Hard to Be a God

Chapter 7

He was lying on a grassy hillock and looking at the clouds drifting in the deep blue sky. He was calm and content, but a prickly, bony pain was sitting on an adjacent hillock. It was outside him and at the same time inside him, especially in his right side and the back of his head. Someone barked, “Did he croak or something? I’ll tear your heads off!” And then a mass of ice-cold water fell from the sky. He really was lying on his back and looking at the sky, except he wasn’t on a hillock but in a puddle, and the sky wasn’t blue but leaden and black, illuminated with red. “Nah,” said another voice. “His Lordship’s alive, blinking those peepers.” I’m the one who’s alive, he thought. They’re talking about me. I’m the one blinking my peepers. But why are they speaking funny? Have they forgotten how to talk like human beings?

Someone moved nearby and splashed heavily through the water. The black silhouette of a head wearing a pointed cap appeared in the sky. “Well, noble don, will you walk yourself or should we drag you?”

“Untie my legs,” Rumata said angrily, feeling a sharp pain in his swollen lips. He felt them with his tongue. Some lips, he thought. Pancakes instead of lips.

Someone fumbled at his feet, unceremoniously yanking them and moving them around. He heard low voices around him: “You got him good.”

“Had to, he almost took off… He must be charmed, arrows bounced off of him.”

“I knew a man you could take an ax to and it didn’t do nothing.”

“Musta been a peasant.”

“Uh-huh, he was.”

“That’s what did it. And this one’s noble-born.”

“Oh, stick a tail in it… Can’t do nothing with these damn knots. Some light here!”

“So use a knife.”

“Please, brothers, please, don’t untie him. He’ll start swiping at us again. He almost crushed my head as is.”

“Nah, betcha he won’t.”

“Brothers, do what you want, but I hit him real hard with that spear. I’ve pierced armor like that.”

An imperious voice shouted from the darkness: “Hey, you almost finished?”

Rumata felt that his legs were free, tensed his muscles, and sat up. A few squat storm troopers were silently watching him squirm in the puddle. Rumata gritted his teeth in shame and humiliation. He wriggled his shoulder blades; his hands were twisted behind his back, in such a way that he couldn’t even tell his elbows from his wrists. He mustered all his strength, jerked himself up to his feet, and was immediately twisted by the terrible pain in his side. The storm troopers laughed.

“Betcha he won’t run away,” said one.

“Yeah, His Lordship’s a bit tired, stick a tail in it.”

“Come on, Don, not enjoying yourself?”

“Enough prattle,” said the imperious voice from the darkness. “Come here, Don Rumata.”

Rumata walked toward the voice, feeling himself tottering from side to side. A little man with a torch appeared out of somewhere and went ahead of him. Rumata recognized this place: it was one of the countless interior courtyards of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown, somewhere near the royal stables. He quickly realized, If they take me to the right, that means the tower, the dungeon. If they take me to the left, that means the office. He shook his head. It’s OK, he thought. While I’m alive, I can still fight.

They turned left. Not right away, thought Rumata. There will be a preliminary investigation. That’s strange. If it comes down to an investigation, what can they accuse me of? I guess that’s easy. Inviting the poisoner Budach, poisoning the king, plotting against the crown. Possibly murdering the prince. And, of course, spying for Irukan, Soan, the barbarians, the barons, the Holy Order, and so on, so forth. It’s simply astonishing that I’m still alive. The pale fungus must be plotting something else.

“Over here,” said the man with the imperious voice.

He opened a low door, and Rumata crouched down and entered a spacious room lit by a dozen lamps. There were tied-up, bloodied people sitting and lying down in the middle of a threadbare carpet. A few of them were either already dead or unconscious. Practically all of them were barefoot, in tattered nightshirts. Red-faced troopers, savage and self-satisfied, were standing along the walls, casually leaning on their axes and poleaxes—the champions of the night. An officer holding a sword, his hands behind his back, was pacing back and forth in front of them, wearing a gray uniform with an extremely greasy collar. Rumata’s escort, a tall man in a dark cloak, approached the officer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded, looked curiously at Rumata, and disappeared behind the colorful curtains at the opposite end of the room.

The storm troopers were examining Rumata curiously. One of them, with an eye swollen shut, said, “A nice rock on the don!”

“That’s some rock,” another one agreed. “Fit for a king. And the circlet’s solid gold.”

“We’re all kings today.”

“So let’s take it?”

“Enough!” the man in the black cloak said quietly.

The storm troopers stared at him, bewildered.

“Who’s this come to pester us?” said the swollen-eyed storm trooper.

The man in the cloak turned around without answering, walked over to Rumata, and stood by his side.

The storm troopers looked him up and down with hostile eyes.

“A priest, huh?” the swollen-eyed storm trooper said. “Hey, Friar, your robe on fire?”

The storm troopers guffawed. The swollen-eyed storm trooper spat on his hands, tossing his ax from one hand to the other, and moved toward Rumata. He’s really going to get it now, thought Rumata, slowly drawing back his right foot.

“Who I’ve always beaten up,” the storm trooper continued, stopping in front of him and examining the man in black, “it’s priests, literates of any kind, and toolsmen. Once I—”

The man in the cloak raised his hand, palm up. A loud snap came from just below the ceiling. Bzzzz! The swollen-eyed storm trooper dropped his ax and fell onto his back. A short, thick crossbow bolt with dense feathering protruded from the middle of his forehead. The room went quiet. The storm troopers backed away, nervously eyeing the vents beneath the ceiling. The man in the cloak lowered his hand and ordered, “Remove the carcass, quickly!”

Several storm troopers dashed forward, grabbed the dead man by his hands and feet, and dragged him away. A gray officer emerged from behind the curtains and waved invitingly.

“Let’s go, Don Rumata,” said the man in the cloak.

Rumata walked toward the curtains, going around the group of prisoners. I don’t understand a thing, he thought. In the darkness behind the curtains they grabbed him, searched him, tore the empty scabbards off his belt, and then pushed him into the light.

Rumata immediately realized where he’d been taken. He was in Don Reba’s familiar office in the lilac quarters. Don Reba was sitting in the same place and in exactly the same position, tensely upright, his elbows on the desk and his fingers interlaced. You know, the old man has hemorrhoids, Rumata suddenly thought with pity. On Don Reba’s right side, Father Zupic sat in state—pompous, concentrated, with pursed lips; on his left side, there was a genially smiling fat man with captain’s stripes on his gray uniform. There was no one else in the office.

When Rumata entered, Don Reba said, quietly and affectionately, “And here, my friends, is the noble Don Rumata.”

Father Zupic grimaced contemptuously, while the fat man nodded graciously.

“Our old and rather constant foe,” said Don Reba.

“Foes get hanged,” Father Zupic rasped.

“And what is your opinion, Brother Aba?” asked Don Reba, helpfully leaning toward the fat man.

“You know… somehow I don’t even…” Brother Aba gave an uncertain, childlike smile, spreading his pudgy little hands. “You know, somehow I don’t care. But maybe we shouldn’t hang him? Maybe we should burn him, what do you think, Don Reba?”

“Yes, probably,” Don Reba said pensively.

“You see,” the enchanting Brother Aba continued, smiling affectionately at Rumata, “we hang the trash, the small fry. And we must maintain the people’s respect for the social classes. After all, he’s a scion of an ancient family, a noted Irukanian spy—it’s Irukanian, if I’m not mistaken?” He grabbed a piece of paper off the desk and peered at it with nearsighted eyes. “Oh, and Soanian too. Even more so!”

“So let’s burn him,” Father Zupic agreed.

“Very well,” said Don Reba. “Agreed. We’ll burn him.”

“However, I think Don Rumata can improve his own lot,” Brother Aba said. “You see what I’m saying, Don Reba?”

“I have to admit, not exactly.”

“The property! My dear noble don, the property! The Rumatas are a fabulously rich family!”

“You are right, as always,” Don Reba said.

Father Zupic yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, and glanced at the lilac curtains to the right of the table.

“Well, let us then begin in due form,” Don Reba said with a sigh.

Father Zupic kept glancing at the lilac curtains. He was clearly waiting for something and was completely uninterested in the proceedings. What are they playing at? thought Rumata. What does this mean?

“Well, my noble don,” Don Reba said, addressing Rumata, “it would be extremely gratifying to have you answer a number of questions of interest to us.”

“Untie my hands,” said Rumata.

Father Zupic recoiled and dubiously moved his lips. Brother Aba frantically shook his head.

“Oh?” Don Reba said and first looked at Brother Aba, then at Father Zupic. “I understand you, my friends. However, under the circumstances, which Don Rumata probably suspects…” He gave an expressive look at the rows of vents beneath the ceiling. “Untie his hands,” he said, without raising his voice.

Someone silently came up behind him. Rumata felt someone’s strangely soft, dexterous fingers touch his hands, and he heard the ropes creak as they were being cut. Brother Aba, with surprising agility for his bulk, took a huge combat crossbow out from underneath the desk and placed it on the papers in front of him. Rumata’s hands dangled at his sides like whips. He almost couldn’t feel them.

“Let us begin,” Don Reba said briskly. “Your name, family, station?”

“Rumata, from the family of the Rumatas of Estor. A noble gentleman through twenty-two generations.”

Rumata looked around, sat down on the sofa, and began to massage his wrists. Brother Aba, breathing anxiously through his nose, aimed the crossbow at him. “Your father?”

“My noble father was an imperial advisor, loyal servant, and faithful friend of the emperor.”

“Is he alive?”

“He’s dead.”

“How long?”

“Eleven years.”

“How old are you?”

Rumata didn’t have the time to answer. There was a noise behind the lilac curtains. Brother Aba looked around, displeased.

Father Zupic, smiling ominously, slowly stood up. “Well, that’s all, my dear sirs!” he began, cheerfully and maliciously.

Three people Rumata least expected to see here jumped out from behind the curtains. They were enormous monks in black cassocks with hoods pulled down over their eyes. They swiftly and silently ran up to Father Zupic and took him by the elbows.

“Ah… b-bu—” mumbled Father Zupic. His face had turned ashen. He had clearly been expecting something completely different.

“With your permission, Brother Aba?” Don Reba inquired calmly, bending down toward the fat man.

“But of course!” he replied emphatically. “Certainly!”

Don Reba made a slight motion with his hand. The monks picked up Father Zupic and, moving just as noiselessly as before, took him away behind the curtains. Rumata winced in disgust. Brother Aba rubbed his soft little paws together and said briskly, “Everything went marvelously, don’t you think, Don Reba?”

“Yes, it wasn’t bad,” Don Reba agreed. “But let us continue. Well, how old are you, Don Rumata?”

“Thirty-five.”

“When did you arrive in Arkanar?”

“Five years ago.”

“From where?”

“I was previously living in Estor, at the family castle.”

“And what was the purpose of your relocation?”

“Unfortunate circumstances forced me to leave Estor. I was searching for a capital that could compare in splendor to the capital of the metropole.”

Fiery prickles finally started running up and down his arms. Rumata continued to patiently and persistently massage his swollen wrists. “Do tell us, what were these circumstances?” asked Don Reba.

“I killed a member of a most august family in a duel.”

“Is that so? Who was it?”

“The young Duke Ekin.”

“And the reason for the duel?”

“A woman,” Rumata said curtly.

He began to suspect that all these questions didn’t mean anything. This is a game, he thought, just like the discussion of the method of execution. I’m waiting until my hands recover. Brother Aba, the fool, is waiting for the gold from Don Rumata’s ancestral treasury to pour into his lap. Don Reba is also waiting for something. But the monks, the monks! Why are there monks in the palace? Especially such skillful and energetic ones?

“The woman s name?”

The questions he asks, thought Rumata. They couldn’t be any stupider. Let me try to wake them up a bit. “Doña Rita,” he answered.

“I didn’t expect you to answer. Much obliged.”

“I’m always ready to be of service.”

Don Reba bowed. “Have you ever been to Irukan?”

“No”.

“Are you certain?”

“You are certain of it too.”

“We want the truth!” Don Reba demanded. Brother Aba nodded. “And nothing but the truth!”

“Aha,” said Rumata. “And here I thought…” He paused.

“What did you think?”

“I thought you mostly wanted to get your hands on my ancestral property. I simply can’t imagine, Don Reba, in what way you hope to get it.”

“What about a deed of gift? A deed of gift?” Brother Aba cried out.

Rumata laughed as derisively as possible. “You’re a fool, ‘Brother Aba,’ if that’s what you’re called. I could immediately tell that you’re a shopkeeper. Are you not aware that an entailed estate cannot be transferred into the hands of a stranger?”

He could see that Brother Aba was completely furious but restraining himself.

“You shouldn’t speak in that tone,” Don Reba said gently.

“You wanted the truth?” Rumata countered. “Here’s the truth, the real truth, and nothing but the truth: Brother Aba is a nitwit and a shopkeeper.”

However, Brother Aba had already regained control of himself. “I believe we’ve digressed,” he said with a smile. “What do you think, Don Reba?”

“You are right, as always,” said Don Reba. “Noble don, have you ever been to Soan?”

“I’ve been to Soan.”

“For what purpose?”

“To visit the Academy of Science.”

“A strange purpose for a man of your rank.”

“A whim.”

“And are you familiar with the chief justice of Soan, Don Condor?”

Rumata became wary. “He is a very old friend of my family.”

“A most noble man, is he not?”

“A very respectable person.”

“And are you aware that Don Condor was involved in the plot against His Majesty?”

Rumata jutted out his chin. “Get it into your head, Don Reba,” he said arrogantly. “For us, the hereditary nobility of the metropole, all these Soans and Irukans, and even Arkanars, were and will always remain vassals of the imperial crown.” He crossed his legs and turned away.

Don Reba was looking at him thoughtfully. “Are you rich?”

“I could buy all of Arkanar, but I’m not interested in garbage dumps.”

Don Reba sighed. “My heart is bleeding,” he said. “To cut down such a glorious offspring of such a glorious family! It would be a crime, if it were not brought about by the exigencies of state.”

“Think less about the exigencies of state,” Rumata said, “and more about your own hide.”

“You’re right,” Don Reba said, then snapped his fingers.

Rumata quickly clenched and unclenched his muscles. His body seemed to be working. Three monks again jumped out from behind the curtains. With the same elusive speed and accuracy, indicating vast experience, they formed a circle around Brother Aba, who was still smiling sweetly, grabbed him, and bent his hands behind his back.

“Ow-ow-ow-ow!” shrieked Father Aba. His fat face contorted in pain.

“Quick, quick, hurry up!” Don Reba said with distaste.

The fat man resisted frantically as he was dragged behind the curtains. They could hear him screaming and yelping, then he suddenly shrieked in a horrible, unrecognizable voice and immediately went silent. Don Reba stood up and carefully unloaded Father Aba’s crossbow. Rumata watched him, stunned.

Don Reba paced up and down the room, pensively scratching his back with a crossbow bolt. “Good, good,” he mumbled almost tenderly. “Charming!” He seemed to have forgotten about Rumata. His steps kept getting quicker and quicker; he waved the bolt like a conductor’s baton as he walked. Then he suddenly stopped abruptly at the desk, tossed the bolt away, gingerly sat down, and said, smiling from ear to ear: “How I got them, huh? Not a peep! They can’t do that where you come from, I think.”

Rumata was silent.

“Yes…” Don Reba intoned dreamily. “Good! Well, now let us talk, Don Rumata. Or maybe it’s not Rumata? Maybe you’re not even a don? Hmm?”

Rumata was silent, examining him curiously. Pale-skinned, with red veins on his nose, whole body shaking with excitement—he just wants to shout, clapping his hands, “I know! I know!” And you don’t know a thing, you son of a bitch. And if you find out, you won’t believe it. Well, go on, go on, I’m listening. “I’m listening to you,” he said.

“You’re not Don Rumata,” Don Reba announced. “You’re an impostor.” He looked at Rumata, a severe expression on his face. “Rumata of Estor died five years ago and is lying in his family’s vault. And the saints have long since laid to rest his rebellious and, frankly, not particularly pure soul. Well, will you confess on your own, or do you need some help?”

“I’ll confess,” said Rumata. “My name is Rumata of Estor, and I’m not accustomed to having my words doubted.” Let me try to make you a little angry, he thought. My side hurts, or I’d lead you on a merry chase.

“I see that we will have to continue the conversation elsewhere,” Don Reba said ominously.

His face was undergoing extraordinary changes. Gone was the pleasant smile, his lips had compressed into a hard line. The skin on his forehead was moving in a strange and eerie way.

Yes, thought Rumata, he really can be frightening. “Is it true that you have hemorrhoids?” Rumata asked solicitously.

Something flickered in Don Reba’s eyes, but his facial expression didn’t change. He pretended not to hear.

“You used Budach badly. He’s a real master,” Rumata said. “At least he was,” he added significantly.

Something flickered in the faded eyes again.

Aha, thought Rumata, Budach must still be alive. He sat back and wrapped his arms around one knee.

“Thus, you refuse to confess,” said Don Reba.

“To what?”

“To being an impostor.”

“Honorable Reba,” Rumata admonished, “such things need to be proved. You’re insulting me!”

Don Reba’s expression turned cloying. “My dear Don Rumata,” he said. “Forgive me, I will keep calling you by that name for the time being. Anyway, I usually don’t prove a thing. They prove things elsewhere, in the Merry Tower. For this purpose, I keep experienced, well-paid professionals, who are capable of using Holy Míca’s Meat Grinder, the Greaves of Our Lord, the Gloves of the Great Martyr Pata, or, say, the Benches… uhhh… I’m sorry, the Chairs of Totz the Warrior to prove anything whatsoever. That God exists and that God doesn’t exist. That people walk on their hands and people walk on their sides. Do you see what I’m saying? You may not be aware of this, but there’s a whole science devoted to obtaining proofs. Judge for yourself: why would I prove what I already know? And after all, a confession isn’t dangerous for you.”

“It’s not dangerous for me,” said Rumata. “It’s dangerous for you.”

Don Reba pondered for some time. “All right,” he said. “It appears I’ll have to start after all. Let’s see what Don Rumata of Estor has been observed doing in the five years of his afterlife in the Arkanarian kingdom. And then you will explain to me the meaning of it all. Agreed?”

“I don’t want to make any rash promises,” Rumata said, “but I’m interested in hearing you out.”

Don Reba rummaged in his desk, pulled out a square of thick paper, and, raising his eyebrows, scanned it. “Let it be known to you,” he said, smiling amiably, “let it be known to you that I, the Minister of the Defense of the Arkanarian Crown, undertook certain actions against the so-called bookworms, scientists, and other worthless people detrimental to the state. These actions met with some strange resistance. At the same time as the whole nation acted in concert and, remaining faithful to the king and the Arkanarian traditions, helped me in any way possible—betrayed the hidden, meted out their own justice, directed me to suspicious characters that had escaped my attention—at this same time, some unknown but highly energetic person snatched the most important, most inveterate and abominable criminals from under our noses and then sent them outside the kingdom. In this way, the following people slipped through our fingers: the godless astrologer Bagheer of Kissen; the criminal alchemist Sinda, who had been proven to have dallied with the devil and with the Irukanian regime; the vile pamphleteer and disturber of the peace Zuren; and a number of others of lower rank. The crazy sorcerer and mechanic Cabani disappeared somewhere. Someone spent a fortune in gold to prevent the people’s wrath from being carried out against the godforsaken spies and poisoners, the former healers of His Majesty. Under truly fantastical circumstances, forcing one to again recall the enemy of the human race, someone liberated the monster of depravity and corrupter of men’s souls, the leader of the peasant revolt Arata the Hunchback…” Don Reba stopped and, moving the skin on his forehead, looked at Rumata significantly. Rumata, looking up at the ceiling, smiled dreamily. He had abducted Arata the Hunchback by coming for him in a helicopter. This had made a stupendous impression on the guards. On Arata, too, to be honest. That really was well done, he thought. I have done good work.

“Let it be known to you,” Don Reba continued, “that the said Arata is now personally leading the mutinous slaves through the eastern areas of the metropole, spilling an abundance of noble blood, experiencing no shortage of either money or weapons.”

“I can easily believe it,” Rumata said. “He immediately struck me as a very determined man.”

“So you confess?” Don Reba said immediately.

“To what?” Rumata asked in surprise.

They looked each other in the eye for some time.

“I will go on,” said Don Reba. “The rescue of these corrupters of souls cost you, Don Rumata, according to my humble and incomplete estimates, no less than one hundred pounds of gold. I won’t mention the fact that in doing so you have forever polluted yourself by consorting with the devil. I also won’t mention the fact that for the entirety of your stay in the Arkanarian kingdom you haven’t received a single penny from your estate in Estor, and why should you have? Why send a dead man money, even if he’s family? But your gold!”

He opened a jewelry box that was buried beneath the paper on the desk and extracted from it a handful of gold coins with the profile of Pitz the Sixth.

“This gold itself would be enough to burn you at the stake!” he shrieked. “This is the devil’s gold! Human hands are incapable of producing metal of such purity!”

He was glaring at Rumata. Yes, thought Rumata generously, that’s well done. That’s something we probably should’ve thought of. And he’s probably the first to notice. We must take that into account.

Reba suddenly calmed down again. Sympathetic paternal notes came into his voice. “And you’ve always been so very imprudent, Don Rumata. This entire time, I’ve been so worried about you. Such a duelist, such a troublemaker! A hundred and twenty-six duels over five years! And not a single man killed. Someone could eventually draw conclusions from that. I did, for example. And I wasn’t the only one. For example, tonight, Brother Aba… it isn’t nice to speak ill of the dead, but he was a very cruel man. I found it difficult to tolerate him, I admit. Anyway, for your arrest Brother Aba chose not the most capable fighters but the fattest and the strongest. And he turned out to be right. A few dislocated arms, a few crushed necks, missing teeth are no concern… and here you are! And you must have known that you were fighting for your life. You’re a master. You’re doubtlessly the best swordsman of the empire. You have doubtlessly sold your soul to the devil, for it is only in hell that you could have learned these incredible, fabulous methods of battle. I’m even ready to allow that you got this ability under the condition that you do not kill. Although it’s hard to imagine why the devil would impose such a condition. But let our scholars figure that out—”

He was interrupted by a shrill, piglike squeal and glanced at the lilac curtains, displeased. There was a fight behind the curtains. They could hear dull blows, shrieks of “Let me go! Let me go!” and other hoarse voices, swearing, and exclamations in a strange dialect. Then a curtain snapped off and fell on the floor. Some man burst into the office, collapsing onto all fours—he was bald, with a bloodied chin and wildly bulging eyes. Huge paws reached out from behind the curtain, grabbed the man’s legs, and pulled him back. Rumata recognized him as Budach. He was shrieking wildly: “You lied to me! You lied to me! It was poison! Why?”

He was dragged into the darkness. A man in black quickly picked up and hung the curtain. Silence fell, then a disgusting noise came from behind the curtains—someone was retching. Rumata understood.

“Where’s Budach?” he asked sharply.

“As you can see, some misfortune seems to have befallen him,” Don Reba answered, but it was evident that he was caught off guard.

“Don’t even try it,” said Rumata. “Where’s Budach?”

“Oh, Don Rumata,” Don Reba said, shaking his head. He had already recovered. “What do you want Budach for? What is he, related to you? You’ve never even seen him.”

“Listen, Reba!” Rumata said furiously. “I’m not kidding around! If anything happens to Budach, you’ll die like a dog. I’ll crush you.”

“You won’t have enough time,” Don Reba said quickly. He was very pale.

“You’re a fool, Reba. You’re an experienced schemer, but you don’t understand a thing. Never in your life have you played a game as dangerous as this one. And you don’t even know it.”

Don Reba cowered behind the desk, his eyes glowing like embers. Rumata felt that he had also never been this close to death. They were laying their cards on the table. Soon they would know who was to be the master in this game. Rumata tensed his muscles, getting ready to leap.

No weapon, neither spear nor arrow, kills instantly—you could clearly read this thought on Don Reba’s face. The hemorrhoidal old man wanted to live. “Now, don’t be like that,” he whined. “We were just sitting around, talking… Your Budach’s alive, don’t worry, alive and well. He was still going to treat me. No need to overreact.”

“Where’s Budach?”

“In the Merry Tower.”

“I need him.”

“I need him, too, Don Rumata.”

“Listen, Reba,” Rumata said. “Don’t make me angry. And stop pretending. You’re afraid of me. And rightly so. Budach belongs to me, understand? To me!”

They had now both stood up. Reba was terrible. He had turned blue, his lips were twitching convulsively, he was mumbling and sputtering. “Whippersnapper!” he hissed. “I’m not afraid of anyone. I’m the one who could crush you like a bug!”

He suddenly turned around and pulled back a tapestry hanging behind his back. There was a wide window behind it.

“Look!”

Rumata went to the window. It faced the square in front of the palace. Dawn was approaching. The smoke from the fires rose into the gray sky. The square was littered with corpses. And a motionless black rectangle stood at its center. Rumata looked closer. These were horsemen, standing in an improbably precise formation—in long black cloaks, black hoods hiding their eyes, with black triangular shields on their left hands and long pikes in their right hands.

“I present to you!” Don Reba said in a clanging voice. His whole body was shaking. “The humble men of our Lord, the cavalry of the Holy Order. They landed tonight at the Port of Arkanar to suppress the barbaric rebellion of the night tramps of Waga the Wheel, in league with some swollen-headed shopkeepers! The rebellion has been suppressed. The Holy Order now has control of the city and country, which will henceforth be known as the Arkanarian Region of the Order.”

Rumata involuntarily scratched his head. I’ll be damned, he thought. So that’s who the unhappy shopkeepers were paving the way for. Quite the provocation! Don Reba was grinning triumphantly.

“We have not met yet,” he continued in the same clanging voice. “Let me introduce to you the Holy Order’s governor for the Arkanarian Region, bishop and battle master, the servant of God, Reba!”

You know, I could have guessed, thought Rumata. Wherever grayness triumphs, black robes come to power. Oh, historians, stick a tail in all of you… But he put his hands behind his back and rocked from toe to heel. “Right now I’m tired,” he said disdainfully. “I want to sleep. I want to take a hot bath and wash off the blood and saliva of your thugs. Tomorrow… actually, today… let’s say an hour after sunrise, I’ll come back to your office. By this time, the order for Budach’s release should be ready.”

“There are twenty thousand of them!” Don Reba shouted, pointing at the window.

Rumata winced. “A little quieter, please,” he said. “And remember, Reba, I know very well that you’re no bishop. You’re just a filthy traitor and an incompetent petty schemer.” Don Reba licked his lips, his eyes glazed over. Rumata continued. “I have no mercy. Any vile thing you do to me or my friends will cost you your head. Bear in mind, I hate you. I am willing to put up with you, but you will have to learn how to get out of my way in time. Do you understand me?”

Don Reba said hurriedly, with a pleading smile, “I want only one thing. I want you to be on my side, Don Rumata. I can’t kill you. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

“You’re afraid,” said Rumata.

“I’m afraid,” Don Reba agreed. “Maybe you’re the devil. Maybe you’re the son of God. Who knows? Or maybe you’re a man from the powerful countries overseas—they say those do exist. I don’t even try to gaze into the abyss that brought you forth. My head spins and I fall into heresy. But I can kill you too. Any time. Right now. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Do you understand that?”

“I’m not interested in that,” Rumata said.

“Then what? What are you interested in?”

“I’m not interested in anything in particular,” Rumata said. “I’m having a good time. I’m neither the devil nor God, I’m Rumata of Estor, a merry noble gentleman, burdened with various whims and prejudices, and accustomed to freedom in every way. Can you remember that?”

Don Reba had already regained his composure. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and smiled pleasantly. “I value your determination,” he said. “After all, you also aspire to certain ideals. And I respect these ideals, even though I don’t understand them. I’m very glad that we’ve had this talk. It’s possible that some day, you will describe your views to me, and it’s entirely possible that you will force me to reconsider my own. People are prone to making mistakes. Perhaps I’m wrong and the goals I aspire to are not the ones worthy of the diligent and selfless work I’ve been doing. I’m an open-minded man, and I can easily imagine that one day I will work with you side by side.”

“We’ll see,” Rumata said, then walked toward the door. What a slug! he thought. Some colleague. Side by side…

The city had been stricken by intolerable terror. The reddish morning sun shone down grimly on the empty streets, smoldering ruins, torn-off shutters, and broken-down doors. Shards of glass glittered in the dust, crimson from the dawn. Hordes of uncountable crows had descended on the city as if on an empty field. Groups of two and three horsemen in black hung around the squares and intersections—slowly turning their whole bodies in the saddle, peering through the slits in the hoods pulled low over their eyes. Charred bodies were hanging from hastily erected posts over extinguished coals. It was as if there was no one left alive in the city—only the shrieking crows and the businesslike murderers in black.

Half the time, Rumata was walking with his eyes closed. He was suffocating, his battered body aching painfully. Are they people or are they not? Is there anything human about them? Some get slaughtered in the streets, while others sit at home and meekly wait their turn. And everyone is thinking, Let it be anyone but me. The cold-blooded brutality of those who slaughter, and the cold-blooded meekness of those who are slaughtered. The cold-bloodedness, that’s the worst thing. Ten people stand around, transfixed with horror, and meekly wait, while another one comes by, picks his victim, and cold-bloodedly slaughters him. These people’s souls are full of rot, and each hour of meek waiting contaminates them even more. This very moment, these silent houses are invisibly breeding rascals, informers, and murderers, thousands of people who will remain stricken by fear their whole lives, and who will mercilessly teach fear to their children and the children of their children. A little longer and I’ll go insane and become just like them; a little longer and I’ll no longer have any idea what I’m doing here. I need to rest, get away from all this, calm down…

At the end of the Year of Water—such and such a year by the new calendar—the centrifugal processes in the ancient empire became relevant. Taking advantage of this, the Holy Order, essentially representing the interests of the most reactionary groups of feudal society, who desired to stop the disintegration by any means necessary… And do you know how the burning corpses on the posts smell? And have you ever seen a naked woman with her stomach ripped open lying in the dust of the street? And have you seen a city in which all the men are silent, and only the crows scream? You, the still unborn boys and girls in front of the educational stereovisor in the schools of the Arkanarian Communist Republic?

He bumped into something hard and sharp with his chest. A black-robed horseman was in front of him. A long spear with a broad, carefully serrated blade was resting against Rumata’s torso. The horseman was silently looking at him from the dark recesses of his hood. The only thing visible under the hood was a thin-lipped mouth with a small chin. I have to do something, thought Rumata. But what? Knock him off his horse? No. The horseman started slowly drawing back the spear to strike. Oh, yes! Rumata listlessly raised his left hand and pulled back his sleeve, showing the iron bracelet he was given when he left the palace. The horseman looked closer, raised his spear, and rode past. “In the name of the Lord,” he said in a muffled voice with a strange accent.

“In His name,” Rumata muttered and kept going, walking past another horseman, who was trying to use his spear to reach an expertly carved wooden figure of a merry imp sticking out below the eaves of the roof. A horror-stricken fat face flickered behind the partially torn off shutter on the second floor—this must have been one of the shopkeepers who only three days ago were rapturously shouting “Hurray for Don Reba” over their beer and listening to the thump, thump, thump of the hobnailed boots on the pavement with delight. Oh, the grayness, the grayness… Rumata turned away.

And how are things at home? he suddenly wondered. He quickened his pace, almost running the entire last block. The house was still standing. Two monks were sitting on the front steps; they had thrown their hoods back and were showing their carelessly shaved heads to the sun. They stood up when they saw him. “In the name of the Lord,” they said in unison.

“In His name,” responded Rumata. “What is your business here?”

The monks bowed, crossing their arms on their stomachs. “You’re here, so we’re leaving,” one of them said. They walked down the steps and slowly plodded away, hunching and stuffing their hands into their sleeves. Rumata followed them with his eyes and remembered the thousands of times he had seen these meek figures in long black robes in the streets. Only before, they didn’t have the scabbards of extremely heavy swords dragging behind them in the dust. We messed up, oh, how we messed up! he thought. It had been quite the sport for the noble dons—sidling up to a monk who was plodding alone, and telling each other naughty stories over his head. And I, the idiot, would pretend to be drunk and trail behind them, roaring with laughter, and was so happy that the empire was at least not prone to religious fanaticism. But what could we have done? Yes, what could we have done?

“Who’s there?” a quavering voice asked.

“Open up, Muga, it’s me,” Rumata said softly.

The bars rattled, the door cracked open, and Rumata squeezed into the entrance hall. Everything here was as usual, and Rumata gave a sigh of relief. Old, gray-haired Muga, nodding his head, reached for Rumata’s helmet and swords with his usual deference.

“How’s Kira?” Rumata asked.

“Kira’s upstairs,” said Muga. “She fine.”

“Excellent,” Rumata said, stepping out of his sword slings. “And where’s Uno? Why isn’t he greeting me?”

Muga took the sword. “Uno was killed,” he said calmly. “He lies in the servants’ quarters.”

Rumata closed his eyes. “Uno was killed…” he repeated. “Who killed him?”

Without waiting for an answer, he went into the servants’ quarters. Uno was lying on the table, a sheet covering him up to his waist; his arms were folded across his chest, his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was twisted in a grimace. Downcast servants were standing around the table and listening to a monk mumbling in the corner. The cook was sobbing. Rumata, not taking his eyes off the boy’s face, started unbuttoning the collar of his waistcoat with clumsy fingers.

“Bastards,” he said. “Everyone is such a bastard!”

He tottered, came closer to the table, looked into the dead eyes, lifted the sheet, and immediately put it back down.

“Yes, it’s too late,” he said. “Too late… It’s hopeless. Oh, those bastards! Who killed him? The monks?”

He turned toward the monk, yanked him up and bent over his face.

“Who killed him?” he demanded. “Was it you? Tell me!”

“It wasn’t the monks,” Muga said quietly behind his back. “It was the gray soldiers.”

Rumata spent a while longer peering into the monk’s thin face, into his slowly expanding pupils. “In the name of the Lord…” wheezed the monk. Rumata let him go, sat down on the bench at Uno’s feet, and started to cry. He cried, covering his face with his hands, and listened to Muga’s quavering, indifferent voice. Muga was telling him how after the second night watch, someone knocked on the door in the name of the king, and Uno shouted not to let them in, but then they did have to let them in, because the grays were threatening to burn down the house. They burst into the hall, beat up the servants and tied them up, and then started climbing the stairs. Uno, who was standing by the entrance to his chambers, started firing his crossbows. He had two crossbows, and he managed to fire twice, but he missed once. The gray soldiers threw their knives, and Uno fell. They dragged him downstairs and started trampling him with their feet and beating him with their axes, but then the black monks entered the house. They hacked the two gray soldiers to death and disarmed the rest, put nooses around their necks, and dragged them out onto the street.

Muga’s voice fell silent, but Rumata kept sitting there for a long time, resting his elbows on the table at Uno’s feet. Then he rose heavily, wiped off the tears stuck in his two-day stubble with his sleeve, kissed the boy’s icy forehead, and, barely able to move his legs, plodded upstairs.

He was half-dead from shock and exhaustion. After somehow managing to clamber up the stairs, he walked through the living room, made his way to the bed, and with a moan, collapsed facedown into the pillows. Kira came running. Rumata was so worn out that he didn’t even help her undress him. She pulled off his boots, then, crying over his swollen face, tore off his tattered coat and metalstrom shirt, then cried some more over his battered body. Only now did he feel that all his bones hurt, like after high-gravity training. Kira was rubbing him down with a vinegar-soaked sponge and he, without opening his eyes, hissed through closed lips and muttered, “And I could have killed him… I was right next to him… Could have squashed him with two fingers… Is this life, Kira? Let’s leave this place… This Experiment is on me, not on them.” He didn’t even notice that he spoke Russian. Kira kept looking at him fearfully, with eyes that were glassy from tears, and only silently kissed his cheeks. Then she covered him with threadbare sheets—Uno never did manage to buy new ones—and ran downstairs to make him some mulled wine. He crawled out of bed and, groaning from the all-consuming pain, shuffled barefoot into his study, opened a secret drawer in his desk, rummaged in the first-aid kit, and took a few sporamin pills. When Kira came back with a steaming teapot on a heavy silver tray, he was lying on his back and listening to the pain receding, the noise quieting down in his head, and his body filling with renewed strength and vigor. After finishing the teapot, he felt completely well, called Muga, and ordered him to prepare his clothes.

“Don’t go, Rumata,” Kira said. “Don’t go. Stay home.”

“I have to, little one.”

“I’m scared. Please stay. They’ll kill you.”

“Now, now. Why in the world would they kill me? They are all afraid of me.”

She began to weep again. She was weeping quietly, timidly, as if she was afraid he’d be angry. Rumata sat her down on his knees and started stroking her hair.

“The worst is over,” he said. “And when this is all done, we’ll leave this place.”

She quieted down, clinging to him. Muga, nodding his head, stood nearby, looking indifferent, holding the master’s pants with little gold bells at the ready.

“But first, there’s a lot to do here,” continued Rumata. “There were many killed last night. I need to find out who survived and who was killed. And I need to help save the ones they are planning to kill.”

“And who will help you?”

“Happy is the man who thinks of others. Besides, you and I are being helped by powerful men.”

“I can’t think of others,” she said. “You came back barely alive. I can tell you were beaten. And they killed Uno outright. What were your powerful men doing? Why didn’t they stop the killing? I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you.”

She tried to get away, but he held her tight. “What can we do?” he asked. “This time they were a little late. But they are now watching us and protecting us again. Why don’t you believe me today? You’ve always believed me before. You’ve seen it yourself: I came back barely alive, and look at me now!”

“I don’t want to look,” she said, hiding her face. “I don’t want to cry again.”

“There! Just a few scratches! It’s nothing. The worst is over. At least for you and me. But there are very good, wonderful people for whom this horror hasn’t ended yet. And I have to save them.”

Kira took a deep breath, kissed Rumata’s neck, and gently freed herself. “Come back tonight,” she said. “Please come back?”

“Of course!” he said fervently. “I’ll come back earlier, probably not alone. Expect me for dinner.”

She stepped aside, sat down in a chair, and putting her hands in her lap, watched him get dressed. Rumata, mumbling Russian words, pulled on the pants with the little bells (Muga immediately crouched down in front of him and started to fasten the numerous buckles and buttons), put the now-blessed chain mail over a clean undershirt, and finally said in despair, “Little one, please understand, I have to go—what can I do? I have no choice!”

Kira suddenly said pensively, “Sometimes I can’t understand why you don’t hit me.”

Rumata froze in the middle of buttoning up a shirt with a frilly ruff. “What do you mean, why I don’t hit you?” he asked, bewildered. “How could I hit you?”

“You’re not just a good, kind man,” she continued, not listening. “You’re also a very strange man. You’re like an archangel. When you’re with me, I become brave. Right now I’m brave. Someday, I’ll definitely have to ask you about one thing. Will you—not right now, but later, when it’s all done—tell me about yourself?”

Rumata was silent for a long time. Muga handed him an orange waistcoat with striped red bows. Rumata pulled it on with disgust and tightened his belt. “Yes,” he finally said. “Someday I’ll tell you everything, little one.”

“I’ll wait,” she said seriously. “And now go, and pay no attention to me.”

Rumata came close to her, kissed her lips with his swollen lips, then took an iron bracelet off his arm and gave it to her. “Put it on your left arm,” he said. “No one else should come to the house today, but if they do—show them this.”

She was watching him go, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking, I don’t know if you’re the devil or the son of God or a man from the fabulous countries overseas, but if you don’t come back, I’ll die. And because she was silent, he was infinitely grateful to her, because leaving was incredibly difficult—like diving headfirst from a sunny emerald shore into a rancid pool.