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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, you haven'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 for 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!

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"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.

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