Prologue

* * *

"And get this - this peckerwood is in all seriousness trying to ask me for a pass to take out valuables! From me!"

I nodded, not listening to the details, and looked suspiciously at the figures in the report. It was clear that half of them were fake, and I had to determine this half somehow, so as not to screw up, making claims.

"Then I take him by Adam's apple and demand, step by step, a written list of claims to the person being taken out, his job description, a documented confirmation of his ability to determine the value of the item being taken out, and so on! Then I demand the idiot who put this fool on the post to come, and then I start to find out..."

I did not listen to what happened next, as there were at least a dozen similar stories with my boss a month. He did not count on attention, though; he was interested in something else: to interfere with my work as much as possible.

As Mitrich himself states, the main task in his position is to spoil the life of his employees in every way enough to make them start working, but not so much that they scatter. At first, I thought he was joking, but it was absolutely serious. The principle was implemented strictly as worded. How Mitrich managed to be a good manager, a high-class specialist, and just a normal person at the same time was still a secret to me. As soon as I figured it out, I would become a supervisor myself. Despite the fact that I had no clue whatsoever about the core business of our office.

While Mitrich was ranting about the mischief of the working youth in his youth, I was looking through the papers, trying to find something I could understand without a reference book. I don't know anything about construction, and I'm not going to study, which doesn't prevent me from being deputy head of the department for five years now. They seem to be happy with me. I don't get involved in the small stuff. I do the day-to-day stuff, sometimes I allow myself to be yelled at. Sometimes I yell myself (only at the bosses, for which I have some respect from the employees), I get into the position of my subordinates, giving them a little indulgence (which they then repay a hundredfold). I look for budget leaks (very carefully, so as not to find something that does not need to be found), I drink vodka and tea with various people, in general, I create the appearance of employment. I am considered to be a "good specialist". Many people even think I am a "cool man". Sometimes everyone agrees that I'm a "top bastard," which happens when I get the blame for bonus cuts or staff reductions. In reality, I just work the best I can. Somebody has to, right?

"And what do you think? This fool didn't look after the "monkeys", and as a result, there were exactly five centimeters between the toilet and the closed door! But between the cistern and the wall - a meter! Can you believe it?"

I nodded and wrote out a few phrases from the report on a sheet of paper with a satisfied smile. That's it, they're not going anywhere now! With pleasure, I poked my fist into the side of the director sitting on my desk. I took a couple of papers out from under his ass, compared them with what was written out, handed them over for review, and finally stretched myself out.

"Mitrich! Such a nice day, and what are you doing? You're bullying the good guys, terrorizing your subordinates? Why did you make a trainee chase the workers with a stick?"

He looked at the data and sniggered:

"What can we do, we can't afford to be kind with such a budget. We have to motivate the proletariat somehow. As our beloved boss says, money has to come hard, otherwise, you don't appreciate it! Besides, I called the ambulance in advance!"

The gray-haired, heavy, solid man, a respected professional in his field, suddenly jumped quietly from his desk, crept up to the door, and kicked it open. The secretary sitting in her seat looked at him with an undisguised sneer and turned away to the unchanging "solitaire". We knew she was eavesdropping on our activities in her office, but we had never been able to catch her in the act. Nor had we ever been able to find out what she was doing when no one was looking at her. She pretended to be playing solitaire. But we already figured out that it was the same batch, which Olechka had kept even three years ago. We even looked for a hint as to which cards were involved in the puzzle. We didn't find anything.

Mitrich sighed, turned to me, and nodded over his shoulder:

"Maybe one of the juniors could try to spy on her? I've heard there are special spyware programs on the computer, huh?"

"No way. They are more afraid of her than of us."

The owner of a red diploma and the title of "master of sports" in judo "Mad Behemoth-chan" Olechka nodded accordingly, touched the card with her cursor, but did not move it. It seems to me that when she does, something will happen in the world. Something terrible.

"Oh, I feel something bad. That redhead is digging at us!" Mitrich hands curled up and immediately, without transition, as is typical of him, jumped to another topic. "We must look for a new programmer. Anyone in mind? And let's go eat already!"

We stepped out into the corridor, where employees were hanging back and forth (which mean very important work needs).

"Wasn't there a candidate? I heard - experience, seniority, all that?"

"Yeah, right out of college, but with five years of experience. He registered his own firm in his first year, and every six months he promoted himself in it. He was listed as a top-class specialist by his diploma, even though he was moonlighting on small jobs!" Mitrich shook his gray head approvingly.

"You fired him?"

"Such a talent?! What for? I put him in the planning department. Let him gain some real experience."

"That's not a good thing you did, they'll teach him bad things. Drunkenness, lashes, sodomy - that's what this planning department of yours is all about."

The two female planners standing waiting for the elevator chuckled in a pleasing way.

"Let them teach him! Let him work for them, let him soak up the hatred of everything living and breathing, and in six months we'll transfer him. To work with clients!"

"Right away with the customers? Don't you feel pity for him?"

"If he doesn't survive then not. Woe to the loser!"

"How did the hiring clerk let him in?"

"She went straight into maternity, taking the secret with her. Who would she give birth to?"

The employees next to us in the elevator struggled to pretend they weren't listening. Their ears turned toward us and twitched excitedly.

"After fifteen years in human resources? I don't know, but it's already scary! Who's there now?"

"Another "seniority, experience." The kind of "how I see myself in the company in three years"!"

"So how do you see yourself in three years?"

"Signing your execution order!"

"You have a really imaginative mind! Why don't we fire the fool before she gets used to it?:

And we sighed sadly in unison. It's a painful issue. It's easy to fire, but who's going to work?

"At least this one has a nice ass. Speaking of asses, where's the chief?"

"Contrary to all the rumors, he does not report to me."

Having neither specialized education nor any special abilities, I got the position thanks to my connections.

The Chief says he hired me because of my last name. In fact, he is just nostalgic for the times when our friendly band of young rascals helped him earn his first billion while making the first real money of their lives. We met not on the best day of my life, and absolutely by chance, we got to talking... It must have been quite a scene - in the middle of a dull autumn public garden, a drunken, gloomy man in a tattered jacket was sitting on a bench, and a small, well-dressed fatty in a suit that cost the average citizen an apartment, jumped on him with cries of "Remember that?"

One word at a time, he offered me a job. The only condition I put forward was a separate office. I can't stand common rooms, crowding, chattering, and other office pleasures. In my opinion, whoever invented "open office" with "cubicles" (what a shitty word!) was a messenger of Satan on Earth. I demanded it as a joke, expecting nothing good from life, only I did not take into account the specifics of the level to which my former friend had ascended.

After two days, Mitrich looked at me perplexedly and wiggled his gray eyebrows, trying to think of occupation and position that would correspond to a separate office, a good salary, and zero knowledge of the subject. As a result, I became "deputy director for general affairs," a kind of personal adjutant, in charge of everything and always to blame for everything. Mitrich has a good sense of humor, so after the expulsion of the former accounting department (which provided me personally with a friendly hatred of these evil creatures of the Abyss) and a slight redesign of the premises, we settled in two adjacent offices with a common reception area. On his door was a sign "Dmitri Ivanovich Katorgin", on mine "Alexander Nikolayevich Mogila".

Spoiler: T.N.

It's like you step in the room and on the one door written GULAG and the Grave on the other.

The Chief thinks we make a great couple.

After lunch, cunningly directing the attention of the supervisor to the randomly chosen victim and opening the window to let in a little air, I sat down in my chair and moved another stack of papers, trying to figure out what they wanted from us this time. I mean, it's clear what, money, but under what excuse?

I spent the next two hours struggling through a pile of fancy-looking specific terms while dreaming of a rack and whips for the head of the exploitation department and tea and cake for myself.

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Dreams were interrupted by a knock on the already open door.

"Alexander Nikolayevich, there... to you."

"I'm not here."

Olechka looked around, then shook her head negatively:

"Alexander Nikolayevich, why don't you be here?"

"If it's the IRS, I'm dead. There, even the sign on the door."

"It's..."

I looked up. The stocky, dense girl, the embodiment of all-consuming aggression, energetic, even rumored to be asleep, was looking at me with a very strange expression. It was the way a notorious squirrel might look at a real, whole, fragrant hazelnut. The squirrel was tired of gnawing on emeralds for the sake of the state. On the whole, there was something menacing in that look for an understanding person. Hungry.

"It's to you!"

There was a grim threat in her voice.

"Well, go ahead."

I put the papers aside and stretched impolitely as I watched the elderly, gaunt foreigner enter.

That it was a foreigner was clear from a number of signs.

First of all, there was a peculiar posture, which I don't know why it was associated with "eine columne marchiren". Secondly, there was something in his long, bony face that said, "I was not nourished here".

Third, our people generally do not dress for visits in the fashion of about six hundred years old.

Stockings and round puffy pants with slits and a codpiece, a wide-brimmed hat decorated with silver badges, an elaborate cut vest with a white shirt underneath. Heavy wooden-soled shoes and a large leather folder under his arm all hinted that he was either a lunatic, a role-player, or a foreigner.

I stopped the secretary's attempt to leave the door ajar by quickly jumping up and locking myself inside. The old man, having marched the full two meters from the door to the desk, turned around on the spot, put his hands to his chest, and bowed:

"Mr. Baron! I am pleased to welcome you in person! It's an incredible joy to finally see you in person!"

So he's crazy after all.

"What baron?"

The old man politely inquired:

"Are you Alexander Nikolaevich Mogila?"

Suppressing the urge to check my name on the sheet, I nodded.

"Were you born in the city of Grachevsk in the year one thousand nine hundred and seventy-one?"

It was awkward to deny the truth, so I nodded again.

"Do you come from an ancient Mogila family?"

Well, it seems our surname has been in the church books since the eighteenth century. I had to nod.

"So you are Baron Mogila and my employer, respectively.:

Not wanting to argue with a madman, I nodded again:

"Let's say. What brings you here?"

The old man looked around. I immediately offered him a seat, but he waited until I had taken my place at the table before he sat down on the edge of his chair, straightening up even more.

"You see, Your Grace, I sent annual reports. Knowing that you were busy with your own affairs, I did mine - managed the castle and the household, managed the funds, represented you in the city council. But now I can't replace you, your personal presence is necessary, Mr. Baron."

"Is that so? Why is that?"

The old man spoke Russian with a slight accent, but quite understandable.

"As I'm sure you know, a referendum was recently held in Eskeland County. The people of our country amicably voted for separation from the federation and the restoration of the ancient duchy."

I was too embarrassed to tell him that this was the first time I had heard of Eskenland. An old man, a foreigner, why be rude? They've got plenty of duchies in Europe, well, one more seceded... from whom, by the way?

"Yes, I think I heard something about that. But why did you come to me?"

"Because you are the Baron Mogila!"

"I am?"

"You are!"

For a minute we looked at each other with cute smiles, and for the first time, I regretted that this was not the IRS. There everything is simple - they want money and for the victim to suffer sincerely, parting with the money, but here... what does he want from me?

Apparently, reading the question on my face, the old man was a little embarrassed, lowered his eyes, nervously straightened the creases in his pants, and began to explain:

"It's a matter of procedure. It's not enough to be called a duchy, you have to be one! A duchy without a duke is ridiculous, isn't it? There are several claimants to the crown, but to prove their right to the throne, the council of twelve sovereign barons must approve the claimant following the ancient laws of our land." I opened my mouth, but, misunderstanding, he immediately started to rant. "Yes, of course, if the challenger had been appointed already the reigning Duke, he would simply have inherited, but understand, the last time the throne was held was in the sixteenth century! We have found a direct descendant of the ruling family, he is a worthy man, he understands his duty to his country and agrees to take the throne, but without the advice of the barons, his coronation would be outrageously lawless! If we have decided to return to the old ways, we must observe all the proper customs! You just have to live in the castle for two months and then vote for the one who is worthy in every respect..."

"And why do you need it?"

"For us?" He tilted his head in confusion, then jumped up and joyfully blurted out, "To be part of the Federation, of course!"

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, remembered what he had said, formulated my question, and tried to be as polite as possible:

"Then why the hell did you go out?"

The old man immediately jumped up, folded his arms across his chest with determination, and mouthed off:

"This is a matter of national pride, Mr. Baron! It's one thing to be just a county of Middle Vendia and quite another to be the federal state of Eskenland! So..."

He stood up, straightened at attention, and looked past me, and said in a chant:

"I ask you, your Grace, Baron Mogila, to return to your castle to personally confirm your rights to it and to the lands that you rule by right of the noble family. And in two months take part in the council of barons, where our new duke will be chosen!"

No, he's crazy after all.

Okay, let's start at the beginning.

"You... what's your name, by the way?"

"Egelbert von Schnitze, Your Grace. I have been your steward for twenty-two years." He looked at me with surprise. " And for thirty years before that, I was the assistant to my father, Egadeig von Schnitze, the former administrator of the castle and manor."

"Mr. von Schnitzel..."

"Von Schnitze, Mr. Baron."

"I don't care if it's Von Shashlyk! Why do you think I'm a baron?!"

"But how, Your Grace? You bought the rights to the title and the castle almost twenty-three years ago. Uh, Mr. Baron?"

I covered my eyes with my palm and sighed.

"Passport!"

There seemed to be too much emotion in my voice; the document was in my hand before I could finish. A passport is like a passport. Herr Egelbert von Schnitze, indeed. Sliding the keyboard over, I quickly checked - the passport was supposed to look just like that. Moreover, von Schnitze was listed as an old noble family that ran the castle, now owned by... Barons Mogila.

A minute later I found the website of the barony, or, more precisely, the Gravstein Castle Museum. In one of the pictures, an old man sitting in front of me was explaining something to a group of sightseers.

I returned the documents and closed my eyes again.

Wow, and we thought it was a pretty fucking hilarious scam.

Five kids, nobody over the age of twenty-five, friendly, angry, ready to do anything, if not everything, to make money and make our way to the top. The Chief, then not as fat, not as rich, and as gambling as we were, suggested a scam on the edge of the law, and we jumped in. He made a lot more money than we did, but the little we bit off of other people's money was enough to make us feel unthinkably profitable and fortunate, and we were constantly drawn to stupid things. I, who, thanks to my mother's teacher, spoke three European languages and four more or less, read the local papers and once laughed for a long time at an advertisement for the sale of the barony of Gravstein, translated as "gravestone," or, more simply, "tombstone". The amount was not small, but not too much either. So much dashing money was passing through our hands at the time that the idea of buying the barony for the price of a car entered our minds, and soon a merry band of tipsy young fellows showed up at the frightened agent's door. We were honestly convinced that it was a scam, like the Passport of a World Citizen or the sale of lands on the moon. We admired the beautiful document and the multicolored ink on the parchment sheet with the big seal, but the solicitor with the most serious face claimed that the title I was buying and some land in the back of Europe would be entered in all the proper books and I could really be called a "baron".

The only condition imposed upon buyers was that they should be of noble birth. Remembering that I had some noble namesakes, I called myself a Romanian nobleman (you can't check!) and, to the clapping of the champagne corks I had brought with me, I signed my name in a "noble" twist. Then I asked the "crook" to send me the wishes of the new master to restore the castle and to contribute in every way to the elevation of the Tombstone, which belonged to the Grave.

I seem to still have that parchment somewhere, but I don't remember where.

"So I'm the owner of the castle?"

"Yes, Mr. Baron."

"And you're the manager of the castle? What's it called... Senechal?"

"You might say so, Mr. Baron."

What can I say? Either he's a cunning scammer who faked the site, or I've really been the rightful owner of the title and lands for twenty-plus years!

"Why did the castle cost so little at the time?"

"Debts, Mr. Baron."

"And what, that money was enough to cover it?"

"Uh... no, Mr. Baron."

Without taking my hand away from my face, I spread my fingers and looked at the old man. He cleared his throat in embarrassment:

"You see, the previous owner of the castle was categorically against any commercial use of the castle and the land around it. I was expecting your orders, but all I had was this paper." He suddenly reached into the folder and very carefully, almost fearfully, showed me a file with the familiar, slightly worn "order. "Having accepted it as a basis for action, I rented some of the premises on your behalf, found tenants for the land, mortgaged some things, used the funds for repairs and restoration. I can account for all amounts to the last ore, copies of the documents are now in the hotel, and the originals, as they should be, in the castle."

After thinking for a few seconds, I switched to German. Olechka and Mitrich understand English as well as I do, but we haven't had any German clients yet.

"You mean I have money now?"

"Not very much, Mr. Baron. They do not linger in the accounts of your castle, it is a very large property."

Well, yes, of course. Large real estate is troublesome and costly. I'd like to know exactly how big it is.

"To reduce taxes, I agreed to participate in the museums' program on your behalf, plus it is a modest but steady income. Unfortunately, it goes almost entirely to current needs. Of course, the castle itself and the land around it are worth a lot, plus it gives you a title, so..."

The last sentence was spoken very ingratiatingly.

"Let me guess - in order to sell the castle I have to come and participate in the election of this duke of yours?"

Von Schnitze lowered his gleaming eyes and remarked almost indifferently:

"Of course, that would be the best option. Besides, it's a wonderful time! The castle is on a rock above the sea, the summer breeze, the perfumed air... I have ordered your chambers to be made ready. The windows look out on one of the most picturesque towns in the country."

I never thought it was possible to purr in German in such a tuneful and tempting way.

"I have to think. Besides, I should at least get ready, finish some urgent business, buy tickets, finally!"

The old man nodded in agreement and pulled some more papers out of the folder.

"I have already reserved a ticket for you, Mr. Baron. Forgive my impertinence... but your land needs you! In addition, on your behalf I have ordered the paperwork, here you go." And he handed me the "document".

On a piece of parchment the size of a book page, a pseudo-gothic note indicated that the bearer of this was Baron Alexander Mogila von Gravstein, following his own needs. There was no picture, but there was a seal hanging from a lace at the bottom. It was lead.

"Do you think this will replace a passport with a visa?"

The old man also seemed hesitant, so he chewed his lips and cautiously agreed:

"Maybe not everywhere. But according to the traditions of our country you have to have just such a document."

I threw the "waybill" on the table and covered my eyes with my hand again.

So I'm a baron? If that "psycho" is not a psycho, and that "crook" is not a crook, then yes, I am a baron. So I own a castle in some wild wilds of unwashed Europe, filled with oddballs in strange codpiece pants, parading around in front of each other in hats covered with silver figurines.

A castle is a good thing! It's just great, it's not like the mortgage I've been living in since my divorce. The castle, the sea, the picturesque town... The damn old man knew how to seduce. Sell the castle, come back here... or don't come back, take the girls and live somewhere else... or not to sell and live there outright?

The old man sat quietly and even seemed to breathe through his breath.

"One more question."

"Yes, Baron?"

"What kind of outfit is this?"

The old man looked around himself, pulled on his leather-lined velvet vest with undisguised pride, and answered:

"This, Mr. Baron, is our national dress! I hope you like it!"

No, sell and get out of those places as fast as possible!

* * *

"The unexpected result of a referendum in one of the provinces of Central Vendian Federal Land has led to a sharp rise in the national consciousness. Observers are surprised to note the emergence of similar trends in the surrounding regions as well..."

"Nuheter Politiken Zeitung"