Hard to Be a God

Chapter 4

The guests were already gathered, but Doña Ocana wasn’t there yet. The royal guardsmen, famed for their duels and sexual escapades, were having drinks by the gilded table, covered with appetizers—preening, arching their backs, and sticking out their wiry behinds. A number of scrawny middle-aged women giggled by the fireplace; they were completely insignificant and for this reason had been chosen by Doña Ocana to be her confidantes. They were sitting on low couches side by side, and three little old men, with skinny legs in constant motion, were bustling in front of them—famous dandies from the time of the previous regency, avowed authorities on long-forgotten anecdotes. Everyone knew that without these old men a drawing room wasn’t a drawing room. In the middle of the hall, his jackbooted feet apart, stood Don Ripat, a loyal and sensible agent of Rumata’s, a lieutenant of a gray company of haberdashers, with a magnificent mustache and no principles whatsoever. With his big red hands stuck into his leather belt, he was listening to Don Tameo, who was giving a rambling account of his new project of suppressing the peasants in order to benefit the merchant class, and would occasionally twitch his mustache in the direction of Don Sera, who was wandering from wall to wall, probably in search of a door. In the corner, glancing around cautiously, two famous portrait painters were finishing a stew of alligator with wild garlic, and in a nearby recess sat an elderly woman in black—a duenna engaged by Don Reba to keep an eye on Doña Ocana. She was staring fixedly into space with a strict expression on her face, her whole body occasionally all of a sudden pitching forward. At some distance from the others, a royal and the secretary of the Soanian embassy were playing cards. The royal was cringing; the secretary was smiling patiently. He was the only person engaged in useful activity in the room: he was gathering material for the next embassy report.

The guardsmen by the table greeted Rumata with cheerful shouts. Rumata gave them a friendly wink and started making the rounds of the guests. He bowed to the old dandies, paid a few compliments to the confidantes, who immediately started staring at the white feather behind his ear, patted the royal’s fat back, and headed toward Don Ripat and Don Tameo. As he walked by the window recess, the duenna swayed again, reeking of wine.

When he saw Rumata, Don Ripat took his hands out of his belt and clicked his heels, while Don Tameo cried softly, “Is that you, my friend? I’m so glad you came, I had already lost hope. ‘Like a broken-winged swan calls wistfully to a star…’ I was so lonely. If not for our dearest Don Ripat, I would have died of misery!” It was clear that Don Tameo had almost sobered up for dinner but still hadn’t been able to stop.

“Is that how it is?” Rumata said with surprise. “We’re quoting the rebel Zuren?”

Don Ripat immediately drew himself up and gave Don Tameo a predatory look.

“Er…” Don Tameo said, flustered. “Zuren? Is that so? Well, yes, I meant it in an ironic sense, I assure you, noble dons! After all, what is Zuren? A low, ungrateful demagogue. And I just wanted to emphasize—”

“That Doña Ocana isn’t here,” continued Rumata, “and that you’ve been lonely without her.”

“That’s just what I wanted to emphasize.”

“By the way, where is she?”

“She should be here any minute,” Don Ripat said with a bow, and walked away.

The confidantes, mouths identically agape, kept staring at the white feather. The elderly dandies snickered coyly. Don Tameo finally also noticed the feather and began to tremble. “My friend!” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? You never know when Don Reba might come by. True, he’s not expected today, but still…”

“Let’s not talk about it,” said Rumata, impatiently looking around. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. The guardsmen were already approaching with cups.

“You’re so pale,” whispered Don Tameo. “I do understand, love, passion… but, Holy Míca! The state is above… and finally, it’s dangerous… to offend his feelings…”

Something changed in his face, and he began to retreat, depart, move back, bowing the entire time. Rumata was surrounded by guardsmen. Someone offered him a full cup.

“For honor and for the king!” a guardsman declared.

“And for love,” another one added.

“Show them what the guardsmen are made of, noble Rumata,” said a third.

Rumata took the cup and suddenly saw Doña Ocana. She was standing in the doorway, fanning herself and sensuously swaying her shoulders. Yes, she certainly was good-looking! At this distance, she was even beautiful. She wasn’t at all to Rumata’s taste, but she was doubtlessly good-looking, the silly, lascivious bird. Huge blue eyes without a shadow of thought or warmth, a soft and extremely experienced mouth, a gorgeous, skillfully and carefully exposed body. The guardsman behind Rumata’s back apparently couldn’t control himself and smacked his lips rather loudly. Rumata shoved the cup toward him without looking and took long strides toward Doña Ocana. Everyone in the room looked away from them and started assiduously talking nonsense.

“You’re stunning,” Rumata muttered, bowing deeply, his swords clanging. “Let me lie at your feet… like a greyhound lies at the feet of a nude and indifferent beauty…”

Doña Ocana covered herself with the fan and slyly narrowed her eyes. “You’re very brave, noble don,” she said. “We poor provincial women cannot hope to withstand such an assault.” She had a low, husky voice. “Alas, all that remains for me is to open the castle gates and let the victor in.”

Rumata, gritting his teeth from shame and rage, bowed even deeper.

Doña Ocana lowered her fan and yelled out, “Noble dons, enjoy yourselves! Don Rumata and I will be back soon! I promised to show him my new Irukanian rugs.”

“Don’t leave us long, enchantress!” bleated one of the old men.

“Seductress!” another old man said in a honeyed voice. “Nymph!”

The guards clattered their swords in unison. “His taste isn’t bad,” the royal said, too audibly. Doña Ocana grabbed Rumata by the sleeve and dragged him along. When he was already in the hallway, Rumata heard Don Sera declare in an injured tone, “I see no reason why a noble don shouldn’t look at some Irukanian rugs.”

At the end of the hallway, Doña Ocana came to a sudden halt, threw her arms around Rumata’s neck, and with a throaty moan that was supposed to indicate a burst of passion, pressed her mouth hard against his. Rumata stopped breathing. The unwashed nymph reeked of body odor mixed with Estorian perfume. Her lips were hot, wet, and sticky from sweets. Making an effort, he attempted to return the kiss—and apparently succeeded, because Doña Ocana moaned again and fell into his arms with her eyes closed. This lasted an eternity. I’ll show you, whore, thought Rumata and squeezed her in his arms. Something cracked, either her corset or her ribs, the beauty gave a plaintive squeak, opened her eyes in astonishment, and thrashed around, trying to get free. Rumata hurriedly let her go.

“Naughty boy,” she said with delight, breathing heavily. “You almost broke me.”

“I’m burning with love,” he mumbled guiltily.

“Me too. How I’ve waited for you! Let’s go faster.”

She dragged him behind her through some cold, dark rooms. Rumata took out a handkerchief and furtively wiped his mouth. The plan now seemed completely hopeless. I should do it, he thought. But there are all sorts of things I should do! I won’t get off with just talk. Holy Míca, why do they never bathe in the palace? What a temperament. If only Don Reba would come by. She dragged him along silently and persistently, like an ant dragging a dead caterpillar. Feeling like a complete idiot, Rumata went on with some gallant nonsense about fast feet and red lips. Doña Ocana just giggled. She pushed him inside an overheated boudoir—which really was hung with rugs—flung herself onto the huge bed and, sprawling on the pillows, began looking at him with moist, protuberant eyes. Rumata stood stock-still. The boudoir smelled distinctly of bedbugs.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Come to me. I’ve waited so long!”

Rumata closed his eyes; he felt sick. Beads of sweat started to roll down his face with a repulsive tickle. I can’t do it, he thought. Damn the information. A she-fox… a monkey… It’s just unnatural, it’s dirty. Dirt is better than blood, but this is much worse than dirt!

“T-To hell with this,” Rumata said hoarsely.

She jumped up and ran over to him. “What is it? Are you drunk?”

“I don’t know,” he managed to force out. “It’s stuffy.”

“Should I order a basin?”

“Basin?”

“Never mind, never mind… It’ll pass.” Her fingers shaking with impatience, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. “You’re beautiful,” she mumbled breathlessly. “But you’re as timid as a virgin. I would have never guessed. It’s adorable, I swear by Holy Bara!”

He was forced to grab her hands. He was looking down at her, seeing the untidy hair shining with pomade, the round, naked shoulders dotted with clumps of powder, the small red ears. It’s too bad, he thought. I can’t do it. It’s a pity—she must know some things. Don Reba talks in his sleep… He brings her to interrogations—she is very fond of interrogations… I can’t do it.

“Well?” she said irritably.

“Your rugs are beautiful,” he said loudly. “But I must go.”

She didn’t get it at first, then her face contorted. “How dare you?” she whispered, but he had already felt for the door with his shoulder blades, run out into the hallway, and quickly walked away. Starting tomorrow, I’m not taking any more baths, he thought. This place needs hogs, not gods!

“Eunuch!” she shouted after him. “Gelding! Old woman! To the gallows with you!”

Rumata opened a random window and jumped down into the garden. He stood underneath the tree for a while, greedily gulping the cool air. Then he remembered the idiotic white feather, pulled it out, crushed it furiously, and threw it away. Pashka wouldn’t have been able to do it either, he thought. No one would have been able to. Are you sure about that? Yes, I’m sure. Then you aren’t worth much! But it makes me sick! The Experiment doesn’t care about your feelings—if you can’t do it, don’t try. I’m not an animal! If the Experiment demands it, you must become an animal! The Experiment can’t demand that. As you can see, it can. In that case…

In that case what? He didn’t know what. In that case… In that case… All right, let’s assume that I’m a bad historian. He shrugged. I’ll try to improve. We’ll learn how to become pigs.

When he came home, it was about midnight. He didn’t get undressed, only undid the clasps on his sword slings, collapsed onto the sofa in the living room, and slept like a log.

He was woken up by Uno’s indignant cries and an amiable bass roar: “Go away, go away, cub, or I’ll twist your ear off!”

“He’s sleeping, I tell you!”

“Scram, don’t get in the way!”

“I was ordered not to, I tell you!”

The door swung open, and Baron Pampa don Bau barged into the living room—enormous like the beast Pekh, red-cheeked, white-toothed, and with a pointy mustache. He was wearing a velvet beret cocked to the side and a splendid raspberry cloak, his copper armor shining dully underneath. Uno trailed behind him, clutching the baron’s right pant leg.

“Baron!” Rumata exclaimed, swinging his legs down from the sofa. “How did you come to be in town, dear friend? Uno, leave the baron alone!”

“An extraordinarily insistent boy,” rumbled the baron, approaching Rumata with open arms. “He’ll turn out well. How much do you want for him? But we’ll talk about that later. Let me embrace you!”

They embraced. The baron smelled deliciously of the dusty road, horse sweat, and a bouquet of various wines.

“I see that you’re completely sober, my friend,” he said with disappointment. “But then you’re always sober. Lucky man!”

“Have a seat, my friend,” said Rumata. “Uno! Bring us Estorian wine, and lots of it!”

The baron raised his huge hand. “Not a drop!”

“Not a drop of Estorian wine? Uno, don’t bring Estorian wine, bring Irukanian wine!”

“No wine at all!” the baron said bitterly. “I’m not drinking.”

Rumata sat down. “What happened?” he asked anxiously. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m as strong as an ox. But these damned family scenes… In short, I had a fight with the baroness—and here I am.”

“A fight with the baroness! You? Come, Baron, what a strange joke!”

“If you can believe it. I’m in a daze myself. A hundred and twenty miles galloped in a daze!”

“My friend,” said Rumata. “We are immediately saddling our horses and riding to Bau.”

“But my horse hasn’t rested yet!” objected the baron. “And anyway, I want to punish her!”

“Who?”

“The baroness, damn it! After all, am I a man or not?! She’s dissatisfied with Pampa drunk, you see, so let her see what he’s like sober! I’d rather rot here from drinking water than return to the castle.”

Uno said gloomily, “Tell him not to twist any ears.”

“Go away, cub!” the baron rumbled genially. “And bring me some beer! I’ve been sweating, and I need to compensate for the loss of liquid!”

The baron compensated for the loss of liquid for half an hour and became a bit tipsy. In between sips he related his troubles to Rumata. He spent some time cursing at “my drunkard neighbors, who are always in and out of the castle. They show up in the morning, supposedly to hunt, and before you know it they are drunk and chopping up the furniture. They wander all over the castle, make a horrible mess, insult the servants, injure the dogs, and set a horrible example for the young baronet. Then they go home and leave you as drunk as a lord, alone with the baroness…” At the end of this story the baron became completely dejected and even demanded some Estorian wine, but recollected himself and said, “Rumata, my friend, let’s leave this place. Your cellar is much too well stocked! Let us ride away!”

“But where should we go?”

“It doesn’t matter where! Say, the Gray Joy.”

“Hmm,” said Rumata. “And what will we do at the Gray Joy?”

The baron was silent for some time, fiercely tugging on his mustache. “What do you mean?” he asked finally. “What a strange question. We’ll sit, we’ll talk…”

“At the Gray Joy?” Rumata asked doubtfully.

“Yes. I see what you’re saying,” said the baron. “It’s horrible. But we really must leave. When I’m here, I keep wanting to order Estorian wine!”

“Get me a horse,” said Rumata. He went into his study to get the transmitter.

In a few minutes, they were riding side by side down a narrow, pitch-black street. The baron, who had cheered up somewhat, was loudly describing the boar hunt from the day before yesterday, the remarkable qualities of the young baronet, and the miracle in the monastery of Holy Tuca, in which the father abbot gave birth to a six-fingered boy from his hip. He also remembered to have some fun: once in a while, he’d howl like a wolf, hoot, and bang his whip on the closed shutters.

When they arrived at the Gray Joy, the baron reined in his horse and fell into deep thought. Rumata waited. The dingy inn windows shone brightly and horses pranced at the hitching post; a few painted girls were sitting side by side on a bench beneath the windows and squabbling lazily, while two servants were straining to roll a huge barrel covered in nitrate stains through the open doors.

The baron said sadly, “All alone… I hate to think of it—the whole night is ahead of us, and I’m all alone! And she’s all alone at home.”

“Don’t be so upset, my friend,” Rumata said. “After all, the baronet is keeping her company, and I’m here with you.”

“That’s completely different,” said the baron. “You don’t understand at all, my friend. You’re too young and flighty. You probably even get pleasure out of looking at these whores.”

“Well, why not?” Rumata said, looking curiously at the baron. “They seem like very nice girls.”

The baron shook his head and smiled sarcastically. “The one standing up,” he said loudly, “has a saggy ass. And the one brushing her hair has no ass at all. These are cows, my friend—at best these are cows. Just think of the baroness! Think of her hands, her grace! Think of her poise, my friend!”

“Yes,” Rumata agreed. “The baroness is lovely. Let’s leave this place.”

“Where would we go?” the baron asked with melancholy. “And why?” Resolve suddenly appeared on his face. “No, my friend, I’m not leaving this place. You do what you like.” He started climbing off his horse. “Although I would be very hurt if you left me here alone.”

“Of course I’ll stay with you,” Rumata said. “But—”

“No buts,” the baron said.

They threw the reins to an approaching servant, proudly walked past the girls, and entered the hall. It was stifling inside. The lamplight barely penetrated the mist of fumes, as if they were in a large and very dirty steam bath. The benches by the long tables were filled with sweaty soldiers in unbuttoned uniforms, seafaring vagrants in colorful caftans over naked bodies, women with barely covered breasts, gray storm troopers holding their axes between their knees, and craftsmen in scorched rags—all of whom were drinking, eating, cursing, laughing, crying, kissing, and bawling bawdy songs. To the left of them, you could make out a bar, behind which the owner sat at a special dais between giant barrels, managing the swarm of nimble, shifty-eyed servants. To the right of them, a bright rectangle of light shone through—the entrance to the clean half, which was reserved for noble dons, respectable merchants, and gray officers.

“Why shouldn’t we have a drink, after all?” Baron Pampa inquired irritably, grabbing Rumata’s sleeve and hurrying toward the bar through the narrow passage between the tables, scratching people’s backs with the spikes of his armor. At the bar, he snatched the capacious ladle that the owner was using to pour wine into cups, silently drank it down, and declared that all was lost and the only thing left to do was make merry. Then he turned toward the owner and inquired thunderously whether this establishment boasted a place where noblemen could decently and modestly spend their time, without being annoyed by the presence of various tramps, scamps, and thieves. The owner assured him that this was just such an establishment.

“Excellent!” the baron said majestically. He tossed a few gold pieces at the owner. “Bring the best things in the house for myself and this don here, and let us be served by some respectable matron and not some cute little coquette!”

The owner conducted the dons into the clean half himself. There weren’t many people there. In the corner, a party of gray officers was sullenly making merry—four lieutenants in tight-fitting uniforms and two captains in short cloaks with the stripes of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown. Two young aristocrats, sour-faced from general disenchantment, were sitting looking bored by a window, behind a large narrow-necked jug. Not far from them was a cluster of impecunious dons in shabby tunics and darned cloaks. They took tiny sips of beer and constantly looked around the room with thirsty eyes.

The baron collapsed on a seat at an empty table, looked askance at the gray officers, and grumbled, “Even this place has some tramps.” But then a stout woman wearing an apron brought out the first course. The baron grunted, took his dagger off his belt, and started to make merry. He silently devoured hefty chunks of roast venison, heaps of pickled clams, mountains of lobsters, tubs of salads and mayonnaise, washing it all down with waterfalls of wine, beer, or mead, or a mixture of wine, beer, and mead. The impecunious dons started to trickle over in ones and twos, and the baron would meet them with a grand wave of the hand and a guttural growl.

He suddenly stopped eating, stared at Rumata with bulging eyes, and roared in a monstrous voice, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Arkanar, my noble friend! And to be honest with you, there’s something I don’t like around here.”

“What is it, Baron?” Rumata asked with interest, sucking on a chicken wing. The faces of the impecunious dons expressed deferential attention.

“Tell me, my friend!” the baron uttered, wiping his greasy hands on the hem of his cloak. “Tell me, noble dons! Since when is it the custom in the capital of His Majesty the King for the descendants of the ancient races of the empire to be unable to take a single step without bumping into all sorts of shopkeepers and butchers?”

The impecunious dons exchanged looks and started to move away. Rumata glanced into the corner where the gray officers were sitting. They had stopped drinking and were peering at the baron.

“I’ll tell you what it is, noble dons,” Baron Pampa continued. “It all comes from cowardice. You tolerate them because you’re scared. Yes, you, you’re scared!” he bellowed at the nearest impecunious don. The man’s face turned pale and he walked away with a wan smile. “Cowards!” barked the baron. His mustache stood on end.

But the impecunious dons weren’t much use. They clearly didn’t want to fight; they wanted to eat and drink.

Then the baron threw his legs over the bench, grabbed the right side of his mustache in his fist, and, glaring into the corner where the gray officers sat, declared, “But I’m not scared of a damn thing! I beat up the gray scum whenever I have the chance!”

“What’s that beer barrel wheezing about?” a gray captain with a long face inquired loudly.

The baron gave a satisfied smile. He got up from the table with a clatter and clambered onto the bench. Rumata, raising both eyebrows, started eating a second wing.

“Hear me, gray scum!” the baron bellowed as if the officers were a mile away. “Know that three days ago, I, Baron Pampa don Bau, gave your kind a good thrashing! You see, my friend,” he said to Rumata from his perch, “we were drinking with Father Cabani at my castle. Suddenly, my groom rushes in and tells me that a band of gray soldiers is tearing up the Golden Horseshoe. That’s my inn, on my ancestral land! I give the order: ‘Saddle the horses!’—and we’re off. I swear by my spurs, there were about twenty of them there, a whole gang. They had captured some three men, then got as drunk as pigs. These shopkeepers don’t know how to drink… so they started walloping everyone and breaking everything. I grabbed one of them by the feet—and the fun began! I chased them all the way to Heavy Swords. There was blood—you won’t believe me, my friend—up to the knee, and the number of axes they dropped—”

Here the baron’s tale was interrupted. The long-faced captain motioned with his hand, and a heavy throwing knife clanged against the breastplate of the baron’s armor.

“About time!” said the baron. He hauled a huge two-handed sword out of its sheath.

With unexpected agility, he jumped down to the floor; the sword swept a gleaming arc through the air and cut through a ceiling beam. The baron swore. The ceiling sank, and debris rained on everyone’s heads.

Everyone was now on their feet. The impecunious dons recoiled and clung to the walls. The young aristocrats climbed onto a table for a better view. The grays, holding their blades in front of them, formed a semicircle and started taking small steps toward the baron. Only Rumata remained seated, trying to gauge which side of the baron he could stand up on without getting in the way of his sword.

The wide blade was humming ominously as it described gleaming circles above the baron’s head. The baron was awe inspiring. He bore an uncanny resemblance to an idling cargo helicopter.

Having surrounded him from three sides, the grays were forced to stop. One of them had carelessly stood with his back to Rumata, so Rumata bent over the table, grabbed him by the collar, flipped him onto his back into the plates with leftovers and struck him beneath the ear with the edge of his palm. The soldier closed his eyes and went still. The baron cried, “Slaughter him, noble Rumata, and I’ll finish off the rest!”

He’ll kill all of them, thought Rumata with displeasure. “Listen,” he said to the grays. “Let’s not spoil a pleasant night for each other. You can’t stand against us. Lay down your weapons and leave this place.”

“Hey!” said the baron. “I want to fight! Let them fight! Keep fighting, damn you!” As he spoke, he advanced on the grays, sword rotating faster and faster. The soldiers retreated, turning visibly pale. They had obviously never seen a cargo helicopter.

Rumata leapt over the table. “Wait, my friend,” he said. “We have absolutely no reason to quarrel with these men. You don’t like their presence here? They’ll leave.”

“We’re not leaving without our weapons,” one of the lieutenants informed them sullenly. “We’ll get in trouble. I’m on patrol.”

“What the hell, take your weapons,” Rumata gave permission. “Sheathe your blades, hands behind your heads, single file! And none of your tricks! I’ll break your bones!”

“How are we supposed to leave?” the long-faced captain said irritably. “This don is blocking the way!”

“And I’ll continue to block it!” the baron said stubbornly.

The young aristocrats laughed derisively.

“All right,” Rumata said. “I’ll hold the baron, and you run by, and better hurry up—I won’t be able to hold him long! Hey, you, in the door, out of the way! Baron,” he said, hugging Pampa around his ample waist. “My friend, I think you have forgotten something important. As you know, your ancestors only used this glorious sword for noble battle, for it is said, ‘Thou shalt not bare thy blade in a tavern.’”

The baron continued rotating the sword, but his face turned pensive. “But I have no other sword,” he said uncertainly.

“That’s even worse!” Rumata said significantly.

“You think so?” the baron still hesitated.

“You know this better than I do!”

“Yes,” said the baron. “You’re right.” He looked up at his furiously spinning wrist. “You may not believe me, my dear Rumata, but I can keep this up for three to four hours in a row—and I wouldn’t even get tired. Oh, why doesn’t she see me now!”

“I’ll tell her about it,” Rumata promised.

The baron sighed and lowered his sword. The gray soldiers ducked and rushed past him. The baron followed them with his eyes. “I wonder, I wonder…” he said indecisively. “Do you think I was right not to send them off with a kick to the rear?”

“You were absolutely right,” Rumata assured him.

“Well,” said the baron, sheathing his sword, “since we didn’t succeed in having a fight, we now finally have the right to have a bit of food and drink.” He dragged the still-unconscious gray lieutenant off the table by his feet and boomed, “Hey there, kind hostess! Food and wine!”

The young aristocrats came over and politely congratulated them on the victory.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” the baron said complacently. “Six miserable thugs, cowardly like all shopkeepers. I scattered two dozen of them in the Golden Horseshoe. How lucky,” he turned to Rumata, “that I didn’t have my fighting sword that time! I may have carelessly bared it. And even though the Golden Horseshoe isn’t a tavern but only an inn—”

“That’s how some say it,” said Rumata. “‘Thou shalt not bare thy blade in an inn.’”

The hostess brought some fresh plates of meat and jugs of wine. The baron rolled up his sleeves and dug in.

“By the way,” Rumata said, “Who were the three prisoners you freed in the Golden Horseshoe?”

“Freed?” the baron stopped chewing and stared at Rumata. “But, my noble friend, I must not have expressed myself clearly! I didn’t free anyone. They were under arrest—it’s a matter of state. Why in the world would I free them? There was a don, probably a big coward, an elderly bookworm, and a servant.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, of course,” Rumata said sadly.

The blood suddenly rushed to the baron’s face and he savagely rolled his eyes. “What! Again?” he roared.

Rumata looked around. Don Ripat was standing in the doorway. The baron began to get up, knocking over benches and scattering dishes. Don Ripat gave Rumata a significant look and went outside.

“I beg your pardon, Baron,” said Rumata, getting up. “His Majesty’s service…”

“Oh,” said the baron in disappointment. “My sympathy. I would never join the service!”

Don Ripat was waiting just outside the door.

“What is it?” Rumata asked.

“Two hours ago,” Don Ripat informed him briskly, “by the order of the Minister of the Defense of the Crown Don Reba, I arrested Doña Ocana and conveyed her to the Merry Tower.

“All right,” Rumata said.

“An hour ago, Doña Ocana died, unable to withstand the trial by fire.”

“All right,” Rumata said.

“Officially, she was charged with espionage. But…” Don Ripat faltered and looked down. “I think… It seems to me…”

“I understand,” Rumata said.

Don Ripat raised guilty eyes at him.

“It’s none of your business,” Rumata said gruffly.

Don Ripat’s eyes turned opaque again. Rumata nodded to him and went back to the table. The baron was polishing off a plate of stuffed cuttlefish.

“Pour me some Estorian wine!” said Rumata. “And let them bring more food.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll make merry. We’ll make merry, goddamn it.”

When Rumata came to, he found himself standing in the middle of a large vacant lot. A gray dawn was breaking; the timekeeping roosters were shrieking in the distance. Cawing crows were densely circling over some unpleasant heap nearby; it smelled of dampness and decay. The fog in his head was quickly dissipating, the familiar state of piercingly sharp and clear sensations was setting in, and something bitter and minty was pleasantly melting on his tongue. The fingers on his right hand really smarted. Rumata brought his clenched fist to his eyes. His knuckles were raw, and he was squeezing an empty vial of casparamid in his fist. Apparently, after he had already gotten to this vacant lot, before he had turned into a complete pig, he unconsciously, almost instinctively, poured the entire contents of the vial into his mouth.

The place was familiar—the tower of the burnt-out observatory loomed in front of him, and to his left he could see the thin, minaret-like watchtowers of the royal palace through the gloom. Rumata took a deep breath of cold damp air and headed home.

Baron Pampa had really made merry last night. Accompanied by a host of impecunious dons, who were quickly losing human form, he made a gigantic tour of the bars of Arkanar, drank away everything including his splendid belt, demolished an unbelievable quantity of food and drink, and got into at least eight fights along the way. At least, Rumata could distinctly recall eight fights he had intervened in, trying to break things up and prevent loss of life. His later memories were lost in the fog. Certain images floated up through the mist: predatory faces with knives in their teeth, the vacantly sad face of the last impecunious don, whom Baron Pampa was attempting to sell into slavery at the port, a furious hook-nosed Irukanian angrily demanding that the noble dons give back his horses…

Early in the night, he was still an operative. He drank as much as the baron: Irukanian wine, Estorian wine, Soanian wine, Arkanarian wine, but before each new wine he would furtively put a casparamid pill under his tongue. He still retained his judgment, and by force of habit noted the clusters of gray patrols at the intersections and bridges, and the outpost of mounted barbarians on the road to Soan, where the baron would certainly have been shot if Rumata hadn’t known the barbarian tongue. He distinctly recalled being shocked by the realization that the motionless rows of strange soldiers in long black hooded cloaks, who were lined up in front of the Patriotic School, were a monastic militia. What does the church have to do with anything? he thought then. Since when does the Arkanarian church interfere in secular affairs?

It had taken him a while to get drunk, but when he did, it happened abruptly, all at once; and when in a moment of clarity he saw an oak table cut in half in a completely unfamiliar room, a drawn sword in his hand, and the applauding impecunious dons around him, he did briefly think that it was time to go home. But it was too late. A wave of fury and repulsive, obscene joy at being free from everything human had already gotten hold of him. He was still an earthling, an operative, an heir to the people of fire and iron, who didn’t spare himself or others in the name of a great purpose. He couldn’t become Rumata of Estor, flesh of the flesh of twenty generations of warlike ancestors, renowned for their pillaging and drunkenness. But he was no longer a communard. He no longer had responsibilities to the Experiment. He was only concerned with his responsibilities to himself. He no longer had any doubts. He was certain of everything, absolutely everything. He knew exactly whose fault everything was, and he knew exactly what he wanted: to hack them to pieces, set them on fire, hurl them down from the palace steps onto the spears and pitchforks of a roaring crowd.

Rumata started and took his swords out of their scabbards. The blades were notched but clean. He remembered fighting with someone, but whom? And how did it end?

They drank away the horses. The impecunious dons had disappeared somewhere. Rumata—he remembered this, too—had dragged the baron home with him. Pampa don Bau was full of energy, utterly sober, and completely ready to continue the merrymaking—he simply could no longer stand on his feet. Furthermore, for some reason he thought that he had just said good-bye to his beloved baroness and was now on a military campaign against his ancient enemy Baron Kaska, who had become impudent to the last degree. (“Judge for yourself, my friend—this scoundrel gave birth to a six-fingered boy from his hip and called him Pampa.”) “The sun is setting,” he declared, looking at a tapestry depicting a sunrise. “We could make merry the whole night, noble dons, but military feats require sleep. Not a drop of wine during the campaign. Besides, the baroness would be displeased.”

“What? Go to bed? What bed is there in an open field? Our bed is a horse blanket!” With these words, he tore the unfortunate tapestry off the wall, wrapped himself up to his head in it, and collapsed under a lamp with a crash. Rumata ordered Uno to put a bucket of brine and a tub of pickles next to the baron. The boy had an irate, sleepy face. “He sure is plastered,” he grumbled. “Eyes pointing in different directions.”

“Quiet, fool,” Rumata said then, and… something happened after this. Something very bad, which chased him all the way across the city to the vacant lot. Something very, very bad, unforgivable, shameful.

He remembered when he was nearly back at home, and when he remembered, he stopped.

Flinging Uno aside, he had climbed up the stairs, opened the door, and burst in on her, like her master, and in the light of the night-lamp he saw a white face, huge eyes full of terror and disgust, and in those eyes, a reflection of himself—staggering, with a drooping, slobbering lower lip, with raw knuckles, with trash-smeared clothes, an insolent and loathsome blue-blooded boor. And this look threw him backward, onto the stairs, down into the hall, out the door, into the dark street, and far, far, far away, as far away as possible…

Gritting his teeth and feeling all his insides freeze together, he quietly opened the door and tiptoed into the hallway. In the corner, resembling a gigantic sea mammal, the baron was slumbering peacefully, puffing in his sleep.

“Who’s there?” cried Uno, who was dozing on a bench with a crossbow on his knees.

“Quiet,” Rumata whispered. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Bring a barrel of water, vinegar, and new clothes, quick!”

He spent a long time furiously pouring water on himself and rubbing himself down with vinegar, acutely relishing scrubbing off the night’s filth. Uno, who was unusually silent, bustled around him. And only afterward, helping the don fasten a pair of idiotic purple pants with buckles on the behind, he informed him gloomily, “At night, when you took off, Kira came down and asked me if the don had been back, must have decided she dreamt it. I told her that you hadn’t come back since you went off for guard duty last night.”

Rumata took a deep breath, turning away. That wasn’t better. It was worse.

“And I’ve been sitting by the baron with a crossbow all night. I was worried he’d drunkenly try to climb upstairs.”

“Thanks, kid,” Rumata said with difficulty.

He pulled on his shoes, went out into the hall, and spent some time in front of a dark metal mirror. The casparamid had worked beautifully. The mirror showed an elegant noble don with a face that was slightly haggard after an exhausting night shift but eminently respectable. The damp hair, clasped by the gold circlet, fell softly and beautifully around his face. Rumata automatically adjusted the lens above his nose. They got to watch some pretty scenes on Earth today, he thought grimly.

By now, the sun had risen. It was peering into the dusty windows. Shutters began to slam. Sleepy voices were calling to each other in the street. “How did you sleep, Brother Kiris?” “Soundly, praise the Lord, Brother Tika. The night is over, and thank God.” “And we had someone try to break into our windows. The noble Don Rumata was partying last night, I hear.” “His Lordship has a guest, they say.” “There’s no real partying nowadays. I remember, in the young king’s time, they’d party—wouldn’t notice before they burned half the city down.” “What can I say, Brother Tika? Thank the Lord that we have such a don for a neighbor. If he parties once a year it’s a lot.”

Rumata went upstairs, knocked, and went into the study. Kira was sitting in the chair like yesterday. She looked up and gazed into his face in fear and anxiety.

“Good morning, little one,” he said, came up to her, kissed her hands, and sat in a chair across from her.

She was still looking at him searchingly, then asked, “Tired?”

“Yes, a little. And I have to go out again.”

“Shall I make you something?”

“No, thank you. Uno will do it. You could put perfume on my collar.”

Rumata could feel a wall of lies growing between them. Thin at first, but becoming thicker and stronger. For our whole life! he thought bitterly. He sat there with his eyes closed as she carefully dabbed various perfumes onto his fluffy collar, his cheeks, his forehead, and his hair. Then she said, “You didn’t even ask me how I slept.”

“How did you sleep, little one?”

“I had a dream. You know, a scary, scary dream.”

The wall became as thick as a castle wall. “That’s how it always is in a new place,” Rumata said artificially. “And the baron was probably making a ruckus downstairs.”

“Should I order breakfast?” she asked.

“Please.”

“And what kind of wine do you like in the morning?”

Rumata opened his eyes. “Order some water,” he said. “I don’t drink in the morning.”

She went out, and he heard her calm, clear voice speaking to Uno. Then she came back, sat on the arm of his chair, and started to tell him her dream, and he listened, raising his eyebrows, with each minute feeling the wall become thicker and more impregnable, forever separating him from the only person truly dear to him in this hideous world.

And then he hurled his whole body at the wall. “Kira,” he said. “It wasn’t a dream.”

And nothing in particular happened.

“My poor darling,” Kira said. “Wait, let me bring you some brine…”