Hard to Be a God (21 page)

“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 …