Prologue

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The net of puffy clouds in the sky, illuminated by the lights of the sleeping city, looked unkind, spreading from horizon to horizon as if it were locking millions of citizens in a black-and-gray grid. There was no escape, no escape. No one, however, ever tried. On the contrary - thousands of voluntary prisoners were arriving daily in the capital full of hopes to stay forever in the grey, dirty prison of the capital... and if they were very lucky, they might even trade their freedom for service to those who lived in one of the hundreds of skyscrapers-representative offices, whose tops floated above the cloudy bars. Nobles liked to climb higher.

Those unlucky enough to be born with a coat of arms over their cradle had a long journey of self-improvement to become useful to a highborn lord. Unique skill and professionalism, solid experience and a great capacity for work, loyalty, and high military rank - many things were valued by dynasties that traditionally elected the best of the best to serve. There was no shortage of applicants. It was not a matter of money or luxury - a true master of his craft, an experienced specialist, or a strong fighter is unlikely to need finance. But only there, at the aristocrat's side, was power - tiny compared to the power of a lord, but even these crumbs elevated the man to a height unattainable by others. For the aristo's servant was his left hand. And if a commoner was struck by an aristocrat's left hand, it was his fate to endure, to swallow his resentment and rage.

But a servant is also a part of the family honor, so those who forgot had their necks cut off by their masters. Most of the time before the servant could stain the lord's honor with an ugly deed. Servants, however, were quite happy with their enormous power, respect for their status, and protection for themselves and their families - it was worth working twenty hours a day for the sake of it. The reward would not be long - the ascent through the servant hierarchy would one day culminate at the very top of one of the family's skyscrapers. What could be better? Except the right to retire, leaving their place to their children - for one generation. If they turn out to be at least a third as capable as their parents, a life of contentment is assured - along with the chance to establish a dynasty of servants. Few people have succeeded in such a feat.

Perhaps Prince Mikhail Vikentyevich Pankratov's personal adviser was the closest to the award. He served his family for four decades with the loyalty of a dog - and with an equally strong grip, to the envy of the young. He did not look his age at all - tall, lean, with no hint of senile wrinkles on his hands and face.

He was not even aware of the reward and continued to speak exaggeratedly cheerfully about the success of the clan. In the last six months, the old man had developed the habit of giving bad news at the very end, piling up tons of good facts. As if he was afraid of anger.

However, the really important things did not fall under this rule. So the definition of "bad" included small things, unpleasant but tolerable, and compared to the successes listed above, it was nothing at all. Nevertheless, it did not allow him to leave the cabinet, depriving the Prince, the owner of one of the hundreds of feudal principalities of the vast Empire, the owner of factories, corporations, and mines, of invaluable minutes of sleep. If it had been another day, it would have been all right, but for the past week he had not slept at all... and his adviser did not seem to notice as if he continued to babble on about useless information. So it was time to change and to give a generous gift as an example to others - not this year, but next year.

The Prince sighed, standing in front of the window, clasped his hands in a lock behind his back, and exhaled sharply, imperiously, interrupting the referent:

"Is there anything else?"

Fortunately, the servant got it right and leafed through a dozen plastic-sealed rectangles of the report at once.

"A little difficulty under Karatobe, Sir. The Oster family has retreated deep into the Oil Refinery Complex. Active action is hampered and threatens to destroy the facility. The enemy has two fighters of the rank of Teacher. Diversion squads are ineffective. The enemy knows the territory well. The Refinery is an ancestral company of Oster, Sir."

The adviser was warningly silent, awaiting his head's command. He was in no hurry to answer, grinning slightly in annoyance. That was the reason why the list of praises was so long - the problem was proportionate to it. Nothing urgent, nothing important. Just a decision to be made: to live the proud family, unable to understand that if not the Pankratovs, others would come, or die. It was not the first time this week he had decided someone else's fate, and probably not the last.

The war in the south of the country broke out without any preparation, unexpectedly. There was no malice or cunning planning involved - otherwise, all the action would have been thought out five steps ahead by the analysis department, and he would not be standing there, looking at the city and deciding what to do with the remnants of a dead clan.

It's just that the old owners of vast territories slightly overestimated their capabilities, lost two fighters of the rank of Master, and ceased to exist.

Dry, succinct, tragic - enough to make it clear to anyone that the smile of a pretty stranger in a nightclub is no reason to drag her into your car. Even if you are a Master, as your brother and the security guards of the two Teachers laugh approvingly nearby. Because the generic skills of ancient families don't really care about your rank or that of your entourage - as long as you stay compact. So the young beauty freaked out and burned the two idiots, along with their entourage, cars, and half of the building by the road, and the frightened, crying family cut out all the remaining heirs the same night - none of them was up to Master. By the way, they were within their rights and could not fear retaliation - there was no one left to retaliate, and the vassal clan would not declare war in defense of an abominable act. If someone from the Main Clan survived, then yes, the oath would oblige them to do their lord's bidding...

Maybe that's why everyone was slaughtered, methodically, in cold blood, knowingly preparing a version of fear for the heiress - it's much more believable that way. Doesn't really matter. The main thing is that a single stupidity has erased six centuries of existence of the famous family name and with it, the Clan. A weak and poorly respected (with such leaders), but a Clan nonetheless: an association of families and corporations bonded by oaths to the Main Clan. And without that Clan, however small, the others could not survive on their own.

So the question immediately arose as to who would get the now derelict lands, with the people, towns, and industries on them. The perpetrators of the clan's demise have defiantly stepped aside, showing the clan's wealth, honor, and pride - as if they were quite satisfied with the death of their offenders. The former clan kin lingered... did they think things would remain the same? The Emperor glanced half-eyed and went back to choosing a new favorite.

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Having caught the vibe, the capital immediately began to methodically divide what was not theirs, negotiate, intrigue, forge alliances and stir up old rivalries. By the end of the month, everything was to have found its new owners - without a single shot or burst of force. Men of substance preferred to fight at long tables, charging armies of bank account numbers, shaking the air with volleys of cries of kinship antiquity and enumerations of battle ranks of their kin and vassals. The opinions of future victims were of no interest to anyone - they buried themselves by procrastination.

While intrigues were raging in the capital, substantial sums were wandering from one account to another, dueling by day and whispering minions by night, Pankratovs had flung half their own army into the dead clan's land with the grace of an axe. While the others talked, the clan specialists worked without sleep or rest on what is delicately known as "securing loyalty". It came out surprisingly quickly and easily, with almost no bloodshed. There was just one lord, and now there is another, and even the burden of taxes has been lowered. Ordinary people accepted the changes quite calmly, and the aristocrats were even glad to go under the hand of a respected clan - all together, without losing established ties and chains of production. Most of them, at any rate...

So when everything will be divided up in the capital, it will suddenly turn out that the lands are de facto already owned by Pankratovs - oaths have been taken, and banners and coats of arms have been hung. The others, of course, will be dissatisfied. Of course, they will gather senseless talks and even write a letter to the Emperor. And, of course, they'll suck it in. Because it is one thing to divide what is not one's own, but to fight a war paid for with blood and lives is quite another. In the capital, they have forgotten how to die, preferring to send to death vassals, mercenaries, debtors, and, at worst, the youngest generation. But not enough, not enough - we have to fight not with frail clans of China, traded by raids and smuggling, not with the freemen of the Free Lands, not with the rebellious province, mad from the extortions, not to lead sluggish "clan war" in the third hundred years in some remote corner of the earth. One word of war and the enemy will come to them, to their home, without a second's delay.

Mikhail Vikentyevich grinned a predatory smile and crunched his fingers, stretching out his clasped hands. He knew how to fight and loved it, as did the fighting backbone of the Clan. So did the three allied clans. So nothing would fall to the old intriguers, except for some grudges, which they might try and avenge in the future, which they couldn't care less about because everyone was grudging and trying.

For a moment, a thought flashed across his mind - he wondered if his son had survived, would he have become such a cautious capital sage for the peace and life of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren? Instead of fighting - the warmth of the fireplace, a small toddler on his knees, clinging to his beard... The Prince shook his head, driving away the warm image. It was not his destiny to check.

"You have robbed me of my son, and I will rob you of everything," he said quietly, his lips parted, staring angrily at the cluster of giant towers in the center of the city.

He had no fear of eavesdropping - the windows on the other side looked like a solid mirror, and the efforts of those who used the window-surfacing equipment were blocked by a tiny mechanism glued with a dozen rubber claws to the inside of the window pane, which barely visible produced a soundless rhythm. The master of the office touched the cool smoothness with his fingertips and listened. No, not a sound, only a slight shiver tingled his fingers. But the observers across the street had the legendary long bass thundering through their headphones: What a wonderful world. A little hoarse, it must be the interference... Perhaps it is even better, like an old record with a turntable needle sliding across it. At any rate, it felt more vivid than the colorless conversations on this side of the window.

"The rival has no strength to break the blockade. Given the lack of substantial food supplies, analysts predict capitulation within a month..."

"No. Withdraw the troops, apologize to the Oster family, and pay the contribution. Do they have casualties?"

"Three wounded, sir."

"Provide medical care, allocate a healer. Offer to rebuild infrastructure and a few lucrative contracts on my behalf."

If the Oster family shows a modicum of cleverness, they will prosper, and Pankratovs will have a new fighting clan. Fighting against an army and managing to retreat without a loss was worth a lot. They were to be spared, unhurriedly linked by kinship and business, for there were no deaths between them - hence no wall of spite.

"Yes, Sir. By your word."

"Is that all?"

"No, Sir." The referent hesitated slightly, flipping back a page, and mimicked reading from a sheet of paper - implausible, with his perfect memory.

So there's more trouble.

"The head of the Kolobov family insists on meeting you in person."

Prince half-turned, casting a questioning glance at the servant.

"Financiers, bankers, a bit of a loan shark. Residing as a family in the capital, they moved to the Karl Ritz Hotel two days before the conflict began, under the protection of the Emperor of Germany. Previously serviced the clan's accounts and all its payments."

"He will demand special conditions," Pankratov said affirmatively, turning to the window again, "but we don't need a duplicate financial structure."

"If the families who have joined the clan move their assets to us, they will go bankrupt, Sir," the servant prompted softly.

"Are they going to obstruct?"

"Already have, sir. They have already exchanged their bank's live money for the junk papers of a dozen shell companies around the world. A reverse exchange is only possible if the Kolobovs are willing. That will be the subject of the bargain. Otherwise, all your new vassals will become paupers."

"Does he think he is immortal?" snorted the Prince.

"We can't get to his family, and his guest status will protect him," the servant said judiciously. "In any case, we need the money more than we need his life."

"Reputation is more important than money," grumbled Mikhail Vikentyevich, rocking from heel to toe, pondering the decision. "We must prepare him for the conversation, put pressure on him, get him off-balance."

"Accident on the way, sir?"

"No way, he's a guest! As long as he is coming to us and from us, not a hair shall fall from his head! Tell you what: put a beggar in front of him that you don't feel sorry for. Put them together, let them bore with each other, and get used to each other. Then we'll drag the body in front of Kolobov. Preferably open the aorta gently, clamp something, and at the right moment yank the body so that the blood gets on Kolobov's trousers and shoes."

"Sir, there is a suitable candidate!" The referent's face brightened, and the plastic pages screeched again. "Maksim Mikhailovich Samoilov, nineteen years old, a petty bourgeois. He is the director of a contracting company that services our hospital in Yelniki."

"Is he stealing from us?"

"Analysts write that no. Costs have fallen by a third. Samoilov has a conflict with the new head of the hospital, who wants to take over the business. Nevertheless, the request for an audience comes from the director. We checked it out: the hospital office doesn't know anything about the letter. The guy forged the letterhead and signature."

"Or slipped it to the headmaster unobtrusively, by tricking him."

"Nevertheless, he wishes to waste your time, Sir, on solving his own petty problems. That alone is worthy of death."

Pankratov felt some internal discomfort - it appeared the boy was promising and was bringing money to the Clan. He was very disapproved of the waste of such a valuable resource.

"Besides, the boy is gifted," added the referent cheerfully. "He is able to die colorfully and for a long time, even with large lacerations and missing limbs! We can make him look Kolobov in the eye while they drag him past."

"Good, get to work. And make it look nice - our guest will not be impressed by the death of a crude pauper."

"We will do our best, sir," the referent bowed respectfully.

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Chapter 1

Thirteen years earlier