. I’ll offer this to someone else.” Looking hurt, Zeller turned on his heal to find another group of men.
“Not even a goodbye from the man,” the count said. “Our world is changing.”
“Father—enough said.” The countess’s words were portent, and I watched her face for some clue to their meaning but she remained unreadable. “Gentleman, you’ll have to forgive Herr Zeller. I understand Father and he have a friendly wager on today’s match.”
“Indeed,” the count said, and then was lost in thought for a moment, staring at the back of Zeller’s head as he entertained a group of young men standing a few steps away.
“Father, now that I think of it, I am truly parched and would enjoy a glass of that champagne.” And with that, the two bade us a good evening and turned away to summon the waiter.
“Zeller was rather forward with the countess,” I said to Róbert.
“Well, he’s nearing middle age and still unmarried. Soon, the society whispering gallery will begin raising questions as to his prospects.”
“Interesting. The countess seems to have no affection for him.”
“Zeller wants Miklós’s estates, for the grain. Then he’ll control all the pieces of his business and not be at the mercy of the landowners, who set the price for their wheat.”
So, there was a tension between Zeller and Miklós, and Zsófia symbolized the merging of both their interests. I found it impossible to believe she would marry such a distasteful man but then remembered Róbert’s comments earlier. Miklós was broke and it might be the only way to save his estates.
It was then Kovács caught my elbow. “We have a complication.”
Once we stepped away into a corner, Kovács couldn’t contain himself. “It’s Vas. He says he’s ill and can’t continue.”
Róbert rolled his eyes. “Well, there you have it, Fekete wins.”
“There would be an uproar. You see, the wagers, the odds are against Fekete. If he wins, well …”
What he left unsaid was the club might have to moderate a fearful exchange of money, and the losing parties might cry foul. Alienating any of the club’s membership would not go well. Nevertheless, Kovács’s calculated reticence was exhausting me. “You asked for my help, but you hamper my efforts. Tell me what has been wagered and who stands to gain if Vas loses.”
Kovács fell into an armchair against the wall. “Privacy is one of the pillars of the club. I could lose my job.” But then he took a deep breath and continued, “It’s rumored Zeller and Count Miklós hold a wager. If Vas wins, Miklós is promised some kind of preferential business arrangement in perpetuity.”
Róbert said, “A fair market price for his grain. That would save his estates.”
“And if he loses?” I asked. “What does Zeller get then?”
Kovács shrugged. “No one knows. It may be something intangible.”
My mind swirled with the possibilities. Control of something. A company, a relationship, a person?
Just then, someone shouted, “Help! It’s Vas!”
The paravent had fallen over and Vas lay on the carpet. He’d fallen from his stool and now lay on his side. His eyes were darting around the room in desperation.
Kovács ran to him. “Stand aside! Leave room for the lieutenant.”
I kneeled next to the young man and saw his breathing was shallow, his skin almost blue. And then, his lips started to move. He was trying to say something, but then they stopped, and his eyes turned lifeless, unseeing.
Finally, he released the ebony rook from his palm and it rolled a few centimeters on the carpet, his finger giving a final twitch as the rook came to a stop.
“Touch nothing!” I shouted. “Kovács, lock the door. We’ve a murderer in our midst!”
✧ ✧ ✧
The room erupted into chaos, for all the men began shouting at once.
“Róbert, your handkerchief!”
When he passed it to me, I retrieved the rook, careful not to touch any part of it.
“Don’t touch Vas,” I said, and Róbert began moving back those who crowded the body.
I pressed my way to the center of the room where the chandelier was brightest. Fekete still sat at the board, but now his face was drained of color and his mouth agape.
With careful, deliberate movements, I unfolded the handkerchief to examine the rook. Kneeling then, I examined the remaining pieces on the board.
Fekete began to stand.
“Stay seated! You mustn’t move,” I shouted at him, and he fell back into his chair.
The room turned silent. All were watching me now.
I looked again at the piece in the handkerchief, and, as I expected, saw a thin sheen covering the rook. Where the pieces on the board were polished ebony and boxwood, the rook was dull, almost a matte finish.
Bringing it to my nose, I inhaled. Medicinal. Camphoraceous, with a lingering floral scent.
“Farkasölőfű. Wolfbane, probably in an oil infusion. Absorbed through the skin. Most deadly.” The room erupted again. Kovács was shouting, trying to quiet the crowd.
Then I remembered the gloves, not eccentricity. Protection.
I moved to stand over Fekete and gestured for his friend to give us some room, so he took a few grudging steps backward.
“How did you make the switch?” I asked, but Fekete only held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“I’ve little patience at the moment. We’ve a room full of people and poison we know not where.”
Fekete’s eyes were searching the room. He was looking for a way of escape, so I put my hand on his shoulder, pressing him deeper into his chair. “I’m going to reach into your coat pocket. Need I worry about more poison?”
Silent tears fell from his face as he looked into his lap. “No.”
I put my hand into his coat and found what I wanted, the matching rook untainted. When I compared the two side by side, the piece from his pocket—the original from the club set—was a fine piece of work, but an imitation. The tainted piece showed a quality of detail, with castle-like crenelations around the top, only available on an authentic Staunton set. Rare in these parts of Europe, and also quite expensive.
I dropped to one knee to level my gaze at the man. “You’re not responsible for this, are you? You’re just a cog in someone else’s machinations. Who was it? What are they holding over you?”
Fekete closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders settling. “I’m desperate for money. The bloodsuckers are calling in my debts.” He turned to glance at his friend behind him, then lowered his voice. “What have I done? I didn’t want this. Even in the last moment, I couldn’t, but then I did. I didn’t mean to hurt the boy. It was only supposed to make him sick. All communication was by way of anonymous notes in my post. Written in German.”
“What did they say, the notes?”
“The rook came in an envelope, wrapped in a cloth. Told me not to touch it, just swap it out when I set my pieces before the match started. I was to play the rook lift before the fifteenth move, knowing Vas would grab it.” He was a man defeated now, almost unable to talk. “Whoever they were, they knew of my debts, knew I needed the winnings, said they’d pay my liabilities, paid me an advance even, so I could keep the bloodsuckers off me. Now, they’ll kill me for sure.”
I could see the plan was too big for this man. His vision was small, limited to sixty-four light and dark squares, and a debt that would soon consume him. He was just a piece in a larger game. It was time to talk with our wagerers.
✧ ✧ ✧
Kovács had sent for the police, which gave me only a few moments with the suspects. Róbert and I were in Kovács’s office, and Zeller was sitting across a desk from us. A single lamp illuminated the room, casting deep shadows across Zeller’s face, his deep-set eyes receding into the darkness beneath his brow.
“If Fekete won tonight, you would have gained control of Miklós’s estates. That was your agreement, wasn’t it? They’d be his in name only. You would assume control as a business manager of sorts, naming your price, taking whatever profits you could squeeze from them.”
Zeller said nothing, rather he merely stared at me with his unnerving eyes.
“That would give you complete control of both the supply and processing of grain, an enviable market position.” Still, he sat, unspeaking.
“You don’t have to talk to me, but you will the detective. He’ll be here in a few minutes,” and I resolved to sit and wait for him to speak.
Finally, he broke my gaze and looked at the wall, then back. “I had nothing to do with this silly death plot. My agreement with Miklós was just that, an agreement, which I would have honored with Fekete’s loss. But it seems Vas cannot continue, so a forfeit. I win.” He flashed a derisive smile.
“Fekete said he was blackmailed into his role. The police will be able to trace the notes, the poison, back to the perpetrator.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true, for our science of investigating hadn’t yet reached that of Paris or London, and reading Zeller’s face, he seemed unconcerned, even amused.
“Stop with your absurd accusations. Leave this to the police, Lieutenant.” His tone was patronizingly patient, as though I were a child.
I felt my face flushed with anger, but then Róbert put his hand on my forearm, steadying me. Zeller knew how to vex his adversaries. I would give him that.
So, he rose and left, slamming the door behind him, its glass rattling.
✧ ✧ ✧
Count Miklós and his daughter provided a more delightful interview with the charm one would expect from nobles.
“Lieutenant, it’s no secret my estates have been lowballed by Zeller. We can’t secure a fair price for our grain. His intent is to force me to acquiesce. He wants control of my lands.” Miklós seemed unruffled, implying he’d lived with the truth of it for some time.
“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Again, the silence. Patience, Máté.
“He wants my hand in marriage.” Zsófia’s face was composed, almost heroic in its reservation.
“That sounds a dreadful sentence,” Róbert said.
She placed her hand on her father’s forearm. “Our family’s legacy is more important than … love, even respect.” Her face softened, for she was eager for me to understand what she believed only a noble could: sacrifice for a greater cause.
“What will happen now?” I asked.
Miklós shifted in his chair. “Zeller is saying Fekete wins, which is absurd. All is null and void.”
“I’m not so sure it’s as clear as that.”
The count stood. “Look here! Fekete confessed to the deed and as much as implicated Zeller. Seems simple to me.”
“It won’t be easy for the police to trace the poison back to Zeller. He’s too smart a man.” I was interested in how the count might proceed with things unchanged, his pending bankruptcy, no grain deal.
But I was more interested in his daughter, in so many ways. “Countess. You seem a student of the game. I noticed your attention to the match.”
“Yes, Father taught me from a young age, despite my governess’s objections. I still enjoy a spirited game with a skilled opponent.” Her mouth turned up slyly, and Miklós turned to her with obvious pride.
“Tell me. Did Fekete blunder the rook away, or did he have a plan to win?”
She looked up and pursed her lips, challenged by the question, but also relishing the intellectual engagement. “I’d say he had a plan. He’s won with that move before. It’s a daring sacrifice that doesn’t come to fruition for another three moves.” She showed an unrestrained smile, satisfied with her calculations.
“Hmm. I guess we’ll never know.”
“Some things are best left that way.” Her smile turned demure, and her eyes held mine for one more moment and I understood her, and she understood me—more than I wanted. And I felt something from her. Admiration, yes. But also regret. And longing. But then she looked down, once more assuming the role of her father’s daughter, and when our eyes met again, she was as we first met—a woman who understood the world and how to move its pieces.
The count stood and held his hand to Zsófia. “Come, my dear. We must go before we tell all our secrets.” And the two turned and left the room with more grace and courage than I could imagine. Just before they exited, Miklós turned back and caught my eye. It was a question. Or was it an acknowledgement? Perhaps both. But then they were gone.
Kovács poked his head in the door. “Detective Petrik is here.”
I raised my finger. “Thank you. We’ll be another minute.”
Róbert asked, “You think Zeller’s behind the plot?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I would be none the sadder to see that man jailed.”
“Róbert, where’s your generous spirit?”
He smiled because we knew he had none. Yet, I wasn’t convinced Zeller was our man. All the pieces fit except one. The rook.
“What do we have that indicts Zeller?”
Róbert took a breath and thought for a moment. “He would benefit from Fekete winning. Advantageous grain prices—and the presumed hand of the countess.”
“What else?”
“The note’s in German. As you said, no Hungarian would choose to write in German.” Now he looked satisfied.
“Or, maybe he’s being framed.”
Róbert slapped his palms down on his lap. “Máté, there you go. By whom? For what purpose?”
“Don’t you see! It’s the rook. It can only be one person.” I sprang to my feet and into the hallway to find Petrik.
✧ ✧ ✧
“Once again, you’ll need to explain your logic, Lieutenant.” Petrik was his usual impatient self, chagrined I seemed to be a step ahead.
“Only one person had the motive and the knowledge to commit the crime. The murderer planned for Fekete to use the rook, for only the rook was provided to him. It had to be someone with a working knowledge of Fekete’s game. Not Zeller.”
“Yet, there are several here with that background …”
“Yes, but none with such a compelling motive.”
He shook his head again with impatience. “I need more than motive. I need means. Evidence.”
“Indeed. The tainted rook—it was a genuine Staunton. Fekete couldn’t afford such a thing, and it’s not likely Zeller, a man who disdains the game, would invest in something so exquisite.”
“Then who?” he shouted.
Now Róbert shook his head. “Not the countess. She is so charming and single-minded. She wouldn’t.”
Petrik glared at me, irritated and tired for it was late. “It doesn’t work. She has no motive. The count would benefit only if Vas won. They bet on Vas! Why would she help Zeller by helping Fekete?”
“You reason like a man playing draughts, so short-sighted. Think like a chess player, with patience. If Vas wins, which was anticipated, Miklós obtains his grain deal, but for how long? Zeller would again increase the pressure on him, the only questions would be how and when—and the countess would never be rid of his advances.”
“Yes?” Petrik was waiting for the rest of the story, for any crime requiring more than the most rudimentary logic was inscrutable to him—and always would be.
“But what if she frames Zeller for the murder, then Zeller is out of the way, and perhaps his business flounders, and then there is opportunity for Hungarian flour producers to jump in the breach. And the reviled suitor is gone.”
He looked at me, scowling, waiting for ez volt a kegyelemdöfés, the mercy blow.
“Go to the count’s home. I’m sure you’ll find the Staunton set there, minus the rook. And then in the garden, likely hidden behind a large rose shrub, you’ll find the poisonous botanical—warn your officers, for wolfbane has had many unsuspecting victims.”
Petrik pursed his lips in disgust, then strode away and began directing his officers about their business.
“Go easy on Fekete,” I called after him. “His financial predicament forced his hand.”
Róbert’s eyes betrayed disappointment. “The countess had an engaging spirit. I enjoyed her.”
“As did I.” A surprising sadness fell on me, but it passed in a moment, leaving only the weary remnants of the evening’s tensions.
Róbert suppressed a yawn. “Lieutenant Nádasdy, it’s after midnight. We need to get you home or you might lose your youthful glow.”
I laughed for the first time that evening. “I lost my glow long ago, if I ever had such a thing.”
We found our way in silence through the club’s corridors and out onto Hatvani Street. The stifling air of the August night was no relief from the oppression of the club, but still the sky and stars gave me a sense of release from a world I loathed, with its formalities and prescriptions. And for the nobles I respected, for them I hoped for something better.
✧ ✧ ✧
rook - noun \ ˈru̇k
1a: a common Old World gregarious bird (Corvus frugilegus) about the size and color of the American crow with the skin about the base of the bill becoming bare, scabrous, and whitish with age
b: ruddy duck
2: a cheat or swindler especially in gaming
3 (obsolete): one easily deceived
Merriam-Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, s.v. “rook,” accessed February 20, 2025, https://unabridged.merriam-webster.com/unabridged/rook.
This story is a work of fiction. Except where explicitly identified in the afterword, the names, characters, and incidents herein are a product of the author’s creation and any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
ROOK SACRIFICE. Text copyright © 2025 by Mark Mrozinski LLC. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
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