Chapter 15

* * *

Some people give too much meaning to appearance.

In the morning, Egilbert once again attempted to dress me in the local national costume. After a heated discussion about tradition, which left us with our own opinions, we finally agreed that certain functions should be performed exclusively in the appropriate uniform for the occasion. Further attempts to dress me up in stockings and round "shorts" I rejected with indignation, which is why I was now sitting in my Romanian-Boyar cinematic attire, stroking the Ghoul lying on my lap, nervously twitching his ears.

Circumstances drove me and the "poor cat" into that chair. With the cat, it is simple - he dared to trespass on one of Madame van Storre's creations, after which she vowed to shave him bald. And since she was not going to get away with it, the little predator was hiding behind my authority.

With me, it was much sadder.

The laws of the Federation were used in the city, I even issued a special decree, but sometimes I had to get involved personally, resolving issues beyond the competence of the officials of the Magistrate and the Police. I couldn't get away from judicial functions. The flip side of any privilege is responsibility, so right after breakfast, they took the "throne chair" out of the knight's hall and into the courtyard. In the courtyard - because tourists and townspeople (in that order) have the right to observe the trial. The chair, by the way, is just phenomenally uncomfortable.

During the week of the siege, small problems had accumulated. Nothing that Erraine and Ulfric could not solve, but how is it possible to appeal to a Higher Authority and not take advantage of it? That's not the way the Esks are! Especially if the baron had a free day.

Yesterday, von Welleschwarm's troops revolted, demanding a proper two days off, since they don't get combat pay for doing their vassal duty. An explanation was simple - tonight Eskenland would die out.

Stores close earlier than usual, cars disappear from the streets, and everyone locks themselves in their homes and sticks to the blue screens. Tonight, the track cycling qualifiers are broadcast.

That's the second most important topic of discussion for the locals, after Eskenland's independence and before taxes.

The only time my steward was seriously offended by me was after my careless remark that the cycle track was not too spectacular. The old man was not even indignant; he simply said, in an icy tone, that I did not understand anything and thought very loudly that only an ignorant barbarian who did not understand the delicate Eskenland soul could speak such nonsense. I had to apologize.

But come on, we all have our shortcomings. For example, the baron's rank - the need to judge the disputes of subjects. It seems to be nothing to worry about, just sitting in a chair and listening, but I managed to curse everything in the last half an hour.

I knew a guy once, a simple guy, who came up from the working class and owned a small factory, and he once said that all these "celebrities" actually get money for what they got from their moms and dads, do not even work, just enjoy themselves, but whine as if they do not run on stage for an hour a day, but waving a pickaxe all day long.

So we had a bet.

We broke into a producer's office, traded for an aspiring trainee girl, and made a deal - she was practicing her dance, and a work guy was walking on a treadmill; she was practicing her vocals, and he was reading aloud in the next room; she was rehearsing - he was walking around the room; she was dancing at night - he was stomping from foot to foot in the alley. He made it through four days out of the agreed ten, then brought me the bottle I had won, and bought the girl the most pompous bouquet and the biggest chocolate bar he could find.

I have the same problem - I don't seem to be doing anything specific. I'm sitting, despite a fairly tangible breeze, pouring sweat, stroking the cat, and looking at the sky, but I wouldn't wish my place even for an enemy.

Unless it's a really frightening enemy.

Screw them. I'm sick of them! For the third time, they start repeating arguments over and over!

"That's enough talk. Let the duel decide from here on!"

"Excuse me, Your Grace?"

"Write the law, Egilbert - from now on, any citizen of the barony has the right to settle a dispute in a legal match. The contest will be in the subject matter, and the one who proves to be the best professional will win."

"But such a hedge must be grown for at least three years, right?"

"That's the point, Egilbert, that's the point."

"I see. You want them to be able to figure out exactly whether this kind of plant height is necessary in the meantime, plus they'll both gain additional knowledge and be able to visually support their arguments. Very wise, Alexander, very wise!"

I didn't say anything about them just not coming to see me again. Anyway, when they got back together in three years, they would start arguing again.

"Next!"

"Your Grace, Baron! I call upon you to cleanse the city of foreigners who do not honor the privileges of the natives!"

My gloomy look made the speaker gasp and tone down, but he quickly came to his senses and explained what he meant.

It turned out that there had once been a bakers' guild in the city, and unlike everyone else, the bakers had been given their guild charter in a brief moment of independence. Now, this sturdy, red-breasted old man wanted me, "honoring privilege," to command his rival's store to be closed.

"According to this law, I, as the sole representative of the bakers' guild, have the exclusive right to bake bread in the city. If Mr. Pressler wants to continue his illegal activities, he must first be trained and then have the guild test his compliance with the guild standard!"

I looked at him in silence. I don't like slyasses like that, no matter what they say.

The baker began to deflate under my gaze, like disturbed dough, and only put a neat folder with a copy of an ancient document in front of him as a shield.

The people fell silent, perplexed. On the one hand, of course, he's right, but on the other...

"Well, I think you should be rewarded for your loyalty to tradition. Egilbert, write a decree stating that from now on I allow, as before, the guild master Pantier to use the same ingredients in baking bread," I reached into my binder and pulled out a book and peered into it: "Ground bones, wood chaff, and clay exactly as it was done before, and to produce bread without regard to the requirements of foreign, read federal, quality laws. Baker Pressler, as a non-member of the guild and with no proper reputation, is allowed to use only the freshest and cleanest products. It is also his responsibility to send samples to the castle kitchen every day, and the castle cook will personally determine his qualifications."

It got to the zealot of guilds' rights before I was finished: "But... Mr. Baron, my family has been baking the finest..."

I stood up sharply, causing Ghoul to plop down with a disgruntled purr: "It is the guilds' duty to the city to guard the quality of their goods and services, which is why they are privileged! As a tool, you are given the right to recruit apprentices and draw up trials, but woe to anyone who considers himself chosen! I saw nothing in your store that Pressler could not replicate. Besides, you're trying to cover yourself with a piece of paper about privileges, and meanwhile, no guild presentations have been made, no special skills of guild members specified, no proof that you are indeed a master, the best at what you do!" The pathos made my cheekbones tingle, but I held on. "You have three days before the Magistrate's Committee to prove with a masterpiece that you are a true master. I've never seen anyone from Gravshtayn repeat it, either," I thought for a moment, remembering. "The vanilla bagels that Pressler is so good at and that I haven't seen in your store. If the Gravshain Bakers Guild is demanding privileges by failing to provide the good citizens with everything they require, then it should not be about protection, but about a fine evenly shared among all members of the guild!"

Actually, I was naturally meddling in someone else's business, it is not proper for a feudal lord to control professional associations, even with the hands of his vassal's subordinates, but for former-future citizens of the Federation, it seemed natural that everything should go in order, under the supervision of appointed persons.

Pretending to gradually calm down, I sat down, dragged the cat out from under the chair by the scruff of the neck, and laying him on my lap, I "peacefully" looked around the crowd: "Well, who else here wants ethnic privilege? You'd better not lead us to sin! Otherwise, I'll make laws for you. So you'll have a hard time complying with them."

Two or three people started to barrel out of the surrounding crowd, but the rest of us were rather pleased. The show goes on, the baron gets a little angry, and the sassy (though good at baking traditional bread and nuts) baker is put in his place.

People like to see authority working.

"Mr. Baron! I demand justice!"

Another one came out of the crowd... I'd say "pretender," but who am I?

He was an ordinary man, but his attire reminded him of a "Swedish ambassador". Well, is he going to demand "kemsku volost"?

"I am a representative of a law firm that oversees the rights of..."

"Shorter."

"A pirate has settled in your castle!"

"So?"

"Surely you are aware that one of your tenants is a pirate tracker?"

"Well, no one is surprised by a pirate at Gravstein Castle."

"Yes, I've been told."

I looked closely, but the petitioner's face showed no emotion whatsoever. I could, of course, be indignant, but with what? I said, he agreed...

"They publicly call themselves pirates and have relations with many people who rob honorable masters, thus proving their craft. A pirate, as we know, is a sea-robber. According to the Truth of Esks, maritime robbery is punishable by death. I ask your judgment for those who have themselves confessed to the crime."

Yeah. He's made it nice. Sure, if I say something about the fact that words alone are not enough, he will roll out some other clever idea. And most importantly, I don't understand who this was designed against. Did someone really decide to crack down on programmers, or am I being tested for bending? Dressed "appropriately", and behaved politely. Behind the back of the "ambassador" two strong inconspicuous men, and he quoted the Truth correctly. There is such a section there.

"Mr. von Schnitze, send a man to these "pirates."

The steward nodded, and I started stroking the cat again, quietly looking over the heads of those who were discussing a new problem. Someone had already started to argue, saying that people are doing a good job, and in general, who knew? He was answered that one must answer for his words, and all the more so, if... What exactly "if" I did not hear: the "sea robber" arrived.

The programmer was a programmer, a man in his thirties, disheveled, skinny, pale, and professionally traumatized - a notch on his left chin from the constant resting of his palm. He looked frowning and impudent, but he recognized the "ambassador," he even smiled. Except he didn't wave.

"Are you in charge of the office?"

"I am!"

"Are you a pirate?"

"This one said?" He nodded at the petitioner.

"This one. Demands that you be executed. Like a pirate."

"They got it, bastards! It didn't work out at the trial, so you decided to get it this way?"

"No one pulled your tongue."

He looked around, noticed the guards, and estimated his chances of getting out.

It's fine, I like him, he's brave.

"Okay, you say out loud here that you're just a..."

"I'm a pirate!"

"Do you want the gallows?" He scowled sullenly. He doesn't want to be hanged, does he? "Though... as we've just said, we're used to piracy in Gravstein. Legally I should hang you, but as a personal guest of the Baron I can give you sanctuary on the condition you do not leave the castle or harm the good Eskenlanders or any of their allies."

The "ambassador" frowned, but I nodded at him reassuringly: "There's just one subtlety: is there any doubt as to whether you are who you say you are? So we will conduct a series of tests, so to speak, for professional suitability." I rose from my chair accompanied by another disgruntled meow from the cat. "I command - fishermen to take this man to the ship and check! If he does not show skills in the sea - to teach, daily, not allowing to go ashore until he becomes a real "sea-man"!

"What if I can't fulfill your conditions?"

"So you're not a real pirate and you disgrace this high rank. And that means I'll hang you for it. I'll hang you by the neck, but I'll hang you for imposture. Ugh, well, you got it, yes."

"Can I go to jail?"

"My jail is for serious people, and I don't want any scum in it. If you can prove that you're a real pirate, and not a computer thief, you're welcome to my table, I respect dashing young men. No? We'll hang you to hell. Satisfied?" The last was addressed to the "ambassador". He frowned thoughtfully:

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to turn him over to the Federation?"

"There is no extradition from Gravstein! We are a sovereign barony!" The subjects murmured in agreement, the "ambassador" grimaced, but then he couldn't keep his face and looked at the programmer with a satisfied grimace. Apparently, he was well aware of the difference between the office of a computer company and the deck of a fishing boat.

Well, that's good. The gallows, of course, disciplines. Except that barons have necks, too, and we shouldn't give a hint of that.

"The trial is over for today! Go home, good Esks!"

The tourists were making quite a ruckus, and the townspeople were dispersing while talking.

Nearby, Sir Policeman tinkled his scabbard unhappily.

"Sir, you were wrong not to extradite the bastard! He makes computer games available, and they provoke cruelty and are so detrimental to peaceful citizens!"

What a title does to men! Only two weeks as a knight, and he has become incredibly flamboyant. Not yet Don Quixote, but he's close. Sir Mayor is holding out for now, but he's giving up, too: Eggie tells me the mayor is going to order a full suit of armor, tailored to fit. Armored doughnut, death to enemies!

"That's partly a good thing; today's warriors lack a healthy dose of bloodlust; they're too soft-hearted! And anyway, Sir Ulfric, if you're a knight, you'd better go! I mean, do something heroic, it's about time you lived up to your title, isn't it?"

"Alas, my lord, these times are dull and do not give you a chance to prove yourself. If only you would let me fight the Vikings..."

"Temper your appetite, noble sir! Here are your orders - go and perform some feat for the glory of... hmm."

"Whose?"

"Mine. Or a beautiful lady's. Think it up yourself, a knight is obliged to master the poetic language!"

With a gracious nod to the dreamily brooding policeman, I stepped off the dais, stretching. So, what do we have today? It seems that some commission should come, but that's in two hours, so there is time to check the cellar, von Schnitze should be there now.

My musings were interrupted by the words of the guards, who were discussing the outcome of the trial in a low voice:

"Our baron is harsh: I spent three years on a seiner after school... a programmer can't pull it off. Baron is harsh, yes.

"Well, of course, he must have been used to it back then... When he was..." The guard, noticing that I could hear them, abruptly cut off the conversation and ran off frantically to say goodbye.

Okay. When was I a whom? Oh, this legend of the "Russian Mafioso" is so sticky! Five Jews, an Armenian, two Tajiks - the formidable Russian Mafia!

I followed them, and then suddenly I saw the ogre squatting against the wall, staring with a predatory expression at the back of Marty as she passed. I had to hum to get his attention, nod at the girl, and then mime with my fingers - something dangling, swaying, and then I took the scissors, and they clicked, cutting off something, and that dangling "something" fell to the ground. The African, thinking for a moment, his eyes bulged, and he shook his head and turned away. I followed his gaze - now he was looking toward the barn. Well, the heart wants what the heart wants. The main thing is that we understand each other. It's nice when people from different countries understand each other so well. I'll give the squires a hint, though, so they can keep an eye out.

The African turned out to be a real child. If he was brought up and whipped in time, he would be an example for the younger ones and a joy for the parents, but if he was not, not every adult gangster would be able to repeat the "deeds" of the merry kids. A big, sharp child of nature. Never mind, a couple of bumps from me and a dozen from Fisk, constant supervision and the presence of "adults" made a man out of an ogre. We'll teach him to love his motherland-Africa!

So, what else do I have first priority?

I opened the folder and went through the papers. Repair, then. The flow of cash which sharply increased with the growth of tourist interest in the ancient castle, went into this repair like in the sand, leaving the bare minimum. It was necessary to go through the whole list of works, removing the unnecessary at the moment. Egilbert, of course, would yell and fight for every ore, but there was nothing to be done.

As if hearing me think about money, my ex called: "I found out where you're calling from! So you got a job as a caretaker? Or did you get a job as a janitor?" Her voice was unexpectedly peaceful.

"I work here as a baron."

"Really? They didn't even hire you to play the executioner?"

"There's a whole line here for this position, with fights. I've never understood the desire of some to work so closely with people, but the locals like it."

"I see some pictures. What are you wearing all the time? What are you doing there, luring tourists?"

"You could say so."

Everything about Elka was good, but one thing she didn't get persistently - languages. Russian - yes, command Russian - yes, which I was happy to teach a decent girl. But about European languages - there are interpreters for that. However, she has plenty of other virtues.

First, I listened to a story about how well the girls were resting, then reproaches, that they had to be sent to rest "in the wild taiga," then something else... I went to the kitchen, took a sample from the dinner menu, sent Eggie to help Sir Ulrich, let them think up a feat together, then, jamming the microphone, explained to a group of elderly tourists that we do not have executions every day, and in general, today is a day off.

At the moment when my ex noticed that she had been talking to me for half an hour and said goodbye, my mood was already quite bearable, so when I found the head of the guard on the wall, sitting in a chaise lounge and taking an appetizing bite from a smuggled baguette, I even smiled a little. I was also attracted to look at the city from its height. To tell the truth, I usually climb higher, but I am higher in the ranks, too!

"Well, what new ideas has the United Gasconship come up with? Has the Conclave of the Secret Aquitanians made its decision to take over the world yet?"

"You're all for jokes, Alexander Nikolayevich."

"Hmm, aren't your compatriots ruling from behind the scenes?"

"When would they do this nonsense? They are serious people."

"Serious? Izya, why isn't your weekly report due?"

"Alexander Nikolayevich, how can one talk about boring problems on such a wonderful, such a sunny, such a day off? Having a seat, I smuggled two bottles of wonderful wine and simply superb smuggled cheese into the castle secretly from Ewald's servants. Join us, Mr. Baron, join us!"

Yeah, "two bottles." Like I don't know about regular food deliveries over the wall, involving two Welshwarmers?

The funny thing is, I wanted to do something like that myself, but... I couldn't! I'm a baron, I gave my word, damn it!

Maybe the castle really is cursed?

"You're at work, by the way."

"It's the Esks who live to work. The French work to live!"

"That's right, Gascon - either you'll work, or you won't live! This I promise you as a Romanian! Give me a report by tonight!"

"Did something happen?"

"The devil knows. I have a hunch."

"Seriously." He had already jumped up, slipped me a full glass, and held out a plate of meatloaf invitingly. "Commission, huh? Come on, it's just talking, they have no real power, and if anything, the cells are empty!"

"Katzman, the election is just over a month away, and then you have to respond for everything you've done."

"Your Grace, don't tell the poor Gascon that it bothers you one bit!"

"You haven't had any offers?"

"A couple of times, from the Welshwarmers, nothing serious."

I looked into his eyes, and, as it should be, Izya looked absolutely straight and honest, convincingly proving that he had no room in his body for conscience.

"Watch out, Mr. Brave Moustache, they'll hang you at the gate if anything happens."

"There is no end for our kind!"

"Well, well..."

We sat there, exchanging phrases, looking at the city and the sea, for about ten minutes, and then von Schnitze finally found me.

"Mr. Baron?"

"I'm coming."

Today the steward wanted to show me some of the basements that could be rented out as warehouses.

The basements were great! Ancient, vaulted, with incomprehensible garbage, which we were going to clean out by volunteers. Maybe we could spread the word that there were some treasures here. They would be more willing to dig.

"By the way, Alexander, you probably don't know - the "furious maiden of Graveshtein" has done things again."

"Did you hide the corpses?"

"She didn't do that much. A tourist from the south gave her a very flattering but questionable compliment. Something about the shape of her buttocks."

"Of, God... poor man!"

"All he got was two strokes of the poker. Erdar managed to carry Freken Marty out of the kitchen."

"Issue him a bonus, with food. You can get it from Isabel. By the way, where are we and what is this breach?"

The old man looked around in surprise, then opened the folder and suddenly nervously grabbed my hand.

"Shame on you, old chap! We've only just lost our way, and you're already starting to try on which side of me tastes better?"

"Mr. Baron! This passageway is not on my plan of the cellars!"

I weighed the possibilities in my mind. The sensible thing would have been to mark the hole and move on... but the venturesome history enthusiast was already climbing into the narrow crevice, pulling a small torch from his pocket.

"Alexander! There are bones in here!"

"Don't tell me it's some tourist who got lost!"

"Well, I guess you could call him that." The old man leaned over to the pile of bones and rags, turning them around and looking at them. "Sixteenth century, Spanish. Spaniard? Oh, really?!" He picked up the elongated object from the floor, snatched the lantern from me, and immediately began scrubbing at it, cleaning the age-old filth. "I don't believe it! It can't be!"

"Can't be what?" The old man was even bouncing on the spot, which made me nervous - what if he shattered our only torch?

"I was wrong! Unbelievable! The legend of Miguel de Alvarez is not fiction. There it is, there it is!"

And he shoved the iron under my nose, twirling it around with a triumphant shout.

"It's the sword of Alvarez, to be exact, which means..." He stopped talking as he stared at the remains lying against the wall. "The unfortunate Don Miguel himself, who had never become lord of Gravshtain."

Suddenly he looked around, quickly lighting up all the corners:

"Yes, no one seems to have come here for hundreds of years."

"And I told you, Egilbert, that the servants are doing a terrible job of cleaning. Look down." A torch beam immediately illuminated the floor. There was a string of clearly legible footprints. "I was the first one to fall in here after this unfortunate man. And tiredly, I sat just one step away from my predecessor."

I shuddered as I imagined finding these bones in total darkness.

"You most likely fell through the same gap. Legend has it that Don Miguel, the illegitimate son of a very high-ranking individual, who distinguished himself in a nearby war, was given this castle by his father but disappeared with his servant on the very first day."

"The servant's skull must be lying there, under the stairs."

"That is probably exactly what happened. They fell into a secret well, the servant crashed to his death, and the lord got lost in the dungeon and remained there forever. Legend has it that for the next hundred years, the ghost appeared to the castle dwellers asking them to show him the way out, but the sight of him was so frightening that no one could answer, and everyone ran away in terror. The last mention of the ghost of de Alvarez dates back to the seventeenth century."

"The remains have not been disturbed since then."

"The Spaniards made a big fuss, looking for him for a long time; he was related through his father to almost the king himself. But he was not found!"

"At least now we can follow my footsteps, so nicely visible in this dust. Don't forget to send a man down here to pick up the bones... preferably Fisk. I'm too lazy to look around, but I found one gold piece here, in case there's anything else of value."

"I will, Alexander. By the way, this iron is the King's sword, bestowed on Don Miguel for his glorious deeds!"

"Is that so? Well, all the more reason to bury a brave man with honor. Let's go!"

Now, with the torch in my hand, tracing the path I had once walked by touching through the dust marks, I was amazed at my luck. Even with the light on, I'd hit my head on the beams a few times, and then I'd made it more or less unscathed. However, the path was much shorter now than it had been then. Halfway down, we encountered a rescue party.

However, these six didn't come here to rescue me. They came to rescue something different.

Something that could be found with the metal detector that Dan was now carrying. He was now exploring some kind of hole, and the other squires were cheering him on with excitement.

"Cheers, eagles!"

They're good jumpers. They're so lively, aren't they?

Ironically looking at the machine lined up guys, I asked a question: "What are you doing here? A day off, you could go into town for a walk, couldn't you?"

"We decided to... to prepare for the renovation. You and Mr von Schnitze have talked so much about it."

"With a metal detector?"

The squires began to show their incomprehension, like, what's the big deal? Ah, the young ones! Who gives the boss such a reason? If I were in a worse mood, you would have been prepared from here to the evening. Marty's been going over something in her papers... by the way: "Marty, our unforgettable martial buddy! I still haven't bothered to ask - what's your full name?"

"The girl hesitated for some reason and then, glancing quickly back at the other squires she mouthed off:"

"Martisha!"

All five of the boys behind her simultaneously chanted a short "Ta-da-da-dam!" and snapped their fingers twice. Marty, like a chameleon, immediately changed her complexion from proudly pale to grimly crimson. Martisha Adams? That sounds familiar, but I can't remember where it came from.

"Dashing fellow, what nickname did the team give their martial buddy?"

"As ordered, Baron sir - that's what we call her!" Dan stood at attention with his minesweeper on guard.

"Is she angry?"

"All the time, Baron sir!"

"That's a good thing! Anger drives away unnecessary cleverness and builds character. Is that all you call her?"

Dan looked back at the line of squires, who were all making nonchalant faces, coughed, and added more quietly: "Sometimes - Buffy."

Hmm, something familiar, too. I think it's from a book of some kind. I saw something on the counter...

"Well, well. Kudos for the restraint."

"Happy to do so, sir Baron sir!"

Well, Izzy's militaristic tendencies must be kept in check, or he might train a company of King's Musketeers out of the normal fellows. What Gascon doesn't want to be a general?

"By the way, Marty - a squire's honor is his master's honor, and you certainly shouldn't be shy about how you defend it. You can have my mace if you want it, or you can take our Smartass award-winning spear. But to chase an overly free-spoken tourist with a common poker is to undermine the barony's image on the international stage."

"Guilty as charged, sir Baron! I'll do it next time."

"Kudos. Keep looking... over there and there to check the walls and the floor. What you find, turn it over to Eggie for a receipt. By the way, there are also bones from one of the previous barons. Collect them with all due honor, take them upstairs, and put them together into a whole skeleton."

The bored squires - a fun adventure turned into a job! - muttering in agreement, and Egilbert and I followed their footsteps towards the exit.

"Mr. Baron, may I ask you a question?"

"I hear you."

"Marty is a girl, after all, and you're always like this with her..."

"How? I have two daughters. I'm the same way with them. If you ignore the laws of politeness, those laws can start ignoring you. Her beliefs are her business as long as she doesn't try to influence me with them. Smart - she'll figure it out. Sociable - her friends will tell her. Limited-minded fool - she'll perish like thousands before her. Though, of course, such a bust would be a pity, and she has beautiful eyes." The old man tried to say something, but I finished: "If words mean so much to her that she pays no attention to the reality of being surrounded by all manner of support and protection, then I will do my best to make sure that during my ordeal our martial friend at least learns to distinguish shades a little. So that she understands what's what in this life. Agreed?

"Children should choose their own path in life, they have the right to make their own bumps."

"Egilbert, think back to when you were that age. You were a good kid, weren't you? Dumb, inexperienced, but imaginative and optimistic. Do you really want the choices of your life to be made by that goofball?"

"Well, Alexander, we were different after all."

"The same, the same.".

"Erm..."

"What's there to argue about?"

"A-a!"

"What is wrong with you?"

The light suddenly danced in the old man's hand, illuminating a white figure hovering in the air about ten meters away.

"No, it can't be..."

I clung tightly to his shoulder, trying to remember how to get rid of ghosts - the Lord's Prayer? Or how it was: may God arise, may his enemies... Fuck it, I'd rather use my fist!

The ghost, swaying gently, floated up to us and asked in a resounding baritone: "Where's the exit, ara?"

"Fucking hell!" I could hardly keep from punching the incomprehensible African in the face; von Schnitze stood with one hand on the wall and the other on his chest. "Egilbert, are you all right?"

"Oh... I'm fine, Alexander."

"What are you doing here?!"

"I went to the toilet, got lost."

"Go..." Egilbert and I looked at each other at the same time and pointed out: "That way!"

"Yep, go."

The African, wrapped in a shapeless white national dress, with hands, feet, and head completely invisible in the darkness, walked down the aisle. We listened with bated breath for a moment, and then we heard first a shriek of horror, then shouts of indignation, and then a noise as if six of some very frightened and angry young men were chasing after someone to give him a painful beating.

Three minutes later, two very satisfied, albeit very dirty, men came to the surface. Egilbert was off to run some errands, and I headed for the keep, contemplating the future. They're good kids, and I'll make a proper squire of them all, though I'll keep them in suspense until the last. But are they fit to be knights? Dan, or Norman, or even Marty, a knight? A warrior clad in steel, bringing justice at the tip of his sword? No, I realize the ideal is far from reality but is it worth it? And by the way, if a knight is "sir", what would a female knight be called? A lady? A quick search on the internet showed that the correct one would be 'lady'. A chivalrous lady, that's right.

Imagining Marty and comparing it to the proud 'lady'... no, it doesn't roll. 'Lady Martisha' is closer, only she seems shy of that name. And why is that? After a minute, I chuckled, finally remembering where the name came from. Poor Marty, you'll find parents who are so humorous, and you'll spend your whole life proving you had nothing to do with it!

Shit, they didn't close the door again. Yes, it's closer to the knight's hall, but the tourists will be all over the castle!

I slid the deadbolt shut and walked down the corridor to my office. So, what have I got on the estimate for the wiring and lighting renewal in the cellar? I'd better not delay, it's really necessary down there. Or should I try and caulk all the entrances? What if I fail again?

Someone stopped behind me, coughed politely, and asked:

"Can you tell me where the exit is? I think I'm lost."

"Out the door, down the stairs, second aisle to the right, and in the courtyard ask any guard to escort you." I didn't want to escort another tourist who had lagged behind the group. Yes, the castle is big, but they manage to get lost five times a day! Maybe we should put up fences? Damn, more expenses!

"Gracias, señor."

For a few seconds, I tried to figure out what was wrong, and then I turned around abruptly. The corridor behind me was empty. The door at the end was still bolted shut.

I stood still for two minutes. Then I sighed, shrugged, and moved on. The poor man was feverish, showing up in the middle of the day. Well, okay, what's an ancient castle without a ghost?

* * *

Guess what, the chief went to the bridge! Said he was going to challenge all passing knights to a fight in the name of his beautiful Lady!

Who is his lady? Frau Matilsen?

He's got a dozen of them now. They'll soon be queuing up...

from internal chat room correspondence

* * *

The police chief of Gravstein showed particular courage and zeal in rescuing the victims. Such behavior was taken for granted - this fifty-year-old father of the family had recently been knighted by his suzerain, in accordance with local custom. It sounds a bit archaic, but I think we still have a lot to learn from old Europe.

"Tourist bus crash in the north of the Federation", Daily Planet article.

* * *