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That's not it. That's not it either. And this one looks like it came out of a farm hardware store...

How about this? I shook the sword in my hand doubtfully. No, it doesn't fit the image; it's a seventeenth-century style, though it's new, and I need something older, for authority. The sword... I don't know what people see in that thing. It's a long, uncomfortable stabber, an overgrown knife. Not mine! An ax... hmm, it's a thing, though. Only, again, it doesn't fit in my hand. It's a bit long. What else?

And then I saw Her! The long handle, the handle's knob, the menacing shimmer of the tip.

I picked up the mace from the rack and took the weight and swung it crosswise... The thing! That's my kind of thing!

"Alexander? What happened?"

I automatically hid the mace behind my back and looked around at the ruined shelving unit. Wow, I was just a little bit on the corner of it.

It's all right, Egilbert. It just fell off for some reason.

The steward was frowning at the destruction, while I slipped past him into the door. I'd chosen my weapons, and now it was time to get dressed for the ceremony. It was getting light outside the window, and the doors of the castle chapel, where Ulfric son of Esar and Erraine son of Edgar had spent the night, were about to open. Supposedly in prayer, but I'd bet on a never-ending quarrel.

When the doors were closed last night, the two were arguing about how to repair the fence in the city garden that had been razed to the ground by rampaging barbarians (the mayor's version) and slightly scratched during patrols (the policeman's version). Since they were both local natives, it is unlikely that the dispute is already over; here everything is done thoroughly and from the bottom of heart.

"Your clothes, Mr. Baron."

"Thank you, Eggie."

The manager's youngest son, twenty-eight-year-old Egilbert Junior, or simply Eggy, nodded and dashed off down the stairs. Von Schnitze Sr. and I had given him the job of organizing the festivities and, more importantly, of covering the events, so he had plenty to do.

On second thought, I decided not to get involved in politics. These two are my "subjects," their elevation to knighthood can somehow be justified, but dreams of thick bundles of banknotes, which the millionaires, eager for the prefix "sir" to me, will remain dreams. Technically, before the council and the transfer of all rights back to the Esks, I'm some kind of "source of honor," only... The big guys might misunderstand such innuendos. I, on the other hand, can have both henchmen and squires for training, with certificates. The main thing is not to be impudent: here grabbed a penny, there farthing, here ore - you see, and accumulated something. True, according to the plan drawn up by von Schnitze, the restoration of the castle will take another twenty-three years to complete, and until then all the profits will go to this ancient pile of stones of historical significance, but... in fact, what is the hurry?

I picked up the two sheathed blades from the stand and moved into the courtyard.

The knight must be girded with a sword and fitted with golden spurs. According to the classic ceremony, he should immediately jump on a horse and prove that he is a brave rider... Yeah, right.

The mayor, Erraine Edgarovich, weighs a hundred and thirty kilograms, adding armor and jumping up only makes sense on a hippo because he would crush the horse. Ulfric Esarowicz, the policeman, on the contrary, is one of those little brisk fellows, who stop running around the walls and ceiling as lively as a gray-haired, decrepit old man. By the way, my knights aren't bad fighters; they happen to be local champions. In the past. They're both in their fifties, so there's not much of a hint of youth here.

But a lot of professionalism and life experience, and that's exactly what I need from them.

Nevertheless, I must gird them and give them swords. There were a couple of good blades in the castle's "knight's hall," where all the sharp, rusty iron that could be found in the area had been stolen for decoration, but I thought I'd give them something simpler. It would be too much, and the tourists have to stare at something with lust. So yesterday, before the doors of the chapel were locked behind the two contenders, I received the new models ordered from a catalog. For one, the sword would be too short, for the other too heavy, but who says it's easy to be a knight?

"Everything is ready, Mr. Baron."

"I see."

The courtyard, despite the early morning hours, was packed. A long red carpet was rolled out from the locked doors of the little church to the entrance to the donjon. On one side stood the officials, all in national costumes (hat, vest, round pants, wooden shoes), on the other dressed in full dress by the police. There were forty of them both, so I could get between them, but all the other disciplined subjects stood about a meter behind the guard of honor, not trying to get any closer, whispering and waving their flags, peeking at me, then at the chapel.

"Soon?"

"I think it's time, Mr. Baron."

The castle church, it turns out, is also a landmark.

There was a local saint who honored Baron Graveshtein, my predecessor, with his presence ten centuries ago. He worshipped him for three years in prison, overcame a great deal of discomfort, and finally died, for which reason he was immediately recognized as a saint - no other miracles were known to him. Nevertheless, St. Egbert was held in high esteem. The first dungeon was destroyed long ago, and a church was built in its place. Evil conquerors destroyed it, but the locals rebuilt it again, and so on six times - Esks are tenacious guys. As a result, the church is deservedly called a monument of architecture of the 12-18 centuries and looked appropriate.

By the way, it stood in the place where, according to legend, there was once a pagan altar.

Suddenly there was a nervous sneeze, and a wave of coughs went through the crowd.

I turned around and the head of the guard shrugged embarrassedly. "Isabel" appeared the next morning. The mustache was gorgeous, Marshal Budyonny would have been jealous! The glue was good, too. So I, trying to determine its firmness, almost lifted the poor Gascon into the air. Such rapidity both pleased and saddened at the same time - on the one hand, all my orders will be executed quickly and creatively, on the other hand, I wanted to handcuff this guy in advance. Well, I saw what I bought...

"Did you check the applicants?"

"Yes, Alexander Nikolayevich. Almost a hundred people, after lunch, as we were going to, we'll start the qualifying competitions."

"And don't forget to give the manager half of the money you take in bribes."

"Alexander Nikolaevich! How could you think that I would take..."

"If I thought you wouldn't take it, I would have fired you yesterday."

"You're slandering the poor..." he coughed. "Gascon."

"You're all poor when you come to the capital. D'Artagnan and you... Have you worked out the competition program?"

"I downloaded a typical scenario for a children's and youth party. Only instead of a box of chocolates and a pennant - an invitation to the personal henchmen of your grace."

"Participation Diplomas?"

"All done!"

I may have decided not to stamp sirs, but that's no reason for me not to earn extra money, is it? The applicants will get beautiful diplomas for their money and effort. So what if the diploma is two hundred times cheaper than the participant's spot? But it is nice. And with those who by cunning or force makes it to the finals, we can already work. I have a whole castle here, I need workers, preferably free. We'll have to recruit anyway, yesterday there were three full tours, and we could do one more. Egelbert was happy. Well, it's summer, it's vacation, why not recruit students? Hmm, or take those who can't run fast or whatever my head watchman is up to? Promise them not a squire place, but something else?

The creak of the swinging gate interrupted my thoughts.

I tried to imagine what these two were seeing now. Here they had spent all night arguing about that miserable fence and the occasional prayer. Here the door opens and Eggy steps aside, and behind him is a corridor of dense crowds and a red carpet. Police officers and officials are facing each other, a torch in each hand (the city fire inspector almost had a heart attack when he saw it), not too bright in the pre-dawn twilight, all silent, and a cool, light breeze sweeps through the courtyard. A horse is snarling, some kid quietly begging to be taken in his arms, or else he can't be seen. And at the other end of the courtyard, standing just a little (three steps, to be exact) above the crowd stands a strange type, their baron.

A tall man, slightly unshaven, in an ancient but not local dress, wearing a high fur cap. And in his left hand, he had two swords.

It's not right, though. The swords were supposed to be handed in by one of the guards. I just forgot to give them to him. Okay, we'll think of something.

A tall, fat figure in a national costume and a small, thin figure in a uniform suddenly straightened up, put their chins up, and with a distinctive stamping of their step walked toward me under the admiring glances of their subordinates.

"Did you even pray?"

"Of course, Herr Baron! Every half hour, as it should be."

The mayor sank to his knees, and the chamberlain did it much more gracefully. Both squinted jealously at their neighbor - the one I'm about to name will be the first knight of Eskenland in many, many years! Five minutes, maybe, but the first! I've asked, but the other barons haven't figured it out yet, and not everyone has even arrived yet.

Erraine sniffed his nose sternly, Ulfric rubbed his cuffs nervously.

Well, that's enough procrastination. I looked at the crowd for a second, and then I looked at my swords. There was nothing wrong with my coordination, and nowhere did it say that...

Swords lay on the shoulders of the kneelers at the same time.

"People of the barony of Gravstein! I, Alexander Nicolae Mogila, Baron von Gravstein, ordain these men to knighthood so that they may continue to serve our land. Is there anyone here who knows the reasons why these two cannot be knights?"

The townspeople were thinking seriously. Actually, I made this digression from protocol to remind them once again who the baron is, but why not really ask people if they want such knights? It's a serious matter, by the way. It's not every century that the authorities seriously ask if people want such bosses over them.

Not catching a single resolute objection on their faces, I slammed my swords three times flat on their shoulders:

"So be it! I knight you, children of Eskenland. Arise!"

Confused by the simultaneous initiation, the challengers rose from their knees. I wanted to do something funny, like pinching them instead of the traditional slap. But I understood the inappropriateness of the prank, and simply drew them both at the same time for a ritual embrace. I'll get my fun later, but for now, pull the weight, Shurik! If you've agreed to be in charge, you'd do well to live up to your trust. Baron's work is not only to eat coffee and rampage, but it is also to stand up and ceremony, and in exactly the way that they expect me to these ridiculous people, carefully pretending that everything goes exactly the way they choose. However, they are not the only ones who enjoy this activity.

Egilbert and Eggy brought out the belts and spurs on the pads, and then some other people jumped up and the ritual confusion began. At last, the two freshly-appointed sirs knelt before me again, glanced at each other, and held out their folded palms in a boat's arms. The boys seemed to like the idea of a simultaneous oath. I took their hands in mine, and a minute later they were already my vassals. Great, now they have both the right and the opportunity to serve me as they should!

"Sir Ulfric, as your sovereign, I demand that you fulfill your duty by taking the police under your hand and keeping order in the barony."

"Thank you, Baron, and I swear to do my best."

"Sir Erraine, I, as your sovereign, call for service - you have been entrusted with the administration of the city of Gravstein."

"Thank you, and I swear..."

The crowd, realizing that the ceremony was over, shrieked joyously, and outside the gate, something banged and two orchestras played two tunes at once, clearly competing. Sirs, strangely squinting around, were getting used to the fact that they were now knights, their subordinates looking proudly at those who did not have such wonderful bosses. I was the only one who noticed that essentially nothing had changed.

Here it is, the mark of power...

Vassals, knights, barons... The savage Middle Ages!

As if to answer my words, the loudspeakers in the castle courtyard whistled, and immediately some dashing local tune came out, instantly drowning out the orchestras: I immediately began to yawn, it sounded very much like a lullaby. But here it was considered a march.

The policemen brought their chief a real horse, on which Sir Ulrich gallantly climbed without using the stirrups. The magistrates, as they should have done, approached the affair in an upright manner - Sir Erraine was hoisted on a decorated platform, received a banner in his hands, and immediately began to wave it to music. All in all, the festivities were off to a jolly start - although, as the steward advised, we had set the dedication to a day off, the health of the townsfolk would be severely tested today.

Ten minutes later, the castle courtyard was empty, and everyone rushed to the hall of the town hall, where a joint party was to be held, or rather, its official part.

I was left with only a pile of dung from the "knight's steed".

However, a young guy was already rushing from the stable with a cart...

Eh, you try so hard, you make up an impressive ceremony for them. The old man almost screamed and tried to throw himself out the window when I showed him a model of boyar - in a kaftan with gold embroidery and a high fur hat.

What was the point of being so nervous? Eggy solved everything in ten minutes by ordering from a theatrical prop store. Instead of a surcote, it was a normal fur cape. The hat was a real wolf's hat. It was leftover from the filming of a historical drama in '62, when fur-bearers had not yet been exterminated by the ruthless fanatics of Mother Nature, so the outfit looked quite dignified.

There was a strange sensation of mild resentment, not resentment, but rather of annoyance at my loyal subjects. Not that I wanted to sit in the cramped hall of the town hall and listen to talk about local events, interesting only to the Gravsteins themselves, but I could have been invited...

"Mr. Baron? Breakfast is ready, shall I serve it?"

On the other hand, let them sit there themselves! I've seen the budget for these gatherings, a bag of crackers and a can of beer, that's the maximum that each guest will get with such frugality! And I'll have a normal...

"Tourists are already waiting, should I let them in?"

Yeah. The first "paid breakfast for tourists". I forgot.

"Let them in, Egilbert."

Damn, I didn't have time to change. Okay, let's pretend this is the right thing to do.

The strange thing was, I seemed to have lost all sense of embarrassment or insecurity long ago, but now, walking to the chair with the high carved back at the head of the table, I suddenly felt a twitch in my stomach. What if I couldn't manage... though there was nothing to manage, just eat. I suppressed my panic, kindly nodded at the greetings, waved my hand widely, calling everyone to take their seats, as if the owner was the last one to sit down, and finally plunged into my chair.

The table was set in the Egelbertian way. That is, there was a neat sign next to each dish: "Traditional Sauce," "Eskenland Mammalyha," and other explanatory things.I did, however, threaten to renounce and flee, so there was no sägdimirl. They would only sell it to those who come in private vehicles, or else the buses would stink up the place, and no one would be able to get to us anymore.

But there was everything. Fish, pies, potatoes, trays of sliced "mammalyha," tall pitchers of morsels. It was a hell of a breakfast, to be honest, but there was plenty to eat. The jitters finally passed, and I sat down, glancing at my companions.

Most of them pretended that they had to eat breakfast in the presence of all those barons so often that they were sick of it. It was only because of the good manners that they agreed to do it again in my company. Five people were squinting uncertainly, trying to see if they were doing the right thing, and only two or three of them said hello to me in a friendly way and sat down just to have breakfast. Experience is a great thing, and it was two of them that the manager placed next to me, making this strange attraction look like a normal meal.

Having piled everything on the plate I took a bite with my fork, put it in my mouth, and groaned. I'd bet I wasn't rolling my eyes! Garlic sauce is the pinnacle of my culinary talents, and that's only because it's hard to get anything wrong. So for the past five years, I've been eating either fast food or convenience foods, which doesn't improve character at all. And here - real good food! The next five minutes passed in the chomping and noting the next piece, which must always be grabbed first because it is the most delicious. Finally, when I was full, I was able to get a good look at the people at the table.

You can recognize each one by their behavior.

Here are the Englishmen, fork in their left hand, knife in their right, glaring at the others, making sure everyone understands that it's not the first time they've had breakfast in the presence of aristocrats.

These are Americans. They certainly don't give a damn about anything, they are mostly occupied with themselves, which makes the English bite their forks nervously with their long teeth: you can hear the grinding all over the room.

Japanese, two couples. The old men and old women, constantly apologizing and bowing, intimidated others with their smiles, scooped up everything they could reach and methodically ate, not forgetting to marvel at the exotic taste of the grits.

Italians. They gesticulate so much that their napkins are blowing in a draught, and they don't notice the English, who turn even more yellow, or the Americans, or the waitress passing by... But how ardently they apologize for the overturned tray!

A family from South America. I can't tell exactly where they come from, but judging by the fact that they even eat sweet bread crumbs with garlic sauce, they are Latino, for sure.

Indian, one thing, young. This one doesn't smear garlic, just puts the saucer in front of him and eats it like soup, hypnotizing the Englishwoman. The Englishwoman, of course, does not notice it, but she tries not to notice it so that she can be seen from all favorable angles.

An strange girl, in the number of three specimens. They sit together, hardly eating, looking at me. One in particular is staring, watching every bite of food! From the intense gaze I choked, picked up a glass of morsels, quickly drank, spilling. A few drops rolled down my chin, fell on the napkin.

The girl sighed intermittently, looking at my chest with dilated eyes, and...

"Egilbert! There's a guest here who's not well!"

Damn, could it be allergies? I jumped up and nodded to one of the Americans, and we quickly lifted the maiden, the second one, looking at me strangely, pushed her way to the door and from there, with her back against the stonework, watched as I... damn, also fainted. I just checked the first one's pulse, didn't I?

The third sat staring quietly forward and only flinched when I called out to her.

"Is your friend in good health? She's not sick?" The girl shook her head, looking at me with horror for some reason. Damn, they're weird.

Eggy and the waitress came running in, and I stepped back. The breakfast ended abruptly, and the tourists moved toward the exit. I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself, as my shirt was soaking wet under my jacket, so I went downstairs.

Von Schnitze stood at the stairs, personally saying goodbye to each guest. When he saw me, he came up, smiling dreamily, and took me by the lapel of the boyard's caftan:

"I think, Alexander, that you, a young and vigorous man, should eat more and more often. Second breakfast, lunch, dinner, five o'clock tea, dinner... and each with tourists!" the old man finally detached himself from reality, the famous dollar signs appeared in his eyes.

With a sigh, I silently unhooked his arms and went into the tower to change.

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"YES, HE'S REAL! Just like in the book! The way he drank! I don't know what it was. Something red - BUT I GUESS!!! Minnie fell unconscious from one look in her direction, I wanted as well but I didn't!!! He's a sweetheart, he came up and talked. GIRLS HIS VOICE IS SO!!!!! Signed up for another tour, but it's not for another two weeks, some bastards took all the tickets! Looking for museum plans WHO KNOW WHERE HE'S SLEEPING?!!!"

From the forum

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