Готовый перевод Господин Барон / The Baron: Глава 17

Chapter 17

"And do you, Mr. Baron, enjoy the right of the first night?"

I sighed heavily, cut off a piece of meat, and began to chew intently.

The first time this question was asked, it was funny. The second, third, and fifth times, I still joked it off. On the tenth, I was already angry. Now, having lost count, I just chew in silence, without distraction. I don't know anything. We don't have any such rights!

Especially as lunch is tasty and this woman is getting on my nerves.

Tourists... Tourists for breakfast, tourists for dinner, they're giving me heartburn! Every other one wants to show how well-mannered and sophisticated she is. Every first tries to attract attention. Husbands sniff jealously, but that's okay. There are some who, God forbid, intend to be proud of their spouse's "victory" or even to take a picture of the process...

"Try this pâté, the pride of my chef. But beware: the château chef, Madame van Storre... oh, come on!" The tourist, who shoved a whole spoonful of the said delicacy into her mouth, puffed up her cheeks and changed color like a startled octopus in waves. "She loves anything spicy. It's all right. You just have to get used to it. I have a young man in training from Japan, and they developed this recipe together."
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The tourists, immediately interested, began to fight over the dish while the lady, still with a spoon sticking out of her mouth, reached for two bottles at the same time. Well, maybe she will get drunk and stop harassing me. She's been hinting at me all morning with the grace of a rhinoceros. I've answered her this way and that. She pretends she doesn't understand. With the harsh Nordic straightforwardness, no objections from the victim are accepted.

The tourists, one by one, goggling their eyes, were silent, but even seeing what was happening to their fellow travelers, they could not refuse the temptation to try it. The table was gradually silent, interrupted only by a pained sniffle. Well, it had worked again. Hadn't anyone caught it before? On average, I use this trick once a day. Every day excursionists leave feedback on the website, but no one says a word about what happened to them at lunch!

I lowered my eyes and continued to tear the schnitzel

It is now clear why the Baron's life is about feasts, hunts, and wars.

Because it's boring!

The idea with squires had suddenly taken on a life of its own, and now it required little or no effort on my part. The boys were taken apart in the morning, some to the police, some to help Egilbert, some wherever a symbolic presence of the Baron's representative was needed. After the weekend the sieges resumed. Yesterday the "army" was commanded by Smartass, today by Dan, and tomorrow Marty would climb the wall. He had to warn the attackers... even though they know. The girl, despite her explosive temper, is headstrong, but sometimes in the wrong direction, so she's almost more feared than me.

I stayed out of town, knowing that the less you see of the authorities, the more you respect them. The people must be assured that the ruler is thinking tirelessly about the people's welfare. So it is not a good idea to look contentedly idle around.

The Guilder baker took the examination of his colleague, solemnly presenting him with his 'master's certificate'. However, the scandalous baker proved himself to be a tough pro. He had managed to make a kind of grits into a sort of delicacy. They also made me an honorary member of the Guild of Bakers, as "I restoring to the Esks the lost secret of 'boiled bread'. What can I say? They licked the bosses.

There's not much left to do in the castle. With six excursions a day, and three meals with tourists, I live like a bear in a cage. It seems to be fed and has no problems, but it seems to be missing something. I'm tyrannizing servants and squires. I have thought up a punishment for the guilty ones, a run around the castle with a log on one shoulder, and even chose a couple of crooked logs for demonstration. The next day I checked and saw that one log was hollowed out, and the other was made of painted Styrofoam. I scolded them and said that they would run as knights from stories with their horses on their shoulders, and the next day in each stall, instead of normal horses, were ponies. The ponies were dyed in different colors, the kind I'd seen when I watched cartoons with my girls. I asked where the animals had gone, and they were quiet, sniffing and giggling.

The tourists were envious when they saw it. There was a children's excursion, and the squeal of excitement made my ears prickle, so we should make up a family program, "The Middle Ages for the little ones". Then Anka called and started begging for a present. She heard about the pony and wanted one too. I had to get her some fancy rags. Although I think it was a trick in the best woman's traditions. I had promised them a present, so I'd have to go out.

By the way, on the international front, I have a reputation for being the toughest extremist and the tyrant. I checked Attendant's files. It says there are a hundred and ten prisoners in the Barony for every hundred thousand people. Since the separation from the Federation average rate has increased by twenty percent a month. And who cares if there are only eleven thousand in the city and surrounding areas, as long as the statistics are pretty, so we can round numbers up a bit!

And it is stated that a third of that hundred were imprisoned without trial, and every second "is used for forced labor". No, it all adds up - there were five in the city precinct at the time, three more in the castle, plus "patriot", plus "pirate", and half are working. Besides, in fact, before the referendum, there were eight people in prison. Now there are ten - it turns out crime has increased under my anti-people regime. In the same report, there is a point that for every ten thousand people one gallows and one executioner are built. And you can't argue with that. It's standing in the backyard! It's a matter of presentation. And so a disturbing note is said "the population of the barony is frightened and therefore supports the extremist antics of the self-appointed ruler". Of course they do, thanks to me the whole world is suddenly aware of this backwater! Even dying with the audience is cool.

By the way, if the subjects are happy, the baron is somehow relieved. For example, everyone respects me, but the weirdo who decided to reclaim that bloody right of the first night was ceremoniously banished. The boy had come to me to complain, for I am the oldest man here, which, apart from the illusory rights, gives a duty to guard the dignity of all others, if necessary, to take some action. I questioned him, shook my head, and offered to leave the castle. That fool ruled the people according to a computer game about knights! Well, he played it for three years. It all worked. There is experience it is necessary to apply! He got kicked out. Von Schnitze had already hinted in passing that it's no good when the land and the people are unattended. I am already a tyrant-torturer, and he will make me an invader-aggressor!

"Mr. Baron?"

I turned, and the chair beneath me creaked. Egilbert, as usual, not the least bit out of breath from his ascent to the top of the donjon, handed me the phone and nodded to the boy who was accompanying me, who immediately put another cup on the table beside me and filled it from a thermos. He was the one they all obeyed, unlike me.

The Israeli ambassador to the federation is on the line. He wants to talk about Blumchild.

"What, they got to him already?" I turned away, staring at the bright city rooftops below. "Tell him that, as the Christian ruler, I would only negotiate with him after the entire population of his country had been baptized. Including Palestinians. It would be better to convert to Orthodoxy, but they could also convert to Catholicism."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baron is busy at the moment. Try to call back later." The old man switched off his mobile phone, snapped his fingers, and the servant immediately pulled out a folding chair from behind the door. Once seated, von Schnitze looked me over and concluded profoundly:

"You are in a bad mood, Alexander."

"He can thank me for not demanding the restoration of the kingdom of Jerusalem."

"You are bored."

"Exactly."

"But we have something going on all the time, don't we?"

"All the time - is it once a year?"

"What about the war with siege?"

"A business moment."

"What about the Viking invasion?"

"How many of those Vikings were there... not all the townspeople had enough."

"What about the commission visit?"

"When was that? Three days ago, I'm starting to forget!"

"Alexander, I shudder to think what your days are like back home if you are bored here, living the life you do."

I opened my mouth, kept silent and closed it.

No, really - what's wrong with me?

While I was figuring it out, Egilbert took another cup from the servant and stared politely into the distance.

So what is it? Why am I freaking out? Maybe it's because I somehow thought the old Sasha the joker might come back. That now I will wake up as someone, who I have long ceased to be, that I will again play and prank, that ... that the youthfulness will return? It's not coming back. I'm just really different now. No, seriously, I wouldn't have put up with all those inquisitively indifferent fun faces all day long before, but now I do. That obtrusive tourist of today - I would have thrown her out the window twenty years ago! Instead, I patiently endure obsessive attempts to attract attention with a very definite purpose. I hid out on the roof. The last years, stretched quietly in the hustle and bustle of a peaceful office, have quietly ended my change. Or was it growing up? Oh, nonsense, what maturing in the fifth decade? Just like dead scales, the last illusions have fallen away. That's why my uncovered soul is aching, so to speak. That's all right. The new ones will grow. I guess so. I'll become an armored dragon. Or a turtle.

Von Schnitze condescendingly watched as I tried to understand myself.

"You know, Alexander, I'm glad I live here in the castle. It allows me to admire such a beautiful city as Gravstein from up here every day."

"As the greatest band of all time teaches us - there's no city like Bodun."

"Is it in Romania?"

"Almost. It's an idealized city that's always one step away from you. And no one knows when you take that step."

"Very interesting, very... You should get to know this land better, Alexander. We have many interesting things here. For example, the traditional male staff dance. It's performed in the Blue Oyster Bar in the evenings."

"Fun."

"Why, Mr. Baron?"

"Well? "Blue" and "oyster"... come on?"

"A common name. There are plenty of oyster farms around, and Herr Malhof likes the color blue..."

"Are men gathering there?"

"Usually yes."

"And dance?"

"Well, yes."

"And that, along with the title, isn't funny to you?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Baron."

I sighed. I should have gone on holiday to civilized places. Pattaya, Kenya, or near Tambov. But fate gets me stuck in Europe... ...and do the best you can. Now I understand why those medieval knights were always fighting - the environment itself provoked it! Once you are inside these gloomy walls, in a draught by the fireplace, you run away in a week to anywhere, even to a crusade, even to a round-the-world trip.

"Why the dance with the staff?"

"Oh, that's very interesting! You see, numerous invaders, aware of our fighting spirit, forbade the Esks from possessing and practicing weapons..."

I listened absent-mindedly to the Eskenland version of the origin of the battle dances of a downtrodden but strong-spirited people for twenty minutes. The ever-frowning sky darkened in tune with my thoughts, the coffee warmed my hand as usual, and the servant yawned noisily behind me.

No, I'm definitely not having any fun here.

The steward fell silent as soon as I stood up, and he quickly lurched beside me, skipping forward up the narrow staircase. The servant sighed sorely behind me, hurriedly folding his seat as he went. He had been right not to leave it upstairs, for the old man would eat his brains in a heartbeat for such mismanagement.

On the fourth floor, a couple rushed past saying hello. On the third, we bowed to the tour (the faces of some of the tourists dining with me were still red). Between the second and first, we met a cat. Ghoul walked proudly, like a winner trampling the conquered ground, but seeing me he immediately turned into a poor, unfed, unironed kitty with eyes full of misery and horror at the unjustified anger of the world. As usual. Realizing it wouldn't work, he twitched his ear and stalked off into the wall. The servant behind me muttered something malicious, and the steward muttered it back to him mentally. I grinned, as usual, and opened the door to the courtyard.

A clang from the small courtyard heralded another attempt by someone to mount a horse in full armor. The idea occurred to Smartass, who suddenly remembered that the history of the Middle Ages was full of myths and fairy tales. For example, can a knight in full armor fall off a horse and get up and climb back on?

Of course, he can. You can even jump over a horse at a run if you practice beforehand, which is what my dapper squires do. And it doesn't hurt much more than with modern plastic kneepads and elbow pads and all that stuff. But tourists, they're like children - just give them something to amuse themselves with! So, now we have one more attraction, "Dress up dad in scrap metal", which is very popular with families: fathers show off their manhood (wearing thirty kilos of "tournament kit" iron is not easy to run, not even to stand, and there's little to see through the holes in the helmet), mothers return to their childhood and at the same time succumb to the illusion of collecting, clinging pieces of armor taken from others who wish to do so to their "dummy", the children disturb their mother, enjoy kicking their father in the armored places, sometimes missing, and occasionally throwing something heavy and metallic on the stones of the yard, enjoying the sound.

When dads get dressed up, mothers and children become spectators and supporters of the mini race 'Running Around the Castle'. Everyone who runs, or at least crawls to the finish, gets a mug of local beer brewed "according to ancient recipes". Obviously, only the first one was free, and the losses were already sustained - two sets of armor had tried to "escape" from us in one week! I do not know how it was in ancient times, maybe really armor was worth as much as a village, but now it is clearly not such a value to leave the wife and children as hostages - but they abandoned and ran away! Ah, the fall of morals... I sent Sir Ulfric after the thieves. He caught them and brought them back. I had them locked up for an hour in the stocks, with all the comforts of home, but in good earnest: the crowd supported him. There is not enough armor for all comers, and then all sorts of rogues steal the equipment!

By the way, emancipation is emancipation, but there were hardly any women who wanted to wear a full set. At first, I even thought they were smarter than their husbands. But no, when Marty brought out some kind of chainmail underwear, the ladies started dressing up, too. And here was the strange thing - a man in armor looks somehow brave, but a woman in iron, on the contrary, loses their charm. However, lats, they protect well from the wind, but in the local constant breeze and with a chain mail on a half-naked body... quivering women - that's for a fan.

"Baron?"

"The sound came from below, and I leaned over. There was a little boy about six years old tugging at my caftan. I had to squat down:"

"What do you want, kid?"

"Mr. Baron, do you have a princess?"

"What's your name, kid?"

"Luigi Mario Lancini! I want the princess!"

"Sorry, Mario, your princess must be in another castle. I only have stern warriors here with their combat buddy. But that bright girl over there with the knife in her hand would be happy to show you some tricks. Come on, you're a man, you can't keep a girl waiting!"

I looked at the boy as he rushed away and stood up.

"Alexander, why are you provoking poor Marty again? Doesn't she get lost when she has to deal with children? Or is it a teaching moment again?"

"No, Egilbert. It's just that what's the point of being in charge if you can't do nasty things to your subordinates?" I fell silent, pausing abruptly. Something about the phrase was suspiciously familiar. It sounded familiar.

"Oh, Mr. Baron! How good it is that I found you." Egilbert patted my hand sympathetically and defected. "I didn't get a chance to say it - actually, I'm only half French and one-eighth Romanian. From my grandmother's side."

"I am more of a Russian."

"And the other half of me is Russian, according to my great-grandfather. Such an amazing coincidence!"

Yes, what is her nationality? Although, who cares? My father is Russian, my mother is Ukrainian, and my son is an Eskenlandian Romanian.

How bizarrely the blood shuffles...

"I see you have only one woman among your squires."

"No."

"Are you saying that there is more? Or that I don't know how to count?"

"There are no women or men among my squires. There are martial friends. As an advanced and enlightened barony, we are not interested in their gender, nationality, or religion. As long as they do what I tell them."

It wasn't that the hiker wasn't pretty. It was just that I had preferred to chase girls on my own since I was young, and as I got older, that habit only strengthened. Now, feeling like a besieged fortress, I was getting lost and started to be rude. Too bad but to hell with it... with her. Them! Tou-rists.

"Sorry, I got distracted when we were being introduced."

"Beck. Margarita Beck. I am a well-known blogger with an established audience, writing about specific traditions and attractions."

"Freken Beck." I suppressed a nervous cough. No, actually, that's what the housewife from my favorite childhood book was supposed to look like in her youth: a Valkyrie incarnate. A monument! I would even say a triumph of Nordic poetry spirit. What was her father's name, I wonder? She looked just like Margarita Pavlovna in her manners, yes.

I was just getting air for another quip when suddenly the tourist's face became both eager and dreamy, and she stared past me, blushing and squinting predatorily. I followed her gaze.

A luxury limousine stopped at the porch, and the chauffeur who opened the door waited warningly for the young, quietly indifferent, white-haired gentleman to finish the important ritual of looking around the castle.

Well, that's about how I imagined a nobleman.

Average height, classic suit, cane in hand, not at all anachronistic or mannered. Long, shoulder-length, blond hair. The expression on his face was along the lines of "well, I'll tolerate you for a while longer". When he saw me, the young man smiled politely so that part of this smile reached everyone present, simultaneously conveying the joy of the meeting, regret that he interfered with my plans, and indifference to whether I wanted this very meeting. For a second, I wanted to look around to see if there was a camera and a camera crew behind me. I did.

The tourists were Staring! They got a glimpse of another slice of life in the True Aristocracy - a visit from a certain high-born young man to an old, grey-haired baron. The guest, ignoring the snapping of cameras and sighs of admiration, took a few steps towards me and paused to enquire:

"Mr von Gravstein?"

I remained silent. The devil knows how to answer in such cases, so I turned to Freken first, apologizing:

"Excuse me, an old friend is paying me a visit."

The tourist looked at me, at him, at me again, then looked back at the door, sighed deeply and doomfully, muttering something like "damned aristocrats!" and only then headed resolutely for the exit.

The young man waved her off with an impeccably indifferent smile.

"Let's go."

I closed the door after five minutes, ordered not to be disturbed, turned, and examined "His Highness" from head to toe. No, the fact that the dyed mane had suddenly been put up in a hairstyle that, like a blond halo surrounding a face with delicate features, was fine. The makeup artists had tried hard, but where had my familiar informal man gone? Where were the earrings, the battle makeup, and the manners of an old buddy?

"They say old castles are infested with all sorts of things. Eskenborg seems to have brain slugs. I hear they crawl into people's heads at night and turn them into zombies."

"Oh, why would you think that?" To convey a whole range of emotions with a raised eyebrow? He is strong!

"I wonder if I hit you in the forehead now, would the slug die?"

"You don't dare. You'll ruin your hair! Why are you picking on me? Do you think it's easy to play the family ghost?" Esk looked out of the window cautiously, sighing and complaining:

"It's the third week of torture! As soon as you step out of character, they start hissing that it's undignified for a future ruler."

"Make your own laws, abolish all this tinsel. Are you a duke or not a duke?"

"I am the heir and not yet the ruler, so I must respect the rules of decorum, all at once invented in the last thousand years."

"Are you coping?"

"Two years of amateur theatre at school helped a lot. But I used to play the beautiful maidens there - that was my type." The unfortunate victim of etiquette collapsed into a chair, kicked off his shoes, threw his leg over the armrest, leaned back on the other, and groaned with happiness.

"What, no girls wanted to come?"

"They were. But I'm still better!"

"What was the role right now?"

"The modern stuff - Lucius "His Perfection" Malfoy! In his youth, of course. I love reading fanfics, they're really lovely. It can be nice to laugh at the way the enthusiastic maidens imagine aristocratic life."

"You know, your old look didn't really mesh with the ducal one. Painted fingernails, those unisex clothes of yours..."

"I had a holiday, I got out of prison, a whole summer of freedom! Do you know what a private school is like? It's a blast when you walk through the gates! At a party in Nordheim, two girls were studying to be stylists, and they took me in and dyed me."

"Did you fight back?"

"While I was fighting with one, the other was decorating me."

"And you barely made it out?"

"I even left some of my clothes with them. They tore it up anyway."

"By the way, foppery is a sin."

"That's all right. I have three saints in my lineage. They will somehow agree with the Almighty on a descendant."

"How does it feel to have a saint in your family?"

"It's quite a hassle. It imposes responsibilities, but you can rest assured that a place in heaven has already been prepared beforehand!"

It was hard to be angry with him, so evident a wave of charming optimism was rolling around the room.

By the way, I hear you're the one who's not constrained, aren't you? You even have a maiden squire in defiance of all tradition? And how do your conservative subjects feel about that?

"When I tell them to, that's how they feel! And they don't forget to say 'thank you, Baron'."

"You lucky bastard! Do you even know what your people say about you?"

"Who cares? They're probably talking nonsense. There's never a good word for the bosses. You better tell me, why are you here?"

Ask lowered his eyes thoughtfully, feigning something like noble embarrassment, then slowly and casually he surprise me:

"I want some good man to be concerned about returning St Egbert's Chalice to its homeland." He waited for me to respond, but after a moment's silence, he continued:" It's symbolic. It was used by the first Duke, and it has also come down to us through the ages... and here again in its own way the first Duke, the first, after a long hiatus, ceremony. It would be very appropriate.

"What, you have no other relics left?"

"There are, of course, but not at this level. Eskenborg and Mevenschloss churches hold the hands of St. Egbert."

"Right and left?"

"No, just the left."

"Two left hands? And which is the real one?"

"Both are real. So decided a special commission in the seventeenth century."

Yeah, I know those commissions. I've had to escort them many times, to a restaurant or to a barbecue.

"Rent from the Spanish."

"I can't. By doing so, I admit that they are entitled to it. Besides, the Chalice is needed in a month, and returning it, even under the best of conditions, will take years. You don't just give away national treasure. Not even someone else's, let alone your own."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Rumour has it that some blueprints were given to you as a thank-you for upholding the old customs." He put on a snide face and showed a quote. "The Chalice is in the lair of our worst enemy, so if anything should happen to it..."

"Then no one will guess who stole it, especially since the ceremony will surely be broadcast all over the Federation at the very least. They don't like France either, but why would you want an international scandal? You seem like a normal person... you know, as normal as you can be at your age?"

"A Frenchman snatched a girl away from me."

"So what, she's the last one on earth?"

"Exactly the last one! A collector's item, only one copy left! I'll never forgive it. I've been to every fan shop, and I've been to Japan for the holidays. There won't be anymore!"

"Poor Esks and this is going to be their ruler?!"

"Nothing can frighten them any more."

"By the way, this is criminal! And I will be responsible for everything."

"By the way, you are the Baron of Gravstein, the most pirate castle for five hundred leagues around! And that comes with an obligation."

"I am a simple museum and theme park director."

"Court-arranging, fending off invasions, and publicly carrying out trials? You're a Baron, and you're the Baron of a castle with a very controversial reputation! You're just expected to do something like this and won't be forgiven if you don't! If there's a gun hanging on the wall in the story, it's bound to shoot!"

"And if a candlestick appears in the story," I picked up the object from the table. "Do you have to kill someone with it? To hell with your philosophy. We live in the real world!"

"Exactly!" He jumped up, shivered, finding the stone floor a bit cold even on a summer's day, and shoeing himself convinced: "Alexander! Everyone, from your stunted patriot von Schnitze to my clever papA, thinks that you are not aiming to be the ruler of the Esks."

"Politics? Without me."

"That's right. You were burned before I was born in '95. It's not your kind of business, not your kind of character. You're too honest."

Whoa, whoa. I'd almost forgotten about that story myself, and I get a hint of it in between. Well, it's understandable that you've been investigated, though it's strange to hear it from a young lad. Even an aristocrat with three saints in his bloodline.

"But you have a wonderful reputation in the Duchy! You are, by all standards, a true Gravstein. More precisely, the way ordinary people imagine these former outlaws to be - harsh but fair, a little mysterious, a little alien. Your authority is enough to get you elected to the Folkstraat the day after you joined, and you'd be a hundred percent sure to get in! Or even the Federation Council. But you won't, will you?"

Will I? No, I don't think so. Basically a job as a job, but too dirty even for me.

"I wouldn't."

"But if you don't want that, you certainly don't want to be a duke. And so we're natural allies! So help me, and take this threat off you!"

"What's your interest? You don't just want a record in your biography, do you?"

He sighed, fixed a strand of hair, and looked at me firmly and carefully.

"These are not games at your level, Baron. My interest is to gain a place as ruler of the Esks without reservations, by the most ancient of rules. A very old dispute between several branches of an ancient family, over which much blood was shed, and my father had to marry my mother in the hope of finally settling things peacefully."

"It's Shakespearean, you know."

"It's just another world. They won't let you in or tell you anything about it. You wouldn't understand. You'd have to be born there."

"How long have you been arguing?"

"Not so long. Five hundred years."

`And the fact that I'm kind of a senior baron and kind of speak for the Esks?'

"It's good for me. What's more, if you're the one who brings the Chalice to me during the ceremony, that would be... ...magnificent!"

The guy gradually "aristocratising", freezing, but there was something twitchy, smiling about him. Cheerful. Familiar. Twenty years ago I saw it often. Reflections in mirrors, in other people's eyes - sometimes of bitter enemies, sometimes of beloved girls. When face-to-face and blood boil and you don't have to pretend.

I was suddenly overwhelmed by the realisation that the very same me, the young, gambling one, was looking at me from the sidelines and proposing an adventure. And I am now undecided as to whether to support him or not.

"I'll think about it."

He, without any transition, suddenly became a complete "frozen bastard":

"Thank you, Herr von Gravstein. The necessary additional material will be made available to you at your earliest request." Again without any mannerism but still, with a certain majesty, he strode towards the exit, past the slightly bowed steward and the open-mouthed volunteer.

I did not escort him out. Rude, but I'd rather watch him from up here as he smiles cheerfully and without falsity at the waiting tourists, get into his fancy car, and drive away. He is gone.

What's the conclusion? There is a game going on around the castle and all the land of the Esks, and not just one, but I knew that even before I discovered that the Chief was imprisoned in my cellars. So the Duke has his own game, and on several levels - a rather obvious one with me, some of his own with beautiful France, something obscure with the locals. To me, he mashes up that it's a family affair, and von Schnitze has already reported several times what good fortune it would be for the Esks to enthrone this particular pretender out of many willing... you have to divide everything they say by a hundred. Politics is dancing on a minefield surrounded by barbed wire. Serve him a chalice? Easy enough. It won't hurt my interest. It'll make my position stronger somehow. But stealing it from the museum, where it is now on display? Is it really worth it? It's too bad there's no connection to other players besides Esk.

I began to curl my fingers, counting the people interested in the situation. I was two hands short, and I was too lazy to take my shoes off. To hell with them all, though. Maybe I could stay for three weeks, then a little trade, a ceremony, a few papers to sign, and get out of here at a brisk pace, let the boy take care of his own business. Sure, I'm not the first or tenth person he's talked to. That's okay. Shall I blame him for that? Or shall I go after the relic, especially since I gave my word to von Windifrosch? What's in it for me? I squeezed my eyes shut, smiling faintly at the antics of my youth, but the experience of living fully was not enough. I wanted something more. I've been thinking about it for over an hour now, and I've realized that I can't get that feeling back.

So, cunning Esk, you want to get the Chalice with someone else's hands, don't you? Dare I? I don't give a damn. Of course, I'll risk it! It's boring! The main thing is to understand that in any game, there are pawns, there are pieces, there are players, and you need to look carefully around to understand your place in time. I long ago gave up doing something just because someone told me it would be cool, but pawns have their own little game and are quite capable of making their way into the pieces. You just don't have to trust too blindly the hand that pushes you into the fight. Well, I have always had a penchant for adventure, so I was tempted once by the Chief's offer. And most of my sensible classmates remained in a small town on the outskirts of the collapsed Empire.

"I see, Alexander, that his lordship's visit by the Marquis of Gotal has cheered you up." Egilbert stood in the doorway, looking at me nervously.

"Marquis, then? Why did you choose Esk over his father?"

"The boy is only the first heir, but for certain reasons, he has more rights to Eskeborg than his father. When the twelve barons hold elections, he will be ruler by right of blood and the eldest of you by treaty." The old man sighed and explained: "That is all very confusing."

Yeah, like trying to find out who owns our construction company. There, too, it is not clear who owns what share, through whom, and with what rights. But I think there are just as many reasons for the true owners to keep their heads down, hiding behind their sons and marquises. Who, for some reason, present themselves as dukes on first casual acquaintance.

"Most importantly, I can see that you have finally put the melancholy to rest. What are you thinking of doing in the next few days?"

"What am I going to do? Given Esk's offer and, frankly, the desire to have fun?"

"As a baron should, I will go off to perform feats. I'll fight the Saracens or sail to Vinland to plunder the savages there!"

"And where are you going to fight the Saracens?"

"We have plenty of choices here - France, Denmark... Sweden is still holding on but is already losing ground."

The old man frowned:

"Gods of Valhalla! I never thought... We are surrounded!"

"But how many lands we can conquer, carrying true faith!"

"Odin with us!"

"And Perun, bless him Saint Januarius!"

So, exchanging plans for possible conquests, we went back down to the courtyard, where the final excursion was nearing its conclusion. The tourist who had followed me all day had already recovered from the aristocratic chill of the young Marquis who had passed me by and was now listening with a sour look to the enthusiastic speech of the volunteer guide. After thinking for a second, I decided that why not? I approached the lady and bowed politely, nodded to the servant to continue, and, lowering my voice, suggested:

Dear Freken Beck, I thought I had paid too little attention to such a charming guest. I haven't even shown you my collection! Please, let's go.

With a mock eyebrow raised, she accepted the outstretched hand and followed me. Along the way I learned that the servants in my castle were obnoxious, the food was gross, there was nothing for a decent blogger to look at, and only her natural kindness kept her from dumping everything and leaving. Finally, we entered the right room, where she had to interrupt. I jingled the chains, looking around to see what of the inventory I could use in the process, then went to the door, looking around. The tourist stood perplexedly looking around.

"What's that? It's quite... uncomfortable."

"Did you miss the guide's explanations? Strange, it seems like you all day at the castle. It's a place you should have been long ago."

And I closed the door of the torture chamber behind us.

* * *

"I understand it's an ancient castle, you want to make it more atmospheric, but there has to be a measure! The moaning and screaming from the cellar... Everything's freezing inside. It's really scary! Please make a children's version, something not so scary!"

(from reviews on the Gravstein Castle Museum website)

* * *

"The Esks have confirmed their reputation as guys who are slow-witted, but capable of Action. I recommend it, pleasantly surprised! Detailed story [<link for registered readers only>]. There you go! Now for the riddle of the century - what do Scottish Highlanders have under their skirts? A report in a week!"

(from the Kvinne etsii magazine forum)

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/83108/545322

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP