Chapter 8

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An hour after the execution, the video was posted on the museum's website, with the caption: "We loved, love, and will love the nationalists!

Someone with a no-name put up a link to the page of a popular sex shop, explaining what tools the executioner would use next time. It was a bit harsh humor, but my subjects liked it. I'd have to ask how much Izya charged that store for advertising. In the meantime, I was overwhelmed by the routine.

A vacation, they call it - to check on the volunteers, to visit the souvenir kiosk, to receive a report on the city's incidents, albeit very formal, from the knights (it was agreed that the report will be transmitted daily since they manage on my behalf), to welcome a new batch of tourists

Egelbert asked very much, knowing that most people come to see "Mr. Baron," there's nothing else to see... well, except for the dungeon. To check Sato and Smartass, to nod approvingly, to go down into the ditch, cleaned by a friendly group of volunteers, to collect feedback and suggestions for food and lodging, to work symbolically half an hour on the wheelbarrow, setting an example, then to go further with a businesslike look, to discuss what I have heard from the guys with the manager, greet the tourists, sample the kitchen (I wanted to have a full meal, but at the sight of the damn girl I choked and ran away), send three servants to transport the goat to the stable, escort two of them to the infirmary, make sure there is no medic in the castle, fix one sprain and clean the scratches of another. Yell at Eggy, get a nurse's fee statement in response, have an inventory made of all available volunteer professions to see if they are useful, kick the kicking Beast into his harem again, greet admiring tourists along the way, talk back to a couple from Sweden asking me for an "Eskenlan method" execution schedule...

Routine work.

At some moment I found myself on top of the donjon with a sandwich in my hand.

The city rooftops, the streets, the trees, and the sea to the horizon are still below. Above, it's still cloudy, like "oh, it's going to rain... or not." In the middle is me, not paying attention to anyone...

"Baron, sir?"

I looked longingly at my sandwich and turned to the manager, who was delicately tugging at his folder, with a volunteer with a "duty officer" armband looking around.

"Yes, Egelbert?"

"Your decision is required."

Well, yes, that's always the case, too. The moment you get ready to eat in peace is when most of the problems appear. It's the law.

I sighed. I didn't want to leave, and I didn't want to do anything, either. The cool breeze, the nice view, no tourists, and no worries. They were all down there.

"What, to judge someone again?"

The old man, sensing my mood, put aside the folder and cautiously nestled next to me.

"Rather take part. Spider-Man sneaked into the castle."

I covered my eyes and stifled the first tearing word, then I thought of a second, a third, and settled on a more or less neutral ninth: "So?"

"It turns out that he just found out about our... legal status. He had already visited all the prominent buildings in the Federation, and now he decided to conquer Gravstein. Before we vote it back."

Once again trying to compare in my mind the movie character and my castle, I concluded that something, apparently, I do not understand.

"Tell me, Egelbert, is it always so much fun here?"

"Oh, come on, Alexander, we're usually very quiet, I'd even say a little too quiet."

"So you're saying that all this started with my arrival?"

He understood from the tone that it was not in his interest to answer in the affirmative, the old man waved his hand vaguely and then hinted: "You can see for yourself. It's right below us." And he pointed invitingly to the edge of the platform.

Feeling like a complete idiot, I nevertheless went over and looked down. Then I scratched the back of my head and asked: "Egelbert, what is this?"

"This is Spider-Man."

"I have to admit, I imagined it differently."

"That's how ... ah! I got it - no, no, it's really him! Not fictional, but real!"

I bent over once more and looked at the guy, about twenty-five years old, in shorts and a sleeveless shirt, clinging to the masonry of the wall at about the third-floor height, arguing with the guards.

"Details!"

Such was quickly discovered. Spiderman was an extreme climber who climbed various high-rises, usually without the permission of the owners. And he always tried to climb the highest building in the country. It's a strange entertainment, but I don't mind whatever people do - as long as this clever guy didn't climb my donjon!

"Have you tried to take him off?"

"He doesn't want to come down. He says the police have never been able to get him off the wall. Only later, from the roof."

"So... you." The servant standing at the flagpole and listening to us nodded enthusiastically. "Get me a rope to reach the ground, a mop, and a bottle of oil."

Enthusiasm was replaced by bewilderment, but the volunteer immediately rushed downstairs. Oh, how nice it is to have a quick handyman! Seven floors down, seven floors up, you'd have a lot of trouble running yourself, but this way you gave the order and everyone started running. I wonder where he could find a rope?

I periodically looked at the tracer, who was in a stalemate (he was just hanging between the third and fourth-floor windows, with the guards shouting in excitement from both, and the hooligan hanging incomprehensibly on the wall making obscene gestures, confident that no one would throw him away with a spear), waited until the messenger returned, thoughtfully examined the rope, found it suitable, then fastened it somehow to a suitable hook and threw the end down.

The parkourist finally turned his attention to me, and the tourists below applauded the appearance of a familiar face. They seemed to have a reflex to see me because when you see a baron, you have to get your hands in the air.

"Hey, are you going to get down?"

"Excuse me, but only by stairs, from the top of the tower!"

"You don't understand, it's not a question." I alternately showed him the mop and the bottle of olive oil. "Either you get down, or the whole top of the tower will be covered with this wonderful product."

The white-toothed smile changed to a thoughtful squint, then a disgruntled expression. Spiderman didn't feel like climbing up the oiled wall.

"Baron von Gravstein?"

"That's right."

"How about a deal?"

"I was having lunch, and your appearance interrupted this wonderful process."

"I bet a treat at the best restaurant in town!"

"What do you want?"

All he needed was not much. Since we are now a kind of independent state, he wants to climb to the highest building of it. Before the state is not abolished. He and his fellow skyscrapers have an unspoken competition, and when the esks vote to return, he will forever have an unparalleled achievement.

In general, I was not against it, only...

"Egelbert, who is this person according to your complicated classification?"

The old man, understanding, raised his eyes to the sky, moved his lips, and said: "In wartime as a spy, but now as a jester or comedian, perhaps. He amuses people, there is no other use, but there is no harm either."

"Then dress him up in a proper costume and only then send him up the wall. Yes, and put ten men with a stretched tarp underneath. We're a civilized barony, not wild America or wherever he's from; we've got moral values and order and all that."

Nodding, the manager disappeared. Tough people around here, after all. All-day long, wandering up and down these stairs in these draughts. I watched melancholy as the Spider-Man, who had come down without a rope, was photographed with the guards and tourists, and then the red-white-orange Eskeland flag with the traditional Scandinavian cross was ceremoniously put on his shoulders, and a paper cap on his head, and the climber, not too inspired by his outfit, crawled up, accompanied by cheering shouts.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

But he was understandable: it's one thing to do some mischief at the behest of one's soul, and quite another to do it as a job. He doesn't know that I'll pay him upstairs by handing him a gift-wrapped gravcoin right under the cameras. It's not anarchy here, it's a medieval barony, it's serious, and you can only play around with my permission.

Eh, maybe I should order a thousand more coins. They fly away as real money goes.

When Spiderman made it to the top of the donjon and came back down the stairs, there was no enthusiasm on his face. Yes, that's how mean I am - I threaten people with kisses, and then with a mop. He took the gravcoin he had been given "for the amusement of a respectable public," however.

Standing on the edge of the parapet, where the bastard had dragged me, accompanied by the applause of the fifth and sixth groups of tourists clustered below. Oh, my donjon is so high, it's too high.

Well, melancholy is melancholy, but we need to work - the manager left lists of volunteers, it's worth reading. And there is a report on finances since yesterday, and on the material, and the accounts need to be checked, otherwise the old man will think that he is neglected. It's not easy, you're a baron's lot, but never mind, we Romanian nobles are hard-working people!

As I descended, I considered what to occupy the squires with, but my thoughts were interrupted: suddenly, something hissed out of the wall, purred, clawed at my pant leg, swung its paw...

"Hey!"

The Ghoul froze.

I could feel him swallowing frantically, trying to figure out how he could justify his behavior, then his fangy mouth opened, his claws on his paw retracted, he pulled back a little, sat on his butt, raised his mustachioed face-up...

"I don't believe."

The poor kitty's eyes filled with tears. He, the unfortunate victim of severe persecution, was not believed by the fairest man in the castle!

"Well, try to sob."

The cat lowered his head. Yes, he understands, it's hard to believe that it was only self-defense against a world inordinately cruel to such small creatures.

"Like you had nothing to do with it?"

The furry, two-faced creature rose easily on its hind legs, touching me gently with its forelegs. The faithful gaze was full of hope.

"I'll kick your ass, right now!"

He sat down on a rock, pondered, wrapped his tail around himself, then tilted his head in bewilderment. As if to say, "Your will, but why?"

"And who tried to bite me?"

Me? When?

"No, still a kick. And with a slipper over the ass."

Oh, Mr. Baron... And I thought you were the only normal person here.

"If you press my pity, I'll send you to the city. There are a lot of dogs there."

The Ghoul smiled predatorily, licking his lips.

"All right, come here. A hypocrite, but fluffy and warm. That's a lot, isn't it?"

The cat jumped into my arms, sniffed my neck habitually, tickling me with its whiskers, then looked around, snorting softly. Surely he considered himself a subtle manipulator. One of the volunteers, standing by the wall with a broom in his hand, looked quite stunned. What was the matter with him?

By the way, I'm the only one that this toothy terrorist has never attacked. Was it because I was the only one who thought to give him milk? But it was more likely the smell of valerian, which I soaked up during the spring revision. It still hasn't weathered, so much of it was consumed. Not by me, but because of me. Something to be proud of, yes.

Two hours later, I was able to get away from work and stretch out, walking around the room and stopping at the window. The furniture in the office was antique, and, in theory, I should have been paid extra for working on it, as it was especially harmful to the body. But who will spare me? Here's even the knights sent a bunch of unnecessary paperwork - I understand it's the sacred thing to drown the new chief in reports, but why do I need them? I thought we agreed that I do not interfere in the city's finances, why are they nervous? Or is there a reason?

There were eerie shouts from below, and a few volunteers ran across the courtyard, then a guard, and finally a goat chasing after them. It seemed that one of the runners was looking hopefully toward my window, but I was too lazy to go down. There are many of them out there, Beast alone, let them settle. Thank me for keeping the cat, at least it's some relief.

A knock on the door distracted me from thinking about the reasons for the magistrate's nervousness, which had resulted in a paperwork storm on my head.

"Come in!"

The first one through the door was a spear.

Marty was holding it with both hands, going, judging by the expression on her face, to fight to the death in the name of the Light.

The squires who followed her were embarrassed, shifting and stomping from foot to foot, but they looked suspicious nonetheless. The girl started it, who could have doubted it:

"We know everything!"

"Yes? So where are the corpses?"

"Whose?"

"So, you don't know?"

"Did you kill him?!"

"I wasn't even born yet!"

The girl looked at me like a commissar at a bourgeois, and the other henchmen acted as a crowd, showing with all their limbs that this idea was not theirs at all, that they were here quite by accident and in general, but that there was a misunderstanding. And they do not know how to solve it?

"I was referring to Rudolf Diesel. A very mysterious disappearance, and here is a man who knows everything - it's a sin not to take advantage of the opportunity. What did you mean by that?"

"Your brother!"

I quickly recalled my relatives, suppressing the urge to scratch the back of my head. I was an only child of my mom and dad, and then there were cousins, but what did they have to do with it?

"What brother?"

"That one! Confess, where is he?!"

And on the table in front of me lay... a printout of a photo from the website! More precisely, my "kind" face.

"That's not you! I have studied drawing and I can tell you that there is nothing of that person in you!"

I opened my desk drawer with pleasure, searched through it, finally found both versions, and took them and compared them. Yes, I underestimate myself, but what a talent! Actually, the trick with the face suggested to me a friend, an aspiring actress. It was long ago, twenty years ago, but in his spare time, she loved to look at the faces of others and give advice on images. It's true, I was running to her for something different, but over time, what I got during the breaks came in handy.

"So you're saying you want my brother?" It was said with a minor-threatening intonation, accordingly... what was it - stiffer cheekbones, a tilt of the head, sharper intonation? And all this is illuminated by a single desk lamp, under which the mock-raised Ghoul warms his ears. "So there he is." I, ignoring the spear pointed at me, moved the lamp, changed the lighting, leaned back, raised my head, and smiled charmingly, reproducing the image adopted for the "photo of the good baron.

"God, he's also a werewolf."

"When you live to be my age, you will be the same." I walked past the shrunken henchmen and sat down in my chair. "As anyone doing business in earnest does, my dears. And now explain to me, whose idea it was, and what you wanted to achieve?" And with a slight movement of my face, I turned into an "evil" Baron. This is more familiar to me and them.

What followed was a funny scene of bickering, accusations along the lines of "it's you! No, it's you!" and the hissing of a disgruntled girl. As was my custom, I pitted the henchmen, who were searching for the truth, against each other, fishing out the truth. It turned out that, having heard a lot of tales from "I won't tell you who," and deciding that the real baron could not do as I did to her, Marty started an investigation. Yesterday, in the heat of drunkenness, she overheard a phrase and, not wanting to be wrong, interpreted it in her own way, thought I was a monster, and all day long she persuaded her friends to come to me and "press the villain against the wall".

Oh, everything happens in life! To think - to mistake a living person, whom you have known for a few days, for some kind of monster. Adult people... or not so, she's nineteen years old. They read too much fantasy and then attack their employers with spears!

"And anyway, who cares?" I went on with my accusatory and educational speech, not so much for the benefit of the henchmen as for my amusement. "You serve Baron Gravstein - I am him! And as for the "monster" - you have seen me standing calmly in the sun and touching the silver. Here..." I rummaged in my pocket for change and twirled a coin in my hands. "You see? I even carry it with me."

"It's gold!" Suspicion instantly returned to Marty's voice.

"Hmm, indeed." I looked at the metal circle with curiosity. It was really gold, and it was old, like a Spanish coin. Where did I get it? But that would come later. "Still, I had silver in my hands, the same gravcoins."

"Only in a souvenir package!" It was obvious that the battle buddy had already realized the haste of her decision and was arguing solely out of the habit of never giving up.

I slowly picked up the cup with the rest of the coffee, drank it, tried not to wrinkle it, took out the spoon and licked it, and dropped it back with a clink. The white pale metal finally convinced my most scandalous henchman. Oh, my goodness, and softness, what are you doing... Absent! As always.

"Attention." There was a short shuffle, and the henchmen, lined up in height, stretched out, devoutly devouring their superiors with their eyes. "Kudos for your vigilance." Everyone smiled at once. "And censure for such a poorly executed inspection. Before the visit to the bosses, first, the hard evidence is gathered, and only then are the claims made." They're nervous. In general, they should have been scolded and rewarded with something like night duty, but I was lazy. "By the way, Smartass, where's your award shield?"

"One moment, Your Grace!"

Van Cliff darted out the door, then returned at once. He dragged the shield behind him in a wheelchair, like the ones retired women now use to go shopping.

"As you can see, it's always with me and doesn't bother me at all!" And he patted the metal.

"Well, kudos," I spoke smiling, but Smartass seemed to be drooping, and the other henchmen suddenly began to move away from him. "You really are clever and smart. I think you deserve an extra reward. Marty the spear!" I held out my hand without looking, and when the girl handed me the weapon I handed it to the henchman who had fallen. "He who has managed so quickly with one task can wear more than just a shield. Now, I hope you'll hand me this as well at any moment. I forbid you to drop it or move more than five paces away from the insignia of your dignity."

"Thank you for your trust, Baron." There was no joy in his voice.

"Great. Norman, you work in the kitchen with Marty tomorrow."

"Why am I in for?!"

"For being older and more experienced, you did not point out to your friend the dubiousness of her conclusions. And what did it lead to? You see, my Ghoul woke up as a result!"

The cat yawned once more, showing white fangs, and looked intently at the henchmen, clearly choosing his prey.

"And Robert would chase Smartass around the castle, showing him how to hold his spear properly while running with the cart you have a shield on." Both groaned, and I remembered that I still hadn't covered the secret entrance to the castle dungeons in any way. "Next, Dan and Sato, since you have so much energy left by tonight, you will go to the back gate in the morning, take a bigger stone there, and place it on Enedar von Graveshtein's tombstone."

"Wh..?"

"That's the way it has to be! And if I need it that way, what do you say?"

"It will be done, Mr. Baron!"

Good. And finally, to improve the educational and testing process, from now on you will be able to report every night on how you spent your day. In about a thousand words, no more. Short, just the essence.

I don't have anything to heat the fireplace with.

"Yes, Mr. Baron."

"Go ahead, it's late."

The girl, who realized what she was about to be told by her fellow students, looked at me frowningly and jumped out. She was followed by the rest of the henchmen, and Dan was the only one who lingered.

"Mr. Baron, we never doubted for a second. But our battle buddy... it's a natural force, it's impossible to resist it! - He pressed both hands to his heart and made a penitent face, and then jumped out, closing the door carefully."

Ghoul and I looked at each other and smiled at the same time.

I was in a melancholy mood, but I gave tasks to the unfortunates who happened to be at hand - and I was immediately awake and cheerful!

Ah, I love my work!

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"Do you think Baron Gravstein is one of his kind?"

"I don't know, but The Grave was buried by a big boulder yesterday! Apparently, someone else can get out?"

From comments on the Gravstein Castle Museum website

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