"I am ready for the meeting, Ros. With deep and joyful respect, your Baroness. "
“Just great,” I muttered, running down the stairs with the bag of money on my shoulder. “Not even enough time to pick the money from the floor!”
“So let me help!” A short and unfamiliar blond gnome jumped from his chair. “With the loot!”
Without answering a humorist, I left the hotel and ran to the bank. Hoping not to be plundered along the way.
Faster, faster, faster. Some of my tasks are done, some other ones just begun. And someone is about to knock on my door - in the literal sense. Not on the virtual door, but the real one.
Who will knock?
Well, she will....
Chapter Two.
She herself.
I thought that everything would happen in a luxurious restaurant. Like in the movies. I, dressed in a suit with three buttons, will lean back in a chair Empire style, drinking a martini, and she will sit in front of me - Black Baroness, in a tight silk dress hiding so little and so much at the same time. We will look at each other over the flame of candles and slowly drink expensive champagne to moisten the parched throat and go on to the final stage of difficult negotiations.
However, everything turned out differently.
Father had resisted such a turn of events - no, he was not worried about the martini and tight silk dress, but he did not want me and Kira to leave the house. At the same time, to my great amazement – truly, great! - Father did not stamp his feet, did not issue thundering roars and insist on his own way. No. He quietly and peacefully sat us at the table, set before each of us a glass of ship tea, unthinkably sweet and strong. We took a gulp, and then he started talking, listing on his fingers all the cons and plusses of appointing a meeting outside of the home, in neutral territory.
According to his father, "your water is your own water." A native port is a native port.
Amazed by my father's peace, I nodded mechanically. He listed the options, explained the advantages and disadvantages, and voiced his opinion, after which he left the choice for me.
Ha... The world had turned over! Why ever did not I ask him to come to Valdira before!
Standing behind my, father Pal Pavlovich stroked his freshly shaven chin with his hand and waited silently, looking at the tablecloth. And he did not give the slightest hint of a clue. The choice had been left to me...
I had looked at Kira, who had just come out of the shower, her hair smelling of shampoo. I could tell by the expression on my personal paladin’s face only that she was hungry. I did not receive any special support from her, nor did I get any clues, either.
And so I looked at my father and shrugged. Nodding slowly, I said: "If you think it is better to meet here… then, here."
This concluded the discussion. The meeting place was decided. My father took the phone, and Pal Pavlovich went out into the corridor, where a few male voices soon sounded, so loud and confident that it seemed as if several polar bears were having a meeting in the corridor.
I threw a brand-new kitchen apron over my jeans and an old T-shirt and took to cooking, brushing off my father's offer to order something ready-made from a restaurant. Since we were to meet in a meagerly furnished and largely uninhabited apartment resembling a den of cyber criminals, then the refreshments must also correspond. It is silly to enjoy the taste of perfectly cooked Krabber ... ugh ... Valdira on the brain ... That is, the taste of a lobster, sitting at a simple kitchen table.
I am proud of my ability to cook. I can pull together a meal from some stale bread, spices, and one raw egg with cracked shell. Delicious crispy toast. Now I have a much greater variety of ingredients. I could cook a ton of spaghetti with a sauce of my own invention, which included a lot of tomato paste, some hot red pepper, beef, garlic, and other simple ingredients. In Italy since ancient times, Bolognese sauce is prepared this way — but of course; they did not used beef stock, nor tomato paste. Italians preferred minced meat and ripe tomatoes for their gourmet. However, we are simple people. We have a whole bunch of canned food in stock. We will use that.
Passing by, my father broke away from the phone, looked at my preparations, and suggested that I stop showing off and make some simple mac and cheese "our way, the Fleet way." I rejected the offer. Then Kira stole a piece of bread. I understood — it was hard for her to open cans of peaches and at the same time not drink the juice.
Time was short, and so I did not notice when it expired. We had managed to push together two tables and cover them with a tablecloth, put chairs around it, arrange the plates, and place the pots, decanters and bottles – alcohol was necessary. Wine and vodka together, mistrustfully glancing at each other. The cognac winked at the amaretto. I myself did not really want to drink. And nor did I believe that the rest of us would imbibe. But what did I want? I wanted them to not think us greedy. What was in the house was on the table.
The rooms with the game cocoons were securely closed. Pal Pavlovich had personally checked the doors, and for each of them, installed a strange contraption like a tightly clipped wedge. Now, if anyone did break in, at least it would make a noise. I was not going to take any chances. We secured also the computer in the hall.
In the end, I still had time to check the toilet and bathroom. Eating sauce with bread, Kira followed me with a cunning look and a mysterious, amusing snort. I did not pay attention— all my thoughts were on cooking.
The toilet was clean, everything worked, everything was there, fresh towels hung in even rows, toilet paper and napkins in abundance, and brand new soap, the smell of it bringing to mind a flowering spring garden. Kira had done well. I was about to leave when I looked at the wall next to the washing machine.
What the hell is that crap?
On the wall opposite, the toilet there had appeared a large poster. On it was the official full-color poster of the Sleepless Clan, offering beginners a chance to enter the recruits to one of the oldest and strongest clans of the world of Valdira. Not all players were guaranteed entry, but those who successfully passed a test were promising difficulties in the beginning and honor at the end of their journey. This version of the poster depicted a slender Black Baroness, tight in her black leather, standing in a beautiful pose against the background of the gloomy Barad-Gadur behind her, pressing her clenched fist to her chest. From her half-opened mouth, curls a bubble with the inscription "It will work out! Just push a bit!" The damn poster stuck to the wall opposite the toilet. Anyone who sat down would certainly see the poster and read the inscription. And he or she would try to push a bit, so that their endeavor would turn out ... Damn it!
“What the fuck?!” I barked. “Kira! Kira! What the fuck?!”
The choked laughter came from the hall, the paladin having her fun with might and main.
"It is perfect, isn’t it? Ideal! Ha-ha-ha ... You impressed?”
“Kira! And what if she saw?!”
“I was gonna take it down in advance … ha-ha-ha ... wanted to make you laugh!”
"Damn you!" - I said, trying to tear the poster from the wall.
“No censorship! Freedom of the press!”
"The guests have arrived..." and this was father's voice.
“Damn it!” I scraped the wall harder, but the poster did not yield — being glued somehow strongly, and — I noticed — laminated. “Kira, damn it! O-o-o-oh!”
At that moment, there was a loud knock. We had a doorbell, but the guest preferred to knock...
Knock-knock-knock. Knock-Knock!
"Who is there? It is me!” I hissed, clawing the edge of the poster with my fingernail and ripping it off with a crash. “Oof!”
Having thrown the damn paper into the washing machine, I smoothed my hair and rushed to the door. No one stopped me, Pal Pavlovich walked out of the way, and one of the guards did too. Everyone was watching.
After taking a couple more deep breaths, I took hold of the handle and opened the door to the guest. More like - the guests.
Be
yond the door was a girl. Or rather, a young woman. Not a tall girl, slender, black-haired, brown-eyed. Her brilliant, well-groomed hair was gathered into a thick ponytail, revealing a thin neck. Her clothing, unexpectedly democratic – a beige suit, black comfortable sneakers, a small black backpack hanging on the elbow of the left arm, on her head, a black a baseball cap, whose visor cast a thick shadow over a thin, tired face. The skin of the BB was dark, and I could bet that it was not a tan, but a color from birth. Her face seemed to be European, but it also did not. Her eyes were rather unusual. On her left cheekbone was a small mole. She looked about thirty, maybe a little more or less. The expression of her eyes, their light studying squint, and her slightly protruding, full lower lip - this was exactly the Black Baroness. Herself. She was exhausted, pale, slightly evil and beautiful. Yes. She was beautiful. More beautiful than the virtual Baroness. And even more mysterious.
Behind the girl, there were a couple more people, but I did not pay attention to them.
We stood there for at least a minute and meticulously studied each other. In detail. Rosgard and the Black Baroness from the world of Valdira appeared in the real world to consider Rostislav and ... and?
"Sia!" A pleasant voice huskily announced itself. “So here you are, Rostislav ...”
"And you, then, will be the Baroness?" I came to my senses and stepped aside. “Please! And what do you mean "Sia"?
"Hello," - said Kira. “In Hungarian.” Answering instead of the Baroness.
“Huh,” I nodded, looking at the two-meter tall guy in a black sports suit and with a large backpack on his shoulder from the bottom-up. “Sia!”
“Come on in!” The ringing voice of Kira betrayed a burning curiosity.
Following the BB into the apartment there were four more people. Two big men, moving quickly and silently. About them, a girl of about twenty-five, dressed in a strict business suit, hardly keeping her back straight because of her magnificent bust. And an official man through and through of about fifty-five, with a large bald head, a wide, hard chin, tightly pursed lips and a glance expressing the following: "I do not believe anyone" and "without a piece of paper – you are nothing." This was exactly a lawyer — his role was obvious. Two of the thugs were guards. And then - something like a personal secretary of road. The girl with the breasts. I told everyone "Sia" and everyone answered me something. In Hungarian. And I did not understand any of them.
Closing the door, I glanced toward the elevator and saw our guard, accompanied by two more guys, whose external appearance silently said: "the glory of the Navy" and "I like to give out black eyes!"
Back in the hall, I found the BB sitting on the couch next to the other girl. The security guards did not move from beside them, and the official looking man occupied the table, starting to take out thin folders from his portfolio. The portfolio was expensive- I do not understand them at all, but this one was definitely expensive, and I did not know why I knew it...
My father sat next to me, pausing to drink from a glass containing another dose of ship's tea. Catching my sight, he nodded soothingly - it meant our lawyer would arrive very soon, that we would not force the guests to wait. I left my father the choice of an experienced lawyer. He telephoned somewhere and talked with someone on the phone for a long time, speaking softly and, every now and then, casting glances at Kira and me, who were preparing an ultra-late dinner. Judging by all outward appearances, my father talked with the white shark a man – eater, I mean homemade Cerberus of the Krapivin family. My father has consulted with mom Lena. Had to squeal to my mother that dad at night calls to another woman. That will be the joy for our family... I, perhaps, this joy will not survive, because dad will rip my legs out…
Shaking my head, I rid myself of these unnecessary thoughts and again stared at the Black Baroness, sitting on my own couch. Something in her face seemed familiar and other at the same time. Something mixed. European and Asian? No. There is something else ... Some very unusual mixture.
The guest correctly interpreted my interest.
"My mother was a Hungarian gypsy,” the Black Baroness smiled gently and held out her hand to me, continuing to sit on the couch. “Do you want me to read your palm?"
I involuntarily stretched out my hand and when she took the palm of my hand, I started, and shook my head:
"Perhaps not."
“Too bad... I see there is big money. And not only...” The gaze of her brown eyes slid onto Kira, who was coming from the kitchen, carrying coffee. “You are sure you do not want a prediction?”
"Maybe later. And who is your dad?” I could not resist. ”Truly, a very unusual face. I've never seen such a mixture of blood.”
"My dad is an evil scientist," snapped the BB. "By the way. My name is Mirela. In this world.”
"It is nice to meet you," I nodded, feeling the release of tension. Everything was easier than I had expected. And it was good. I wanted speed, accuracy and simplicity. I had become fed up with difficulties and intrigues interweaving have long ago.
Squeezing the fingers of the BB, I tactfully stepped aside, letting Kira and the guests chat together. By the way - Orbit did not lie. The sports suit could not hide the lack of outlines. The Black Baroness never had problems with sleeping on her stomach. Neither in youth, nor in maturity. But I did not intend to tell her that. That would be a foul — just like the provocative poster pasted in front of the toilet. I would have to kick Kira's ears... And where was my poor daughter? Ugh ... my daughter was not in this world, no matter how strange it might sound. Again, Valdira would not leave me alone...
“As I understand it,” started the "strange" lawyer with a strong accent, spreading out the folder on the table. “As I understand it, we expect your legal adviser. I look forward to meeting with him. In the meantime, please read the documents. To avoid problems, the official contract is written in English, and it will be signed if we reach agreement, but in each folder, there are carefully translated documents into Russian and, accordingly, Hungarian. I think there is no need to remind the audience that the content of the document, as well as our meeting, is a matter of utmost confidentiality and cannot be divulged. Not in full or in part. This meeting has never happened, ladies and gentlemen.”
“He loves to escalate,” said Lady Mirela with a sweet smile.
“All parties must sign the receipt for non-disclosure.” With the push, the lawyer went on, lowering his glasses onto his nose. “This is serious. However - his gaze shifted to my father, sitting at a meter away. “However, among us there are people who perfectly understand the meaning of the words "do not divulge" and "secret."”
"They know what my father looks like and who he is" - swept through my mind. Interesting.
But I was not especially impressed. Photos of the combat admiral were not difficult to find in the world’s internet, especially since he often flickered in the frames of news articles, as when an important government person visited a warship or any special ports. Father often visited the naval elite, standing there with the whole parade. It is quite normal that the Black Baroness or one of the group gave the order to find all the photos associated with the family.
I would not have failed to look through other people's photo albums, but before this day, the BB was incognito for me. I did not even know which country she was from. And now - Hungary.
My mother was a Hungarian gypsy, and my father is an evil scientist. Yes – Mirela, about her mother, said "she was" and the expression of her eyes at these words was very pained. If I account for a possible misunderstanding, then I am sure that the mother of the Black Baroness died. Her father, however, is alive - about him recently, not once and not two mentioned, and in the present time.
Picking up one of the folders, I sat next to my father, chose the Russian version of the contract, and plunged into reading. Reading very slowly. I carefully reviewed every paragraph, every sentence. I was looking for a catch or pitfall. Something that, after signing, could put me into an unthinkably ugly position.
But I am not a hardened lawyer in this business. I am an ignoramus, actually. After I gave up, I stopped searching for snares and just started to read normally, trying to catch the gist, or the general essence.
It was something along these lines:
The Sleepless Clan, a legitimate company officially registered in the real world, wants to conclude an agreement with Rostislav Grokhotov on the matter of leading the Armada of ships of the Sleepless, and all other ships in their alliance, to the lost mainland Zar'Graad, located in the virtual gaming world of Valdira. Rostislav Grokhotov is recruited as the highest qualification of a highly specialized Navigator. The number of days of service is not taken into account - he will work until the arrival. He must obey a special schedule during the trip to the lost continent, and any failure to appear or even delay will result in huge penalties. He will convey the direction of the convoy's movement, and its coordinates, to no one – neither possible competitors, nor simple curious persons. And again, about the schedule - he will not leave his post earlier, nor can he begin his duty. In terms of all the matters relating to the general schedule of the march, he must obey the commander of the armada. In the event that, for some reason, he can no longer fulfill his duties, he must transfer the status of the Great Navigator to any of the persons indicated below, indicated by gaming aliases.
I looked at the names. Malice was among them. I do not know the rest. I continued to read.
In the event that I transfer the status of Great Navigator to any of the members of the Sleepless Clan, the agreed upon amount will be paid in full, and immediately, with lots of special bonuses and gifts from the Sleepless. At the same time, I will retain all the privileges of a member of the team and the agreed number of assigned passenger seats on the flagship.
I looked over at the Baroness - she was drinking coffee and looking over at me over the mug.
Interesting. What a cunning Hungarian gypsy ... she had hardly arrived, and already made me an offer it is almost impossible to refuse.
The Way of the Clan 8 Page 4
