Hard to Be a God

Chapter 2

Rumata started and opened his eyes. It was already light out. There was a commotion in the street underneath his window. Someone, probably a military man, was shouting, “Scum! You’ll lick this dirt off with your tongue!” (Good morning, thought Rumata.) “Silence! By Holy Míca’s back, you’ll make me lose my temper!” Another voice, rough and hoarse, mumbled that this was the sort of street where a man ought to watch his step. “In the morning it rained, and God knows when they paved it last…” “He dares tell me what to do!” “You should let me go, noble don, don’t hold on to my shirt…” “He dares order me around!” There was a ringing crack. This was apparently the second slap—the first had woken Rumata up. “You shouldn’t hit me, noble don,” someone mumbled below.

A familiar voice—who could it be? Probably Don Tameo. I should let him win back his Hamaharian nag today. I wonder if I’ll ever know much about horses. Although we, the Rumatas of Estor, have never known much about horses, we’re experts in military camels. Good thing there are almost no camels in Arkanar. Rumata stretched, cracking his back, groped for a twisted silk cord by his head, and pulled on it a few times. Bells started jangling in the depths of the house. The boy is gawking at the scene outside, of course, thought Rumata. I could get up and dress myself, but that’ll only breed rumors.

He listened to the profanity outside the window. What a powerful language! It has incredible entropy. I hope Don Tameo doesn’t kill him. In recent years, certain enthusiasts in the Guard had announced that they reserved only one sword for noble battle, and used their other blades specifically for street trash—which, thanks to Don Reba, had really proliferated in glorious Arkanar. Although Don Tameo isn’t one of those enthusiasts, Rumata thought. Our Don Tameo is a bit of a coward, and a well-known politician too.

How rotten when the day starts with Don Tameo. Rumata sat up and hugged his knees under his splendid torn blanket. That’s the kind of thing that gives you a feeling of leaden hopelessness and makes you want to mope around and ponder how you are weak and helpless in the face of circumstances. This didn’t occur to us on Earth. Over there, we are healthy, confident men who have gone through psychological conditioning and are ready for anything. We have excellent nerves; we know how not to flinch when faced with beatings and executions. We have amazing self-control; we’re capable of putting up with the blathering of the most hopeless idiots. We’ve forgotten how to be fastidious—we can make do with dishes that, according to the custom, have been licked by dogs and then wiped with a dirty hem for the sake of beauty. We’re fantastic impersonators—even in our dreams we do not speak the languages of Earth. We have a foolproof weapon—the basis theory of feudalism, developed in quiet offices and laboratories, at dusty archaeological digs, in thoughtful discussions.

Too bad that Don Reba has never heard of this theory. Too bad that the psychological conditioning peels off like a sunburn, that we fall into extremes, that we’re constantly forced to remind ourselves: grit your teeth and remember that you’re a god in disguise, they know not what they do, almost none of them are to blame, and therefore you must be patient and tolerant. It turns out that the reservoirs of humanism in our souls, which seemed bottomless on Earth, dry up at an alarming rate. Holy Míca, we were true humanists over there, on Earth. Humanism was the backbone of our personalities; in our worship of Man, in our love of Man, we even approached anthropocentrism—and here we are suddenly horrified to catch ourselves thinking, Are these really humans? Is it possible they are capable of becoming humans, even with time? And then we remember about people like Kira, Budach, Arata the Hunchback, and we feel ashamed—and this, too, is unfamiliar and unpleasant and, most important, completely useless.

I shouldn’t think about this, thought Rumata. Not in the morning. Curse that Don Tameo! There’s a sour taste in my soul, and there’s no way to get rid of it in such loneliness. That’s exactly right, loneliness! Did we, so healthy, so confident, ever think that we’d be lonely here? No one would believe it! Anton, my friend, what’s happening to you? To the west of you, a three-hour flight away, is Alexander Vasilievich, a kind, wonderful man; to the east is Pashka, with whom you shared a school desk for seven years, a merry, loyal friend. You’re just feeling depressed, Toshka. It’s too bad, of course; we thought you were hardier, but who hasn’t felt this way? The work is hellish, I understand. You’ll go back to Earth, have a rest, do some theoretical work, and then we’ll see.

Alexander Vasilievich, by the way, is a true dogmatist. If basis theory doesn’t allow for the grays (In my fifteen years of work, dear boy, I haven’t noticed such deviations from theory…), I must be imagining them. Since I’m imagining things, I must be having a nervous breakdown, and I should be forced to take a vacation. Well, all right, I promise, I’ll take a look for myself and give you my opinion. But in the meantime, Don Rumata, I beg you, nothing extreme. And Pavel, childhood friend, a polymath, a scholar, a treasure trove of information—he dives headfirst into the history of the two planets and gives a trivial proof that the gray movement is nothing more than a commonplace rebellion of the city residents against the barony. Although one of these days I’ll come see you, take a look. To be honest, I feel kind of uncomfortable about Budach. And thank you for that! That’ll do! I’ll busy myself with Budach, since I’m not good for much else.

The highly learned Doctor Budach. A native of Irukan, a master physician, on whom the Duke of Irukan had almost conferred a title but instead changed his mind and imprisoned in a tower. The biggest authority on healing with poisons in the empire. The author of the widely disseminated treatise About Grasses and Other Cereals, Which Can Mysteriously Cause Sorrow, Joy, and Calmness, as well as the Saliva and Juices of Reptiles, Spiders, and the Naked Boar Y, Which Also Have These and Many Other Properties. Doubtlessly a remarkable man, a true intellectual—a dedicated humanist with no interest in money, all his property a bag of books. So who could have wanted you, Doctor Budach, in a twilit, ignorant country, mired in a bloody quagmire of avarice and conspiracy?

Let us assume that you’re alive and in Arkanar. It’s possible, of course, that you’ve been captured by barbarian raiders who’ve come down from the North Red Ridge. In that case, Don Condor is planning to get in touch with our friend Shushtuletidovodus, who specializes in the history of primitive cultures and is currently serving as a shaman-epileptic under a chief with a forty-five-syllable name. But if you really are in Arkanar, then, first of all, you might have been captured by the night bandits of Waga the Wheel. And not even captured, but taken along, because their main prey would have been your companion, the bankrupt noble don. Either way, they wouldn’t kill you; Waga the Wheel is too greedy for that.

You might have also fallen into the clutches of some idiot baron, without any malicious intent on his part, just out of boredom and a hypertrophied sense of hospitality. He might have wanted to feast with a noble companion, so he stationed his militia along the road and dragged your companion into the castle. And you’ll be sitting in stinky servants’ quarters until the dons drink themselves into a stupor and part ways. In this case, you are also in no danger.

But there are also the remnants of the recently defeated peasant army of Don Ksi and Perta the Spine holed up somewhere in Rotland, who are surreptitiously being fed by our eagle Don Reba himself, in case of the entirely possible complications with the barons. These men know no mercy—but it’s better not to even think about that. There’s also Don Satarina, an extremely blue-blooded imperial aristocrat, 102 years old and completely senile. He has a blood feud with the Dukes of Irukan, and from time to time gets excited into activity and begins to capture everything crossing the border from Irukan. He’s very dangerous, because when he issues orders during attacks of cholecystitis, the cemetery guards can’t drag the corpses out of his dungeons fast enough.

And finally, the main possibility. Not the main possibility because it’s the most dangerous, but because it’s the likeliest. Don Reba’s gray patrols. The storm troopers on the main roads. You might have fallen into their hands by accident, in which case we have to rely on the judgment and cool head of your companion. But what if Don Reba is actually interested in you? Don Reba can have such surprising interests… His spies may have reported that you’ll be passing through Arkanar, and a detachment under the command of a diligent gray officer—a noble bastard from the inferior gentry—may have been sent to meet you, and now you’re imprisoned in a stone cell underneath the Merry Tower.

Rumata gave the cord another impatient tug. The bedroom door opened with a hideous squeak, and in came a page, skinny and gloomy. His name was Uno, and his fate could have served as the subject of a ballad. He bowed at the threshold, shuffling feet in battered shoes, approached the bed, and put a tray containing letters, coffee, and a wad of chewing bark—for cleaning and strengthening the teeth—on the table.

Rumata looked at him crossly. “Tell me, please, are you ever going to oil the hinges?”

The boy stayed quiet, staring at the floor.

Rumata kicked off his blanket, sat up, and reached for the tray. “Have you bathed today?” he asked.

The boy shifted from one foot to the other and, without answering, walked around the room gathering the scattered clothes.

“Didn’t I just ask you whether you’ve bathed today?” Rumata asked, opening his first letter.

“Water won’t wash my sins away,” the boy grumbled. “What am I, a noble, to be bathing?”

“What have I told you about germs?” said Rumata.

The boy put the green pants on the back of the chair and made a circular motion with his thumb to ward off the devil. “I prayed three times last night,” he said. “What else can I do?”

“You goose,” Rumata said, and started reading the letter.

The letter was from Doña Ocana, a lady-in-waiting and the new favorite of Don Reba. She proposed that Rumata visit her tonight, “pining tenderly.” The postscript explained in plain language just what she expected from this meeting. Rumata couldn’t help it—he blushed. He furtively glanced at the boy, muttering, “Well, really…” This had to be considered. To go would be repugnant; not to go would be foolish—Doña Ocana knew a lot. He drank his coffee in one gulp and put the chewing bark into his mouth.

The next envelope was made of thick paper and the sealing wax was smudged: it was clear that the letter had been opened. It was from Don Ripat, a resolute social climber, the lieutenant of a gray company of haberdashers. He inquired about Rumata’s health, expressed confidence in the victory of the gray cause, and begged permission to defer paying a debt, citing exceptional circumstances. “All right, all right…” mumbled Rumata. He put the letter away, picked the envelope up again, and examined it with interest. Yes, they had gotten more subtle. Noticeably more subtle.

The third letter challenged him to a sword fight over Doña Pifa but agreed to withdraw the challenge if Don Rumata would be so good as to furnish proof that he, the noble Don Rumata, did not and had never had a relationship with Doña Pifa. This was a form letter; the body of the text had been written by a calligrapher, and the names and dates were crookedly filled in and rife with spelling errors.

Rumata flung the letter away and scratched his mosquito-bitten left arm. “All right, let’s wash up,” he ordered.

The boy disappeared through the door and came back shortly, walking backward and dragging a wooden tub full of water along the floor. Then he rushed out the door once again and brought back an empty tub and a pitcher.

Rumata jumped to the floor, pulled his tattered, elaborately hand-embroidered nightshirt over his head, and drew the swords hanging by the head of the bed from their scabbards with a clatter. The boy cautiously hid behind the chair. After practicing thrusts and parries for about ten minutes, Rumata threw his swords at the wall, bent over the empty tub, and gave the order: “Pour!” Not having soap was bad, but Rumata was used to it. The boy poured pitcher after pitcher on his back, neck, and head and complained, “Everyone else does things properly, only we have nonsense like this. Who’s ever heard of using two vessels to bathe? The master’s stuck some kind of pot in the outhouse… Every single day a clean towel. Hasn’t even prayed yet, and master’s already hopping around naked with swords…”

Rubbing himself down with the towel, Rumata said didactically, “I’m at court, not some lousy baron. A courtier should be clean and sweet-smelling.”

“As if His Majesty has nothing better to do than smell people,” the boy objected. “Everyone knows that His Majesty is praying day and night for us sinners. And Don Reba never bathes at all. I heard it myself—His Lordship’s footman said so.”

“All right, quit grumbling,” Rumata said, pulling on his nylon undershirt.

The boy looked at this undershirt with disapproval. The garment had long been the subject of rumors among the servants of Arkanar. But Rumata couldn’t do anything about this because of his natural human squeamishness. As he was pulling on his underpants, the boy turned his head away and moved his lips as if warding off the devil.

It really would be good to bring underwear into style, thought Rumata. However, the only natural way to do so would involve the ladies, and in this respect Rumata happened to be unforgivably picky for an operative. An empty-headed ladies’ man, who knew the ways of the capital and who had been sent to the provinces because of a duel for love, should have had at least twenty mistresses. Rumata made heroic efforts to maintain his reputation. Half of his agents, instead of doing their work, spread despicable rumors about him, calculated to excite the envy and admiration of the Arkanarian youth in the Guard. Dozens of frustrated ladies, at whose houses Rumata lingered on purpose, reading poetry late into the night (the third watch, a fraternal kiss on the cheek, and a leap from the balcony into the arms of his acquaintance, the commander of the watch), eagerly vied with each other in telling stories about the true metropolitan style of the ladies’ man from the capital. Rumata managed to support himself only through the vanity of these silly and disgustingly debauched women, but the underwear conundrum remained unsolved.

It had been so much simpler with the handkerchiefs! At his very first ball, Rumata extracted an elegant lace handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed his lips with it. At the next ball, dashing guardsmen were already wiping their sweaty faces with pieces of embroidered and mono-grammed cloth of various sizes and colors. And in a month, there was a spate of dandies sporting entire bedsheets draped over an arm, the tails of which dragged elegantly across the floor.

Rumata pulled on his green pants and a white cambric shirt with a faded collar. “Is anybody waiting?” he asked.

“The barber is waiting,” the boy replied. “And there are also two dons sitting in the living room, Don Tameo and Don Sera. They ordered wine and are playing dice. They are waiting to have breakfast with my master.”

“Go call the barber. And tell the noble dons that I’ll be there soon. And don’t be rude, speak courteously…”

Breakfast wasn’t too filling and would leave room for a quick lunch. They were served roasted meat, strongly seasoned with spices, and dog ears marinated in vinegar. They drank sparkling Irukanian wine, thick brown Estorian wine, and white Soanian wine. Dexterously carving a leg of lamb with two daggers, Don Tameo complained about the insolence of the lower classes. “I intend to submit a memorandum to His Majesty himself,” he declared. “The gentry demands that the peasants and the craftsmen rabble be forbidden to show their faces in public spaces and the streets. Let them use the courtyards and back alleys. And in those instances where the appearance of a peasant in the street is unavoidable—for example, during the delivery of bread, meat, and wine into a noble house—let them apply for a special permit from the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown.”

“What a brain!” Don Sera said delightedly, spraying spittle and meat juice. “And yesterday at court…” And he told the latest story: Don Reba’s flame, the lady-in-waiting Ocana, had carelessly stepped on the king’s injured foot. His Majesty became furious and, turning toward Don Reba, ordered him to punish the offender. To which Don Reba, without batting an eyelash, replied, “It will be done, Your Majesty. This very night!” “I laughed so hard,” said Don Sera, shaking his head, “that two hooks flew off my waistcoat.”

Protoplasm, thought Rumata. Nothing but a gluttonous, breeding protoplasm. “Yes, noble dons,” he said. “Don Reba is the cleverest of men.”

“Oh my, yes!” said Don Sera. “What a man! What a brain!”

“An eminent personality,” Don Tameo said significantly, with a great show of feeling.

“It’s strange to even think now,” Rumata continued with a friendly smile, “what people said about him only a year ago. Do you remember, Don Tameo, how you wittily mocked his crooked legs?”

Don Tameo choked and drained a glass of Irukanian wine in one gulp. “I don’t recall,” he mumbled. “I’m no comedian…”

“You did, you did,” Don Sera said, shaking his head reproachfully.

“That’s right!” Rumata exclaimed. “You were present for this conversation, Don Sera! I remember, Don Tameo’s witticisms made you laugh so hard that some piece of your clothing snapped off.”

Don Sera turned purple and started stammering elaborate excuses, lying the whole time. The now glum Don Tameo applied himself to the strong Estorian wine. And since, in his own words, he had “started in the morning the day before yesterday and hadn’t yet been able to stop,” when they left the house, he had to be supported from both sides.

The day was bright and sunny. Common folk thronged in the streets and alleys searching for things to gawk at, boys shrieked and whistled as they flung mud, pretty towns-women in bonnets peered out of the windows, and bustling servant girls looked at them bashfully with moist eyes. The general mood gradually started to improve. Don Sera very adroitly knocked down some peasant, and he almost died laughing as he watched the man flounder in a puddle. Don Tameo suddenly discovered that he had put his sword slings on backward, shouted “Stop!” and started spinning in place, trying to rotate inside the slings. Something flew off Don Sera’s waistcoat again.

Rumata caught a passing servant girl by her little pink ear and asked her to help Don Tameo put himself in order. A crowd of gawkers immediately gathered around the noble dons, giving the servant girl advice from which she turned completely crimson, while Don Sera’s waistcoat kept raining clasps, buttons, and buckles. When they finally moved on, Don Tameo began composing an addendum to his memorandum for all to hear, in which he indicated the need for the “noninclusion of pretty persons of the female persuasion to the category of peasants and commoners.”

This was when their way was blocked by a cart full of clay pots. Don Sera drew both swords and declared that going around some stinking pots was beneath the noble dons’ dignity, and that he would make his way through the cart. But as he was taking aim, trying to gauge where the wall of the house ended and the pots began, Rumata grabbed one of the wheels of the cart and turned it around, clearing the way. The gawkers, who had been watching the goings-on with delight, shouted a triple hurray for Rumata. The noble dons were about to move on, but a fat, gray-haired shopkeeper leaned out of a third-floor window and started to expound about the misdeeds of the courtiers, which “our eagle Don Reba will soon put an end to.” They had to stay and pass him the entire load of pots through his window. Rumata threw two gold coins with the profile of Pitz the Sixth into the last pot and handed it to the stunned owner of the cart.

“How much did you give him?” Don Tameo asked when they moved on.

“Not much,” Rumata replied offhandedly. “Two gold pieces.”

“By Holy Míca’s back!” exclaimed Don Tameo. “You are rich! Would you like me to sell you my Hamaharian stallion?”

“I’d rather win it in a game of dice,” Rumata said.

“You’re right!” Don Sera said and stopped. “Why don’t we play a game of dice?”

“Right here?” Rumata asked.

“Well, why not?” asked Don Sera. “I see no reason three noble dons shouldn’t play a game of dice wherever they like!”

At this point, Don Tameo suddenly fell down. Don Sera tripped over his feet and also fell down. “I completely forgot,” Don Sera said. “It’s time for us to report for guard duty.”

Rumata got them up and guided them, holding them by the elbows. He stopped by the gigantic, gloomy house of Don Satarina. “Why don’t we visit the aged don?” he asked.

“I see absolutely no reason why three noble dons shouldn’t visit the aged Don Satarina,” said Don Sera.

Don Tameo opened his eyes. “As servants of the king,” he proclaimed, “we must do our utmost to look to the future. D-Don Satarina is a relic of the past. Onward, noble dons! I must be at my post.”

“Onward,” Rumata agreed.

Don Tameo dropped his head on his chest and didn’t lift it up again. Don Sera, using his fingers to count, was reciting his amorous conquests. In this way, they got to the palace. In the guardroom, Rumata put Don Tameo down on a bench with relief, and Don Sera sat down at the table, carelessly pushed away a stack of orders signed by the king, and declared that it was finally time to drink some cold Irukanian wine. “Let the owner roll up a barrel,” he ordered, “and let those girls come over here”—he indicated the guards who were playing cards at the other table. The commander of the guard, a lieutenant of the company, came by. He spent a long time looking closely at Don Tameo and examining Don Sera; and when Don Sera asked him “Why have all the flowers withered in the mysterious garden of love?” decided that he probably shouldn’t send them to their posts. Let them lie about for now.

Don Rumata lost a gold piece to the lieutenant and talked to him about the new uniform sword slings and methods of sword-sharpening. Rumata mentioned in passing that he was planning to pay a visit to Don Satarina, who owned some antique grinding stones, and expressed deep disappointment upon hearing that the venerable noble had lost the last of his marbles: a month ago, he released all his prisoners, let go of his entire militia, and donated his considerable arsenal of implements of torture to the treasury. The 102-year-old man had declared that he intended to devote the rest of his life to good works, and now probably wouldn’t last long.

After saying good-bye to the lieutenant, Rumata left the palace and headed to the port. He walked along, skirting puddles and jumping over potholes full of scummy water, unceremoniously elbowing gawking commoners aside, winking at girls, who were apparently irresistibly struck by his appearance, bowing to ladies carried in chairs, exchanging friendly greetings with familiar noblemen, and pointedly ignoring the gray storm troopers.

He made a small detour by the Patriotic School. This school had been established two years ago through the efforts of Don Reba, for the purpose of preparing young oafs from the inferior gentry and merchant classes to become military and administrative personnel. It was a stone building of modern construction, without any columns or bas-reliefs, with thick walls, narrow windows that resembled embrasures, and semicircular towers flanking the main entrance. If necessary, the building could withstand an attack.

Rumata went up the narrow stairs to the second floor and, jingling his spurs on the stone, walked past the classes toward the office of the school procurator. Droning voices and choruses of shouts came from the classrooms. “Who is the king? His August Majesty. Who are the ministers? Faithful servants, knowing no doubts…” “… and God, our creator, said ‘I shall curse you,’ and curse them he did…” “… and if the horn sounds twice, scatter into pairs in chain formation, lowering your pikes at the same time…” “When the tortured faints, do not get carried away—the torture must cease…”

This is school, thought Rumata. The source of all wisdom. The pillar of the culture.

He pushed open the low, vaulted door without knocking and entered the office, which was dark and ice-cold, like a cellar. A tall man rushed out to greet him from behind a giant desk piled high with papers and canes for punishment—he was bald, with sunken eyes, dressed in a tight-fitting, narrow gray uniform with the insignia of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown. This was the procurator of the Patriotic School, the highly learned Father Kin—a sadist and murderer who had become a monk, the author of A Treatise on Denunciation, which had attracted the attention of Don Reba.

Answering the flowery greeting with a curt nod, Rumata sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Father Kin remained standing, bent in an attitude of deferential attention. “Well, how’s it going?” Rumata asked affably. “Slaughtering some literates, educating others?”

Father Kin showed his teeth in a grin. “A literate is not the enemy of the king,” he said. “The enemy of the king is the literate dreamer, the literate skeptic, the literate nonbeliever! Whereas here we—”

“All right, all right,” said Rumata. “I believe you. What have you been scribbling? I read your treatise—a useful book, but a stupid one. How did that happen? Shame on you. Some procurator!”

“I do not endeavor to impress with my mind,” Father Kin answered with dignity. “All I have sought is to be of service to the state. We do not need smart people. We need loyal people. And we—”

“All right, all right,” Rumata said again. “I believe you. So are you writing anything new or not?”

“I’m planning to submit an essay to the ministry about a new state, modeled on the Region of the Holy Order.”

“What’s this?” Rumata said in surprise. “You want us all to become monks?”

Father Kin clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Allow me to explain, noble don,” he said fervently, licking his lips. “It’s not about that at all! It’s about the basic tenets of the new state. The tenets are simple, and there are only three of them: blind faith in the infallibility of the laws, unquestioning obedience to these laws, and also everyone vigilantly watching everyone else.”

“Hmm,” said Rumata. “But why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“You really are stupid,” Rumata said. “All right, I believe you. Where was I? Oh yes! Tomorrow you will get two new instructors. Their names are Father Tarra, a very venerable old man who works in, what’s it called… cosmography, and Brother Nanin, also a trustworthy man, who is knowledgeable about history. These are my people, so treat them with respect. Here’s money for the pledge.” He threw a clinking pouch onto the desk. “Your share is five gold pieces. Understood?”

“Yes, noble don,” Father Kin said.

Rumata yawned and looked around. “Well, I’m glad you understood,” he said. “For some reason, my father was very fond of these people and left me instructions to set them up in life. You’re a learned man—can you explain to me why a noble don would have such affection for a literate?”

“Maybe some special services?” proposed Father Kin.

“What are you talking about?” Rumata asked suspiciously. “On the other hand, why not? Yes… a pretty daughter or sister… You have no wine here, of course?”

Father Kin spread his hands apologetically.

Rumata picked up one of the papers off the desk and held it in front of his eyes for some time. “‘Refacilitation…’” he read out loud. “What wisdom!” He dropped the page onto the floor and got up. “Make sure that your pack of scholars doesn’t bother them. I’ll pay a visit sometime, and if I find out…” He put his fist underneath Father Kin’s nose. “All right, all right, don’t be scared, I won’t do anything.”

Father Kin giggled deferentially. Rumata nodded to him and headed for the door, scraping the floor with his spurs.

On the Street of Overwhelming Gratitude he went into a weapons shop, bought new scabbard rings, tried out a couple of daggers (threw them at the wall, weighed them in his hand—didn’t like them), then sat down on the counter and had a conversation with Father Hauk, the owner. Father Hauk had sad, gentle eyes and small, pale hands stained with ink. Rumata debated with him a little about the merits of the poems of Zuren, listened to an interesting commentary on the line “As a wilted leaf falls on my soul…” and asked him to read him something new. Then, as he was leaving, having sighed with the author over the inexpressibly sad verses, he recited “To be or not to be?” in his translation into Irukanian.

“Holy Míca!” cried the inflamed Father Hauk. “Whose poetry is this?”

“Mine,” said Rumata, and left.

He went into the Gray Joy, drank a glass of sour Arkanarian brew, patted the hostess’s cheek, and deftly used one of his swords to flip the table of the usual informer, who was gawking at him with empty eyes. Then he walked over to a far corner and tracked down a shabby bearded man with an inkwell around his neck. “Hello, Brother Nanin,” he said. “How many petitions have you written today?”

Brother Nanin smiled shyly, showing small, decayed teeth. “There aren’t many petitions written nowadays, noble don,” he said. “Some people think that asking is pointless, while others expect that in the near future they’ll be able to take without asking.”

Rumata leaned down to his ear and explained that he’d arranged things with the Patriotic School. “Here are two gold pieces,” he concluded. “Buy some clothes, get yourself in order. And try to be more careful—at least for the first couple of days. Father Kin is a dangerous man.”

“I’ll read him my Treatise on Rumors,” said Brother Nanin cheerfully. “Thank you, noble don.”

“What won’t a man do in memory of his father!” said Rumata. “Now tell me where to find Father Tarra.”

Brother Nanin stopped smiling and started blinking in confusion. “There was a fight here yesterday,” he said. “And Father Tarra had a bit too much to drink. And then he’s a redhead… They broke his rib.”

Rumata grunted in vexation. “What rotten luck!” he said. “Why do you all drink so much?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to resist,” Brother Nanin said sadly.

“True,” said Rumata. “Well, here are two more gold pieces. Take good care of him.”

Brother Nanin caught Rumata’s hand and bent down toward it. Rumata stepped back. “Now, now,” he said. “That’s not one of your best jokes, Brother Nanin. Good-bye.”

The port smelled like nowhere else in Arkanar. It smelled of saltwater, rotten pond scum, spices, tar, smoke, and old salted meat; the taverns reeked of cooking, fried fish, and stale beer. The humid air was thick with swearing in many languages. Thousands of strange-looking people thronged on the piers, in the narrow alleys between the warehouses, and by the taverns: disheveled sailors, pompous merchants, sullen fishermen, dealers in slaves, dealers in women, painted girls, drunken soldiers, some dubious individuals hung with weapons, and outlandish vagrants with gold bracelets on their dirty paws. Everyone was agitated and angry. By the order of Don Reba, it had already been three days since a single ship, or a single canoe, had been allowed to leave port. Gray troopers were toying with their rusty butcher’s axes by the docks—spitting occasionally, brazenly and gloatingly glancing at the crowd. On the detained ships, big-boned, copper-skinned people dressed in furry animal skins and copper caps were crouching in groups of five or six—barbarian mercenaries, worthless in close combat but terrifying like this, at a distance, due to their enormously long blowpipes that fired poison darts. And beyond the forest of masts, motionless on the open sea, loomed the long war galleys of the Royal Navy. From time to time they emitted red jets of flame and smoke, making the sea blaze up—burning petroleum for intimidation.

Rumata passed the customs office, where sullen sea dogs huddled in front of the locked doors, vainly waiting for permission to set sail, and pushed his way through the clamorous crowd, from which you could buy just about anything, from slave women and black pearls to drugs and trained spiders. He came out by the piers, looked askance at the row of bloated corpses in sailor’s jackets laid out in the sun for public display, and taking a detour through a junk-filled vacant lot, entered the reeking alleyways on the outskirts of the port. It was quieter here. Half-naked girls dozed in the doors of the squalid dens, a drunken soldier with his pockets inside out was lying facedown and bleeding at an intersection, and suspicious figures with the pale faces of the night crept along the walls.

This was the first time Rumata had been here during the day, and initially he was surprised that he didn’t attract attention; the bleary eyes of all the passersby looked either past him or seemingly through him, although they did move aside and give way. But as he was rounding a corner, he happened to turn around and had time to notice a dozen varied heads—male and female, long-haired and bald—instantly retracting into doorways, windows, and alleys. Then he became cognizant of the strange atmosphere of this vile place, an atmosphere not of hostility or danger but of some unsavory, greedy interest.

Pushing a door open with his shoulder, he entered one of the dens, where an old man with the face of a mummy was dozing behind a counter in a gloomy little hall. The tables were empty. Rumata silently approached the counter and was about to flick the old man’s long nose when he suddenly realized that the sleeping old man wasn’t sleeping at all but was examining him carefully through his half-closed eyelids. Rumata threw a coin on the counter, and the old man’s eyes immediately shot open. “What would the noble don like?” he asked briskly. “Weed? Snuff? Girls?”

“Drop it,” said Rumata. “You know exactly why I come here.”

“Why, it’s the noble Don Rumata,” exclaimed the old man in a tone of extraordinary surprise. “I did think something looked familiar…”

After saying this he lowered his eyelids again. Everything was clear. Rumata walked around the counter and squeezed through a narrow door into a tiny adjacent room. Here it was cramped and dark, and the stuffy air had a sour reek. A wizened old man in a flat black cap stood behind a tall desk in the middle of the room, bent over some papers. An oil lamp flickered on the desk, and the only things visible in the gloom were the faces of the people sitting motionless by the walls. Rumata, keeping a hand on his swords, also groped for a stool by the wall and sat down. This place had its own laws and its own etiquette. No one paid any attention to the newcomer; if a man came here, then that was how it should be, and if it wasn’t how it should be, he would disappear in the blink of an eye. And you’d never find him, even if you searched the world over. The wizened old man diligently scratched his stylus against the paper; the people by the wall sat motionless. From time to time, one or another of them would sigh deeply. Unseen flytrap lizards ran up and down the walls with a light pitter-patter.

The motionless people by the walls were the chiefs of the robber bands; Rumata had long known some of them by sight. These dull beasts weren’t worth much in and of themselves. Their psychology was no more complicated than that of the average shopkeeper. They were ignorant, merciless, and had a way with knives and short cudgels. The man behind the desk, on the other hand…

His name was Waga the Wheel, and he was the all-powerful, uncontested head of all the criminal forces of the Land Beyond the Strait, which stretched from the Pitanian marshes to the west of Irukan to the maritime borders of the Mercantile Republic of Soan. He had been damned by all three official churches of the empire for his excessive pride, for he called himself the younger brother of the reigning monarch of Arkanar. He had at his disposal a night army numbering in the tens of thousands of men and a fortune totaling hundreds of thousands of gold pieces, and his agents had penetrated the inner sanctums of the state apparatus. During the last twenty years, he had been executed four times, each time attracting a large crowd of people; the official story was that he was currently languishing in three of the darkest dungeons of the empire at the same time, and Don Reba had repeatedly issued decrees “concerning the outrageous spread of legends by state criminals and other malefactors about the so-called Waga the Wheel, who in reality does not exist and is therefore legendary.” The same Don Reba had, according to rumors, summoned several barons with strong militias and offered them a reward: five hundred gold pieces for Waga dead and seven thousand for Waga alive. In his time, Rumata himself had spent a considerable amount of gold and effort to make the acquaintance of this person. Waga inspired an extreme disgust in him but was occasionally immensely useful—literally irreplaceable. Furthermore, Waga really interested Rumata as a scientific specimen. This was a most curious exhibit in his collection of medieval monsters, a personage who apparently had absolutely no past.

Waga finally put down the stylus, stood up, and rasped out, “Here’s how it is, my children. Two and a half thousand gold pieces over three days. And only one thousand nine hundred and ninety-six in expenses. Five hundred and four little round gold pieces over three days. Not bad, my children, not bad.”

No one moved. Waga walked away from the desk, sat down in a corner, and vigorously rubbed his dry palms together.

“I have happy news for you, my children,” he said. “Good times are coming, abundant times… But we’ll have to work hard. Oh, so hard! My elder brother, the king of Arkanar, has decided to exterminate all the learned men in our kingdom. Well, he knows best. And anyway, who are we to argue with his august decisions? However, we can and must capitalize on this decision. And since we’re his loyal subjects, we shall serve him. But since we’re his subjects of the night, we will not neglect to take our small share. He will not notice and will not be angry with us. What did you say?”

No one moved.

“I thought that Piga sighed. Is that true, Piga, my son?”

Someone fidgeted and cleared his throat in the dark. “I didn’t sigh, Waga,” said a coarse voice. “Why would I—”

“You wouldn’t, Piga, you wouldn’t! That’s right! Now is the time to listen to me with bated breath. You will all leave here and begin difficult labors, and then you will have no one to advise you. My elder brother, His Majesty, through the mouth of his minister Don Reba, promised us a considerable sum for the heads of certain escaped fugitive learned men. We must deliver these heads to him and make the old man happy. On the other hand, certain learned men wish to hide from my elder brother’s wrath and will spare no expense in doing so. In the name of mercy, and in order to relieve my elder brother’s soul from the burden of additional villainies, we will help these people. However, if his majesty also needs these heads in the future, he will receive them. For a good price, a very good price…”

Waga stopped talking and bowed his head. An old man’s slow tears suddenly started flowing down his cheeks.

“I’m getting old, my children,” he said with a sob. “My hands tremble, my legs buckle beneath me, and my memory is beginning to fail me. I’d forgotten, completely forgotten, that a noble don has been languishing amongst us in this stuffy, cramped little room, and that he cares nothing for our financial affairs. I will go now. I will go and rest. In the meantime, my children, let us apologize to the noble don.”

He stood up and bowed with a groan. The others also stood up and also bowed, but with obvious hesitation and even fear. Rumata could practically hear the whirring of their dull, primitive brains as they vainly attempted to keep up with the meaning of the words and deeds of this hunched old man.

Of course, it was a very simple matter: the outlaw had taken advantage of an extra opportunity to bring to Don Reba’s attention the fact that in the ongoing massacre, the night army intended to work together with the gray forces. And now, when the time had come to give specific instructions, to name the names and dates of the campaigns, the presence of the noble don became irksome, to say the least, and he, the noble don, was invited to quickly state his business and clear out of there. A dark old man. A terrifying old man. And why is he in the city? thought Rumata. Waga can’t stand the city.

“You’re right, honorable Waga,” Rumata said. “I must be on my way. However, I’m the one who should be apologizing, since I’ve come to trouble you about a completely trivial matter.” He stayed seated, and everyone who was listening to him remained standing. “I happen to need your advice. You may sit down.”

Waga bowed again and sat down.

“The case is as follows,” Rumata continued. “Three days ago, I was supposed to meet a friend of mine, a noble don from Irukan, in the Territory of Heavy Swords. But we never met. He’s disappeared. I know for a fact that he had safely crossed the border from Irukan. Perhaps you know what has become of him?”

Waga didn’t respond for some time. The bandits wheezed and sighed. Then Waga cleared his throat. “No, noble don,” he said. “We know nothing of this matter.”

Rumata immediately stood up. “Thank you, honorable Waga,” he said. He stepped into the center of the room and put a pouch with ten gold pieces onto the desk. “Before I leave, I have a favor to ask: if you do find anything out, let me know.” He touched his hat. “Good-bye.”

When he was almost out the door, he stopped and casually said over his shoulder, “You had been saying something about learned men. Something just occurred to me. I have the feeling that by the king’s efforts, in another month it will be impossible to find a single decent bookworm in Arkanar. And I made a vow to establish a university back home after being healed from the black plague. If you’d be so kind, whenever you get ahold of some bookworms, let me know first, and only then tell Don Reba. It’s possible that I’ll select one or two for the university.”

“It’ll cost you,” said Waga in a honeyed voice. “The product is rare, flies off the shelf.”

“My honor is worth more,” Rumata said haughtily and left.