Готовый перевод Господин Барон / The Baron: 4

* * *
The next day began boringly. In the morning, the usual wake-up call, breakfast (still alone), the gallivanting excursionists scurrying around the castle, a satisfied cat who got a piece of fried fish, and... boredom.

I was not going to take part in the management of the barony. First of all, I did not want to become mayor of a provincial district center. Secondly, von Schnitze had slipped me two documents to sign, under which the police and municipal employees now worked for me, or rather on my behalf. Fortunately, for these two months, the city had enough money for running costs and services. It was doubly fortunate that there was no need to take the oath of office. With the seriousness with which all the servants of the castle museum take my baronial status, it might have been that even after their return to the Federation the boys would quite seriously consider themselves my vassals.

I suppose Egilbert himself suspected it. Had it not been for my presence at the Barons' Council, I would never have known anything about this lovely but ludicrous country. Well, as long as everyone pretends that everything is going exactly as it should, I'll try, too. So during the meeting of the Baron, the Chief of Police and the Mayor, no one raised unnecessary questions. Everyone amicably pretended that I had the same authority as they did. I asked them to send me daily reports, but beyond that to make do with their own wits. The "foreman of the city guard" and the "baron's grace administrator of the Gravstein estate" breathed a sigh of relief, assuring me that everything would be just fine! Apparently, this "constitutional barony" suited them completely. The only decree I issued said that everything must go as it was supposed to go. It was enough to ensure my invisible presence in administrative matters.

The locals knew they were in a mess with this referendum, but would they admit it out loud? Never! I had a vague idea how stubborn these fellows could be, and I decided that I would have a good time at their expense, without going into the small details of their lives. No, we barons are very busy people without the management of our lands. If not to go on a crusade, then at least to sit in the library...

There was nothing more or less interesting in the bookcases. Of historical works - only "Ivanhoe" and other novels of chivalry, on Romania - the same Brem Stoker and a thin collection of "Traditions and superstitions of Eastern Europe". Most of the rest of the library are albums, almanacs, and half-century-old magazine covers. Well, I had no choice, so I had to eat what I was given.

"Mr. Baron?"

"Egelbert, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sorry, Alexander, it's a habit."

Yeah, he hasn't called anyone that in a quarter of a century.

"And so?"

"Remember when you were talking about local delicacies? I'm ready to demonstrate..." He was still talking, and I was on my way to the door. No, I wasn't hungry, but the boredom could be dispelled!

Madame van Storre let me into her territory with suspicion. Like he might be a baron, but what if he steals the jam? An elderly but very active lady. As it turned out - perfectly throwing knives. In fact, when I rushed into the kitchen had to quickly jump out of there - a knife flying in front of my face, made me a little nervous. In the conversation that followed, the apologetic cook explained that she had seen a movie where some cook was throwing sharpened objects like that, had been inspired by the idea and had been taking part in the annual fairs as a "Beautiful Amazon, capable of throwing any blade" for ten years. Those Eskenland pensioners and their hobbies! Had to praise and watch a short demonstration program. I'm not going to spoil my relationship with the woman who cooks for me. The cook was quite adept at throwing five kitchen knives, a fork, and a meat cleaver (the latter with her eyes closed and her back to the target), blushing sweetly, and she sat down in a curtsy, and I applauded.

The next moment, with a shriek, the old woman dashed out of the kitchen.

I looked after her and turned my gaze to the steward standing at the exit from the basement. He walked solemnly to the table and placed on it a strange bundle, which he carried in his hands.

"The most recognizable dish of Eskeland cuisine, you might say, the symbol of the country! Here you go." He unwrapped the cloth and removed the lid from a three-liter pot. "Sagdimirl!"

I tried to turn away, then to hold my breath, but it was all useless!

"It seems to be rotten."

"No, no, it always smells like that. This is fresh. It really smells when it's properly infused. For a connoisseur, it's... very, yes. Very!"

I tried to blink. Smell... Very, yes. That's right - very! I involuntarily staggered back to hit the target and thought that if I got a piece, I'd grab an ax and fight back!

"I bet you don't have a lot of home burglaries around here."

"Yes, indeed, we are in the penultimate place in the region!"

"You betcha. Heaven forbid you to drop a pot of it on yourself in the dark, then not even your wife would let you back home - the police wouldn't let you go to jail!"

"You exaggerate, Mr. Baron." The old man is clearly offended. "It is a common delicacy! Every esk used to have a pot of sägdimirl in the basement. It may not be as popular now, but it is a symbol of the country! Every local housewife knows how to make it! It is the oldest of our delicacies!" And he moved the pot and sliced bread to me and began to explain the details of the cooking process.

Five times during this monologue, I tried to bring the sandwich with the gray-brown-green lumpy mass to my mouth, but each time I got nauseous. Occasionally I would ask again, trying to show my attention to national traditions:

"So, until the larvae appear? What if the algae haven't been out in the sun enough? What, only three weeks is enough?" And so on, trying to breathe as little as possible.

Von Schnitze sang like a nightingale.

"Taste? Oh, that unforgettable taste! It's very... peculiar."

"Have you tried this one yet? Are you sure it hasn't gone rotten?"

"Alas, I have a sick liver, these delicacies are not for me!"

Yeah, and eating a half-pound chunk of fried ham for dinner is some kind of special diet? After looking at the "delicacy," I firmly closed the pot and pushed away. To hell with it, politeness, I value my health!

"Where do you think, Egelbert, did the idea of such a dish come from in the first place?"

The old man shrugged:

"Probably because we always have plenty of barnacles and seaweed here."

I see. We have too many smart people, so our favorite pastime is to eat our neighbors' brains. But here, peaceful people live, they make do with mussels.

"Why is the pot full?"

"Mmm...I wanted to save it for the holidays. The advantage of sagdimirl is that it can be stored for a long time!"

"Valuable. Keep it, and keep it away from me!" The old man sighed sadly and put away his "unforgettable" delicacy. Yes, the thing is really exotic and memorable, but why do I need the fame of a poisoner? I'll have to think of something else.

"You know, Egelbert, I think that's a little too... extreme. Save it for special guests, take it somewhere else... like the basement. Instead, let's do something simpler."

Greetings from my childhood - the simplest garlic sauce that every housewife makes in her own way. I chopped, grated, mixed, chuckling to myself. The local cuisine is a bit bland, so we'll treat the Esks to some spicy stuff.

Finally, everything was ready. The old man put some on the bread, took a bite, listened to how it felt, and slowly began to blush.

"Like it?"

"Hm-hhh!"

"That's strange. After all, the recipe is from your neighbors..."

"Y-yes?"

I had to offer him a glass of water. And he shouldn't have given his baron an unknown disgusting dish!

"You drink, you drink... The famous Frecken Bock used to make something similar. I only changed some of the ingredients and used a little less pepper."

"Me-e?"

"I agree, it's a little bland. Do you think it will be remembered by the visitors?"

The manager immediately nodded. And poured another glass of water. Did I do something wrong? Well, at least the tourists will be impressed for a long time.

After spending another half an hour under the gaze of the returning cook, who remembered all the details, I put a national-nostalgic dish on the plate.

"Mam-ma-ly-ha? What a strange name. But ma-ma-ly-ha can't be our national dish. Corn has been in Europe since the seventeenth century, that's a fact. The cuisine of the Esks is much older!"

Oh, Egelbert, that's a very interesting story! You see, the ancient Esks knew corn long before the surrounding barbarians tasted it. Alas, since everyone who eats grits with garlic sauce prolongs their life by ten years at least, all the conquerors forbade this dish, and as a result, you understand, the recipes remained only in a few families. And in fact, it is the most Eskenlandic dish ever!

Von Schnitze hesitated, automatically licked his sauce-stained finger, bulged his eyes again, and, catching his breath, asked:

"How do you know this?"

"The old-timers told me. So it's safe to put it in the souvenir basket. A little sauce, fish, mamalyga, and herbs... That would be the "Traditional Gravshtian Snack"! Don't forget to order the packaging with the castle logo."

"It is better to offer something more familiar."

"Yeah, like the same potatoes, fish, and sausages for a thousand miles around? No, whoever ventured into our dwelling is entitled to a good experience!"

Well, I can't tell him that I'm sick of fish and just bored, can you?

Eskenland is a beautiful place if you ignore the weather. And sleeping with the sound of the sea is wonderful here. And the people here are easy-going and nice... even too much. But only two days were enough for me to start looking for an excuse to do something crazy.

Boredom, plus memories from the past... No, no, no, no, better to torment the poor manager than to arrange something really unreasonable. Hold on, Shurik, hold on! This is no time to serious jokes!

"Egelbert, I just remembered that there's an opinion in my homeland that without laws, people would immediately start smashing and destroying everything around them. How are the townspeople?"

The old man frowned, looked at me guiltily, and averted his eyes.

"I'm afraid that's true, Mr. Baron. Three days ago someone left a bag of garbage in the street. Twice in one week, unknown persons moved a bench in the square near the town hall, and someone wrote silly things on the wall - with paint!"

"Terrible. The outrages swept through the peaceful city. Has the morale of the townspeople fallen so drastically?"

The manager hesitated, but nodded with a serious look:

"I have to admit, it affected me, too. Yesterday I," he looked around and lowered his voice. "I listened to a little music at eleven o'clock at night! I still feel a little... Uplifted, or something? I haven't been so wild since I was a kid!"

"Eskenland is sinking into the abyss of anarchy."

"Perhaps that's what we wanted?"

"Wait till they don't bring you the morning paper one day, then you'll realize how much you've lost."

"Oh, you're kidding, aren't you, Alexander? That's impossible."

He was interrupted by a call.

A minute later, von Schnitze turned to me and informed me, with a kind of childish resentment, that the castle's accounts and his own were frozen.

And I realized that I couldn't resist any longer. Somebody really wants me to start making a mess of things? Well, I'm ready!
* * *

"Requires a historian of the Middle Ages, with knowledge of the traditions and customs of northern Europe."

From the "HR" section of the IRS website
* * *

So, what can I use?

I was not going to infringe on the money collected by the municipality, although, in principle, I could. But it was easier and smarter to earn my own money. Technically, of course, I am the lord of this town and the surrounding lands. As long as there is no duke. And I am considered the lord of the decision of just these people. But it's one thing to be considered, and quite another to use the rights accidentally obtained. They may remember that not so far away from here the peasant army once quite successfully defeated the knight's army. And even invite a new baron... because of the natural loss of the old one.

That is, here I am like the president at home. Nominally the most important and the most terrible, and the laws are all for me, and everyone bows to me. But if anything happens, only five percent of the decrees will be executed. Well, adjusted for mentality, maybe more, but only if they have nothing to do with money and too much to do with local life. So...

I stopped at the window, gazed out at the city rooftops, and suddenly remembered Mitrich's admonition.

"I'm thinking, Egelbert, shouldn't we make it compulsory for townspeople to do sex work, say, on Saturdays?"

"Uh... Uh... " As tolerant a European as my manager was, I could now see that in his poor head the gears of thought were losing touch with reality, spinning idly. I had to take pity:

"And allow not to fulfill it for a small penalty."

"Оh!" The gears were instantly clutching and turning in their proper rhythm. "Actually, many rulers have passed similar laws, though not so radical. But I'm afraid it will cause unnecessary tension in society. I think we should look for something less unaccustomed."

"Yeah, I guess... Then again, what if someone doesn't want to pay off? Hire specialists, prepare premises, make lists, keep records... Screw it, Egilbert, we'll do it the traditional way."

"A very wise decision, Mr. Baron!"

Damn. How do you instill in him a sense of humor? I mean, human a sense of humor, not European?

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"Then let's think about how we can make money for operational expenses. By the way, I need a badge with a specific symbol. Where would I get one?" The manager immediately called somewhere in town. "And while we're waiting, let's figure out how much we need."

It turned out that relatively not much was needed. Only the options for earning money were even less.

The castle, as the old man assured me, cannot be mortgaged. It is not worth squeezing money out of the townspeople - my problems, I should be the one to solve them. I sadly put aside the idea of raising the rent of the IT company that rents the space. The lease was for several years, and von Schnitze had already taken out a loan for something under this contract. So I've seen only one solution so far: tourists. "Breakfast at the Grave" is the first the day after tomorrow, boxes of "traditional snacks" are ready, but it's pennies, the manager didn't get his money for nothing. Everything that can be done has already been done. Something else is needed!

"Egelbert, how could my predecessor have gotten money eight hundred years ago? By legal means?"

"How about a knighthood?"

'Shield money', the words from the book I was reading flashed in my head. Well, that's more interesting!

"And why would a normal person want to become a knight?"

"First, the title. Secondly, knights do not pay taxes."

"How.... at all?!"

"Yes, Mr. Baron."

"I'm gonna be a billionaire!"

"I'm afraid this is only an imaginary benefit. It is unlikely that the governments of other countries..."

"Egelbert! Imagine how many people there are who would do anything to be able to say, I, by right of noble birth, don't have to pay taxes'. - and who cares if they don't pay taxes just here."

"There is, however, a condition - only the sons of knights can become knights!"

"No way!" I was already flipping through the cherished book. "Here it is: "Accepted for valor and the habit of fighting," which means that the choice of candidates is not so short."

"But in Melfi's Constitutions."

"Canceled a month ago?"

"Goddamn, this referendum!"

"I agree. Nevertheless, I can bestow knighthood quite unequivocally. In addition, here is "devoted must be the owner of a noble land". That is, whoever has land that entitles him to nobility, I am simply obliged to knight him. I'll cut off a piece of mine..."

"Impossible! All the space is already being used!"

"Von Schnitzel, don't make me angry! Is there no free land here?"

"There is. By the castle itself, a little over half an acre."

"That's enough. We'll cut it into two-by-two-meter plots, they'll be a fief."

"A fief should provide for the knight!"

"If a knight can't survive on four square meters - I don't need such a vassal!"

"And yet I must insist! According to the law... no, don't laugh, Mr. Baron, it's a very clever law and it's worth listening to!"

"Well, tell me."

"I propose to cut four hundred square meters - this is the minimum size of a garden plot in the federation."

"Okay, I agree. Then they'll become normal cottagers. Oh, here it is: "demanding from applicants an income of not less than twenty pounds a year from the land he owns". So you earn thirty euros a year, you're good to go. They put up one greenhouse with strawberries and the formality is fulfilled."

"This rule is seven centuries old. Inflation has to be taken into account!"

"I don't know, no such "inflation" is mentioned here."

We argued for another hour or so. We each flipped through our copies of "Life of a Feudal lord" or snatched them out of our opponent's hands. Finally, we agreed that the six applicants to the "Knight" cottage community were all right for me, by all accounts. Two candidates were scored at once - the head of the city police, that is, the baronial guard. And the local mayor. First, once they become my lien holders, everything they say will go as if from me, which will facilitate their work in the new conditions (relieving me of the need to pry into the daily grind). Secondly, the gift is weighty, it costs me nothing, and the locals will be pleased that my first knights are Esks.

Besides, I remembered well that "a vassal must not raise his hand against his liege lord or at all malign him. And one must have reliable men in all environments. It is also good for the image, so far I have ordinary servants, but it is not enough. Von Schnitze and his family are not my vassals, and are more concerned with ideology than real politics.

I wonder how gold spurs would look on modern shoes?

They can also have a coat of arms... hell, I wish someone would draw it for me.

While I was pondering whether halberds and swords should be made compulsory in the local police uniform, the steward brought the item I had ordered.

"Well, well..." I twirled the badge in my hands, figuring out how it would look. "Is there a picture of me on the website?"

"I couldn't without your permission."

"Great! Let's do it," I dressed formally, pinned my badge to my lapel, and stood in front of the mirror. I had to work hard to get the right expression on my face, alternately forcing my muscles into a position somewhere between "no money," "hey, you jackass, where did you go?" and "oh, I wish I could hit you".

The desired effect was achieved by combining all three faces, adding "you make my teeth hurt!", slouching and standing against the unplastered wall.

"Shooting... Done. Why do you need this particular badge?"

"Magic, Egelbert. Very powerful magic!"

"I thought you were going to wear Eskenlandish, or Romanian."

"It's too, but later." Another picture, but in a polo shirt, sitting upside down in an ancient carved chair, no badge, and with a distinctively Romanian expression of "yes, I drank a little, but I love you all anyway. "Now this one," I pointed to the first one. "Don't mix it up! Put it on the barony's website."

"What about the other one?"

"Keep it, for now, I'll tell you later. When you post it, send information about it and a link to the site... Well, for example, to the office of the guys who informed you about freezing the account. By the way, what was their reasoning?"

"That the employee sent for confirmation did not return in time and accordingly they blocked all of our accounts as suspicious."

"Yes? Fine, then. I bet you'll find out later that it's impossible to send a new inspector to us because the budget for the overseas travel has been exhausted. Or because going to a medieval prison prohibits the union... never mind. Place an ad, here's the text." I quickly sketched out the ad.

"And yet, Mr. Baron..."

"Egelbert! First of all, we'll charge everyone who wants it as if it were the best survival course. Second, we'll have a hundred or two, along with parents and friends, free promoters talking about the museum every day. Third, we'll have competitions and a real tournament!"

"Where to get so many participants?"

"The most important thing is the audience, and we'll find the participants somehow!"

The manager, not completely convinced, but no longer arguing, left without removing the expression of the deepest doubt from his face. I tossed up a badge with a North Korean flag on it. The one I wore for the first photo and put it in the drawer of my desk. We are all adults here, and we understand that we will have to answer for our words, especially in such an ambiguous political situation. But what prevents us from avoiding words? For those who understand the hints, a couple of pictures will be enough. If they don't, they'll have to go further ... like hanging the flags of every country that conquered the Esks over the tower. And forget about the federation flag.

Whistling, he descended the stairs, running down the flights of stairs automatically. He only bragged when he realized that he had already gone a few too many. This seemed to be the entrance to the torture chamber. I took a step to the side, leaning against the wall...

The last thought of the baron flying off somewhere after the fallen stones were: "Now the castle will be haunted!"

* * *

"This summer only! An incredible chance to send your son into the age of chivalry and adventure! The Barony of Gravstein announces the recruitment of squires!

Consecration as a squire with a certificate from the owner of the oldest barony of the Duchy of Eskenland! Full training lasts six weeks, at the end of the training, the best graduates will be knighted by the Baron himself!

Hurry up, places are limited!"

* * *

So... it's my arm. It hurts. That's... is my other arm. That hurts, too. That's my leg. It's moving. It doesn't hurt! It's my skull. No, it's not my... Mine should be hairy, it's... Wait, then whose is it?

With a grunt, I rose from the pile of rock-strewn earth. I lifted my head. High above me, the hole in which I had fallen was faintly glowing. Damn Von Schnitzel, you should have warned me!

Although there seemed to be some signs there. Probably shouldn't go over the fence sometimes.

The skull really wasn't mine. There was nothing else around, so I had to decide what to do. The first option, calling upstairs, was out of the question. There was no phone in my pocket, and neither was the pocket itself, along with a piece of my pants. The second option was to climb up to where I had fallen from, but I also had to put it off as not feasible. It was too high. I fell into some kind of pipe, or rather a secret well. And I was very lucky that I managed to grab hold of some ledges. The height here is fifteen meters.

Although some of those protrusions then fell on me, that's okay.

Option three, the most intelligent one. Sit here and yell from time to time. It's daytime, by tomorrow night at most, someone will have guessed to check the whole tower. Or would they? I groped myself again - bruises, a couple of abrasions, a dozen bruises. Luck loves fools, and judging by the ratio of the height of the fall and the injuries received - a scientific career is not good for me. Maybe an administrative one. Well, since I'm not that smart, I'll at least walk around and see what's there. More precisely, feel. The place of the fall was half-dark, but within three paces there was real darkness.

I grabbed the wall with my left hand and, following the rule of labyrinths, cautiously stepped back ten paces, and looked back - I was walking normally. Ten more steps, a long corridor, though! But the spot of light is still visible. I continued...

I gingerly probed the path in front of me. The stones are dry and cool, the masonry is old but solid, and there is almost no debris on the floor. Perhaps there's a chance that some kind of restoration work has been done here, which means... I looked around, the light was gone. Yeah, let's go back, and yell for a minute or two to start.

Ten minutes later, without any shouting, I admitted that luck might love me, but in a strange way. Because after swapping my left hand for my right hand, and still holding on to the wall, I still hadn't arrived at the "landing" spot. Half an hour later (maybe five minutes, it's hard to keep track of time wandering around the ancient cellars in total darkness). I did start screaming. The echoing sounds that came in response were so eerie that I had to shut up quickly. I admitted that I was completely lost, so I crouched down by the wall. There was a jangling sound under my arm. I fumbled for something metal, a coin. This must have been how my unknown predecessor had sat, having been in the cellar a couple of centuries before, dead, bones decayed, only his skull and the contents of his pockets remained.

It's silly. I'm going to die of hunger... No, first from thirst, then from hunger. I'll lie here, rotting slowly, not disturbing anyone. I'll be mummified, and the change will spill out of my pockets. And in three hundred years the new owner of the castle will go to explore the cellars, get lost, fall without power, find a coin and die, and the corpse lie, stinking like this...

Stop!

I noisily sucked in air with my nose and jumped up. The smell was familiar! And it wasn't a corpse at all. It was actually quite delicious! A pot of sägdimirl, which von Schnitze had taken somewhere in the cellar next to the kitchen!

After rubbing another bump on my forehead (bouncing around in the dark is a bad idea!) I took a deep breath, calmed down, and sniffed carefully.

It stank on the right. Then that's where we're going!

The next three hundred meters of winding corridors, strange halls, and half-decayed staircases I walked exclusively with my nose. Something crunched under my feet. I think I almost fell into a trap hole once. In fact, Indiana Jones would have been pleased with me, but I walked and crawled and climbed! Finally, I came to a door. A simple wooden door, with two iron bars. Locked, of course.

A little more yelling for decency. I don't think anyone would go into the basement with "that" pot, even at the most complaining yell! I started figuring out where I was. I walked back and forth, getting two more bruises. Damn it, when the old man took me here, all the corridors were much straighter, and the ceilings were higher! Picking up a stone, I started tapping the wall for voids. Finally, at one point, the masonry responded to the knocking a little differently. Deciding that it was better to risk another fall into some well than stay by the locked door like Joe the Indian, I rushed out, and...

I would never do such a stupid thing again. However, when I coughed up the cloud of dust and stopped whimpering from the pain in my bruised shoulder, I could feel another hole. It didn't smell like shagdimirle, but rather a slight whiff of fresh air!

The manhole turned out to be very narrow, but an unknown amount of time and about two thousand curses later I squeezed past some planks and bones, fumbled for another stone ceiling above me, and desperately tried to lift it like a lid.

It squeaked.

It squealed. It squealed again and mumbled in English. I pushed myself up...

"Egelbert, is it still day?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Baron."

"Then I'll just sit here." I flopped down on the warm rock and hissed at the bright sunlight, then tried to squeeze my eyes shut. My eyes didn't want to adjust to the light after three hours of total darkness.

The tourists were huddled together in a distance, discussing something excitedly.

I guess it's not every day they get to see someone come out, lift up a gravestone, and start having a casual conversation with a tour guide. It looks like there was a secret passage...

"Mr. Baron, I couldn't find you to tell you - the Federation authorities have stated that they intend to crack down hard on any encroachment on the free will of Eskenlanders. The tax office sent an apology, but said they could do nothing, for the very reasons you stated."

"Is that so? Then take off my first picture on the site and put the second one in its place. And send the update notification to the same address again."

"Um... I don't quite get the point."

"It doesn't matter. Keep the first one anyway..." I tried to shy away from the bright light in the shadow of the castle wall after the darkness of the dungeon. The tourists did not seem to understand why the baron was huddled against the stone, trying to avoid the sun's rays. The stone is warm, so I cling to it!

"You know, Egilbert, I think I'll be going now. It's about time I had some refreshment."

The way I looked at the tourists made them move back. I thought for a moment and pushed the stone cover back. The curious ones would get in, and then they'd be lost. I went in the direction of the outbuildings. I was hungry, but first I had to wash and change my clothes.

* * *

"Damn it, I thought it was all fairy tales, but I saw it with my own eyes! He's quite adequate, though. The museum staff was not in the least bit afraid, and as soon as he could avoid the sun, he walked across the yard. He headed for the cowshed. Apparently, that's where he feeds. So he's not some crazy monster out there. Though it looks imposing and creepy. And it smells! Weak, but disgusting!"

"What do you want? He must have been born at a time when deodorants weren't even heard of! Do you have pictures?"

"Only from behind!"

"Wow, really big. Where did you say it was? I have a vacation coming up..."

From the tourist forum.

* * *

"Mr. Baron?"

"What's up, Egelbert?"

Judging by the official nature of the call, the steward needed me as the higher authority.

"A small problem has appeared."

"Yes? Which one is it?"

I sat by the window in my office, staring thoughtfully into the clear blue sky. The Ghoul was sprawled on my lap, his ears under my arm, and a cup of coffee was steaming on the table beside me... Bringing it here from the kitchen while it was still hot was a logistical achievement. Plans were piling up in my head, and I felt like a real Dr. Evil. Or at least Paramedic Troublemaker. I'm on vacation, I'm authorized!

"One of the refugees..."

"From whom to where?"

"From somewhere in Africa to the Federation."

Someone did not have time to catch the moment when the country and the laws changed around him. Someone dressed in national colors came to get his allowance, found that the office was closed. And expressing his sincere indignation, he took up his usual weapon... No, not a Kalashnikov, a stone. With it he knocked out all the glasses in the office, then he made some noise and even lightly resisted the guards. On the one hand, he ruined the property, but it didn't belong to the city. On the other hand, everything in the area and not having a direct owner - mine. The guards, who were bruised and bitten a few times by the overactive detainee, are mine too. I must do something, but what? And is it really necessary?

"Egelbert, do I have to decide such a trivial thing on my own, too? Look through your wise books and manage. What is required there, surely there are enough precedents? Then do it."

The coffee was getting cold, and along with the warmth went the remnants of my love for humanity. Refugees, benefits... I'd do some charity work. I'd do charity work for ten people: six men, about forty years old, and three or four women with children. There'd be food, a roof over our heads, and something to do. That castle was still to be repaired and mended! And they would not work all the time, but only six days a week! Soon the squire candidates will be flocking here, I need to get a proper place out of the museum-level ruins in a week.

Eh, it's not much of a kingdom, so I have nowhere to go! Maybe I could take over a couple of neighboring baronies. The Federats have decided not to interfere, so "with the support of internal forces" can play a bit of a prank. Conquer, plant the true faith everywhere... By the way, I have to ask, what exactly is our true faith right now? And what we can get out of it.

Alexander the Eskenland! Doesn't that sound right?

"And then, of course, I will become a tyrant, the old, simple, faithful path..." the song crawled from the depths of my memory. That's appropriate, I'll give you that. "Yotz-tz, all right, I'll be in charge. I'll have a strong voice and a steady hand, yeah."

What's the deal with religion, though? What kind of "god" should protect Shurik the First? Eh, if this were a fairy tale, I would also come home as the new Rurik. I can just see myself walking into the Kremlin to the cheering cries of the people, the boyars bowing, the current Locum Tenens tucking the Monomakh hat, and everyone shouting "Glory, glory!" - and I'm like this....

I couldn't finish the dream. Strange noises were coming from the yard for a minute: whining not whining, screaming not screaming... something in between. I had to pick up the disgruntled cat, get up myself, and look out the window... And all the languor of the moment was gone! Downstairs, just below the windows of the baron's chambers, my faithful servants were insistently shoving the head of some African, apparently a "political refugee," into the loop.

"Stop it immediately!"

I don't like those sorts of people, but not that much! Although... No, but... on the other hand... I'll think about it later. Shouldn't I hang it up? Or should I?

The overzealous performers stopped with evident relief. The half-conscious African, twitching his hands tied behind his back, wrenched himself out of their grasp and crawled back against the wall, howling in horror. So, to remember the diligence, to praise later for the effort. And also let's get this straight - from now on no ambiguous remarks and constant control over the execution! Von Schnitzel, I'll show you now!

I couldn't. The steward, anticipating a scolding, had fenced off a detention report and a photocopy of an old text with the clause underlined. "An attempt on the lord's property is a fault on a free man, but a slave should be hanged." Well...

"Why is he a slave?"

"He has no property to sell, so he is not a merchant. He has no tools, so he is not a craftsman. He has no weapons..."

Von Schnitze methodically enumerated the characteristics of social groups, and by all accounts, it appeared that this individual fit the only definition - a slave.

Well, I was just thinking about where to get workers to clean the ditch.

"Hey, black-browed and white-toothed, why were you breaking glass?"

"No money, family hungry, hungry himself! It's their fault! - The victim of the judicial system, realizing in his gut that I do not want to hang him (I decided after all), quickly became bold. "Is that a law? I can do it! I'm home because there's no money!"

"The law is what people recognize as law."

"What?"

"What-what... I'm telling you, I'm the law. Why did you bite my guard?"

"I want to eat, I don't have any money, I don't have any allowance, why don't you give it to me? I'll complain!"

"To whom?"

"Tu the UNITED NATIONS! We are a refugee!"

"You guys are hanging wrong. First, loop the noose around the neck, and then throw it over the hook and pull it up."

"Uhh! There are human rights here!"

"So they're for the human being, what's that got to do with you?"

"I have kids!"

"So there will be someone to bury you and mourn you."

The black man looked down at the guard, who was busily removing the rope and whimpered again sadly. It looked strange to the two-meter tall, shoulder-length negro. Apparently, in his world view, such punishment for such a transgression was quite natural.

"Hey you, silence, listen!"

"Uh, I didn't do anything, I..."

"Shut up!"

Everyone, even the guard with his hands up to the rope, stretched out at attention.

"I order - this man to compensate for the loss to assign to the castle slaves."

"Mr. Baron, according to the Eleventh Century "Truth of Esk", no sentence can be overturned sooner than twenty-four hours after the judgment is rendered. And according to the same Pravda, this man must be hanged to death." Von Schnitze indefinitely shrugged his shoulders and switched to "low speech". "I do not really want to, but we have enough of his tribesmen here, we must firmly indicate our readiness to maintain order!"

"The trial - was it?"

"Um... technically, no. Just your order."

"Find the clause under which he should be sentenced. That's what he's guilty of. I'll sentence him to two months of community service in advance, or until the benefits, he brings outweigh the damage done."

"As you command, Mr. Baron."

"Take this one to the cell!"

The guards and two policemen picked up the African and quickly dragged him to the basement. I should hire at least one normal person to broadcast my ideas to the locals, or these tough guys, who have little understanding of human jokes, will do a lot of damage here...

"Explain to him that who does not work does not eat."

"It will be done. Oh yes, Herr Schreiber complained to the guard that someone was howling in the dungeons yesterday."

Well, that was me. When you break masonry with your bruised shoulder, you make such noises, you are scared yourself!

"Someone was howling in the night, too, Erdar himself confirmed. He was having... a little trouble with his wife, and he slept in the jailers' room. He said it howled far away, but it was creepy."

And that's definitely not me. Or I'd have to admit that I walk around the castle sleepwalking at night.

Yeah, my house is fun.

As I turned toward the tower with the coffee left there, someone coughed behind me.

"Herr von Gravstein?"

Black three-piece suit, immaculate tie, snow-white shirt, cufflinks, and shiny shoes. No, this is not a working man.

"I am David Blumshield, a representative of Blumshield & Sons Bank."

Well, definitely not a worker.

There was a little man crumpling at the gate, but it was clear that they were not together. The crumpled one was small and quick and sniffed around like a backyard cat, but this one was pedigree. The enemy.

"Baron Mogila von Gravstein. What business have you come on?"

"You see, our bank has been lending to landowners against their property for two hundred years. Baron Elias von Gravstein made a contract for a long-term loan one hundred and forty-two years ago. Since then it has been renegotiated many times but at the moment..."

I sighed. This introduction was very reminiscent of a couple of episodes from my business life, which I could have predicted in advance.

"Briefly, please."

"Briefly? As you wish!" He opened a folder like von Schnitze's, only much more... more glamorous or something. He took out a sheet of paper and made a businesslike expression on his face and read: "In accordance with subparagraph 17 of paragraph 9 of the appendix to the loan agreement if the accounts of the baron are blocked we have the right to seize property to ensure the return of our money."

Egelbert jumped up:

"This is illegal! You don't have the right to demand that..."

"Now I can." The banker interrupted the intervening manager and shook his hands. "Of course, the law on the limitation of mandatory loan guarantees, adopted eighty years ago, did not allow to resort to this subparagraph, but you abolished it, too. So I'm claiming this castle and the land around it. On behalf of the bank, of course."

He closed his file with obvious pleasure and stared at me.

And for some reason faded when I smiled back at him cheerfully.

"Egelbert, I get it!"

"What do you understand, Mr. Baron?"

"I see what's missing! It's simple, and long ago written by the classics! This guy here, he's a Jew, isn't he?"

"By some signs, I could conclude that..."

"Rich?"

"Probably, Mr. Baron."

"Then why are he still at liberty? I read 'Ivanhoe' yesterday, and there are precise instructions on how to proceed in this case."

"Uh... I wanted to wait for your decision, Mr. Baron."

"Good. It's like this - put this one behind bars!"

Blumschild, sensing that there was no joke here, began to back toward the gate. At that moment the second guard closed the gate and bolted it.

"I'm a citizen of the Federation! If you dare, the army and police will be here by tonight!"

"You should read the newspapers. No one will be here."

"My superiors will not tolerate this! You will be in serious trouble!"

"Guards!" I waved my hand, confirming the target, and turned to the banker. "Thank you, my dear, you will be the jewel of the exhibition! The tax collector is already in jail, the cannibal was caught this morning, and now there will be a real Jewish moneylender! Damn it, I'll pay for all the repairs with one of your exhibitions!"

Blumschild was still protesting and waving the treaty, not understanding where this was going, and a Fisk was on his way with a strangely lucid face.

In a minute I was watching the familiar trick being performed - a screaming and indignant prisoner grabbing the doorframe, being tugged away with a familiar tug, and disappearing from view to the creak of the closing door.

Oh, that's not good. We need to grease the door.

Or should I keep it for greater dramatic effect?

"Alexander?"

"Yes, Egelbert?"

"Did you say, cannibal?"

"Do you suppose that big African man isn't a cannibal?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I think..."

"That's right, you can never be sure. Let's put it this way - until our political emigrant begins to fulfill the whole norm, give him half his ration. And let's see how he reacts to his neighbors. By the way, post a vacancy on the barony's website for "Jailer for a Jewish loan shark." Requirements - brutality, intransigence, willingness to work in a torture chamber."

"How much money would you like to?"

"How much is this one's fee? Per hour?"

"Alexander, we can't afford such expenses!"

"Expenses? We'll be the ones getting paid!"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Baron, you..."

"Just do it."

The old man grimaced, but nodded, and walked quickly toward his tower. I was the only one left in the courtyard, and there was another guy who had been trying to merge with the wall the whole time. He seemed considerably smarter than the previous demander. Though something about their faces was very much the same. I beckoned with my finger, and the little man who was trying to reach the closed gate unnoticed approached.

"Well, who are you, dear man?"

"Me?"

"You, you."

"I wanted to offer your grace my services."

"Tailor? Violinist? A mathematician? Dentist?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head negatively.

"No, your Grace, I thought you might need a manager?"

"I already have one. Last name?"

"Katz... Katzman... т." He turned to the basement door and repeated in French way: -Katzmant. Iz... Isabel."(*)

"Isabel Katzmant. And where are you from?"

"A Gascon, Your Grace."

"A Gascon?"

"That's right, Your Grace!" He nodded vigorously several times, confirming his words.

I looked at the round, short, with a long crooked nose and eloquently sad eyes of my interlocutor:

"France is a beautiful country, I have so many memories of it! Have you been on Montparnasse?"

"I lived there for quite a long time."

"In Sainte?" One of the most famous French prisons was shown to us by local colleagues. As a landmark, from the outside.

Apparently, the 'gascon' knew it, too, judging by the way his gaze wiggled. Maybe even from the inside.

"So, Izya, how long were you lived in the Soviet Union?"

"I don't understand, Mr. Baron, I have been living in beautiful France since..."

"Shall I put you in the cell with a cannibal?"

"I was sixteen years old when my parents emigrated."

"So you still remember something. You can't erase that from your memory." I considered the pros and cons, thought about the consequences and difficulties, and then nodded: "You are accepted if you grow a mustache. A Chief of Guards without a mustache doesn't seem right."

"But that's a long time, Your Grace! Maybe I could do it in the process."

"When you grow it up, come back and take your place! I want a brave mustachioed soldier, not a gastropod clerk with three days' worth of stubble."

Katzman, for a moment becoming very much like the Chief, squinted thoughtfully, looked back at the door, and asked:

"Aleksandr Nikolayevich?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really have... a cannibal?"

"Look in his mouth. You can only chew a tibia bone with those teeth! And look into his eyes, then tell me what you saw in them. He almost ate two guards this morning!"

I'm curious what he will see. As a romantic girlfriend of mine used to say, in other people's eyes, we most often see our reflection.

Two hours later we had seven thousand applicants for the role of the jailer, and we had to hold an auction. Three hours later, the winner flew in, with trembling hands accepted a lash and a bunch of keys from me, yelled, "Now let him explain the subparagraphs in the contract!" and ran off into the dungeon. He seemed to have similar problems to mine. Well, at least let him relax here.

Looking after the joyfully shouting executioner-amateur, I asked von Schnitze:

"Let's not be too brutal. Explain that beating prisoners is only allowed if they try to escape."

"Then this exchanger won't come out of the cell."

"That's the thing, Egelbert, that's the thing."

I wonder if the sly old geezer deliberately started hanging the poor African guy under my window. In the backyard, there's a perfectly serviceable pair of pads, in which tourists like to be photographed, and an almost real gallows, next to an almost real scaffold, and they dragged him here. And just about to relax, the baron voluntarily and with song ran to solve problems. Well, no one will call me ungrateful and clutching a return gift!

"Egelbert, you said that there are many foreigners in the Duchy? Round up those in our barony and warn them: those of them who are not engaged in any craft will be sent to public works, with three hot meals a day and places to sleep in the cellars of the castle. And make a list of those who want it. Can you manage before nightfall?"

If he succeeds, I'll give him more work to do, for example, to write out all "my" property. In-person and by hand.

Because intrigue is a bad idea.

* * *

"There is widespread panic among political refugees remaining in Eskenland County. Many are leaving everything behind and moving to other Mid-Vendia counties, which is of great concern to the Department of Emigration and human rights organizations."

Daglig Freiheit

"Does anyone know how the Essies achieved this? Will it work for us?"

Commentary to an article.

* * *

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http://notabenoid.org/book/83108/517958

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP