Hard to Be a God Page 13

  Carving a shoulder of mutton with his dagger, he glanced right and immediately turned away: Don Pifa was hanging over an entire roasted wild boar, working like an excavator. He left no bones. Rumata held his breath and drained his glass of Irukanian wine in one gulp. Then he glanced left. Gur the Storyteller was listlessly picking at a small plate of salad with a spoon.

  “Are you writing anything new, Father Gur?” Rumata asked in a low voice.

  Gur started. “Writing? Me? I don’t know … A lot.”

  “Poetry?”

  “Yes … poetry.”

  “Your poetry is abominable, Father Gur.” Gur looked at him strangely. “Yes, yes, you’re no poet.”

  “No poet … Sometimes I wonder, who am I? And what am I afraid of? I don’t know.”

  “Look at your plate and keep eating. I’ll tell you who you are. You’re a brilliant storyteller, the founder of a new literary movement—the most fruitful one there is.” Gur’s cheeks slowly started to glow. “In a hundred years, and maybe even earlier, dozens of storytellers will follow in your footsteps.”

  “God help them!” Gur blurted out.

  “Now I’ll tell you what you’re afraid of.”

  “I’m afraid of the dark.”

  “Of the nighttime?”

  “Of the nighttime too. At night we’re at the mercy of spirits. But most of all I’m afraid of the dark, because in the dark everyone becomes equally gray.”

  “Very well put, Father Gur. By the way, is it still possible to find your book?”

  “I don’t know … And I don’t want to know.”

  “Just in case, you should know: one copy is in the metropole, in the library of the emperor. Another is kept in the Museum of Curiosities in Soan. The third is with me.”

  Gur spooned some jelly onto his plate with a trembling hand. “I … don’t know …” He looked at Rumata mournfully with his huge sunken eyes. “I’d like to read it … reread it …”

  “I’ll be happy to lend it to you.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you’ll give it back.”

  “And then you’ll be given back!” Gur said sharply. Rumata shook his head. “Don Reba really scared you, Father Gur.”

  “Scared me … Have you ever had to burn your own children? What do you know about fear, noble don!”

  “I bow my head before what you’ve had to go through, Father Gur. But I wholeheartedly blame you for giving up.”

  Gur the Storyteller suddenly started to whisper so softly that Rumata could barely hear him over the chomping and the drone of voices. “And what is it all for? What is the truth? Prince Haar really did love the beautiful copper-skinned Yaivnivora. They had kids … I know their grandchildren. She really was poisoned … But I was told that it’s a lie. I was told that truth is what currently benefits the king. Everything else is a lie and a crime. I had written lies all my life … And only now do I write the truth.”

  He suddenly stood up and loudly recited in a sing-song voice:

  Great and glorious, like eternity,

  Is our king, whose name is Nobility!

  Infinity is in retreat,

  And birthright’s signaling defeat.

  The king stopped chewing and stared at him vacantly. The guests pulled their heads into their shoulders. Only Don Reba smiled and gave a few silent claps. The king spit the bones onto the tablecloth and said, “Infinity? That’s right. That’s true, it’s in retreat … I commend you. You may eat.”

  The chomping and conversations resumed.

  Gur sat down. “It’s so sweet and easy to tell the truth to the king’s face,” he croaked.

  Rumata was silent. Then he said, “I’ll give you a copy of your book, Father Gur. But under one condition. You will immediately start writing the next one.”

  “No,” Gur said. “It’s too late. Let Kiun write. I’ve been poisoned. And anyway, I’m not interested in any of it anymore. I only want one thing now—to learn to drink. And I can’t. It hurts my stomach.”

  Another defeat, thought Rumata. I’m too late.

  “Listen, Reba,” the king said suddenly. “Where’s the healer? You promised me the healer after dinner.”

  “He’s here, Your Majesty,” said Don Reba. “Do you order me to summon him?”

  “Do I order you to? Of course! If your knee hurt like this, you’d squeal like a pig! Get him here this instant!”

  Rumata leaned back in his chair and got ready to watch. Don Reba raised a hand above his head and snapped his fingers. The door opened, and a hunched old man wearing a long robe adorned with images of silver spiders, stars, and snakes entered the hall, constantly bowing. He was holding a flat, oblong bag under his arm. Rumata was puzzled: this wasn’t at all how he had imagined Budach. The sage and humanist, the author of the comprehensive Treatise on Poisons, couldn’t have such faded, darting eyes, such fearfully trembling lips, such a pathetic, ingratiating smile. But then he remembered Gur the Storyteller. The inquiry into the suspected Irukanian spy probably involved a literary conversation in Don Reba’s office. Oh, to take Reba by the ear, he thought longingly. To drag him into the dungeon. To tell the torturers, “Here’s an Irukanian spy, disguised as our glorious minister; the king has ordered us to extract the whereabouts of the real minister from him. Do what you do, and woe be upon you if he dies in less than a week.” He put a hand in front of his face lest it betray his thoughts. What a terrible thing hatred is …

  “Well, well, come here, healer,” the king said. “You’re a weakling, brother. Now squat—squat, I tell you!”

  The unfortunate Budach began to squat. His face contorted in horror.

  “Again, again,” the king said nasally. “Once again! Again! Your knees don’t hurt—you healed your own knees. Now let’s see your teeth! Hmmmm, not bad. I should have such teeth. And the hands aren’t bad, nice and strong. Nice and healthy, though you’re a weakling … Well go on, my dear, treat me, don’t just stand there.”

  “Y-Your Majesty … be so g-gracious as to show his leg … his leg …” Rumata heard the healer say. He looked up. The man was on his knees in front of the king and was carefully kneading his leg.

  “Hey … hey!” the king said. “What are you doing? Don’t paw at me! If you’re going to treat me, then treat me!”

  “I u-understand everything, Your Majesty,” the healer mumbled. He started hurriedly digging through his bag.

  The guests stopped chewing. The minor aristocrats at the end of the table even stood up and craned their necks, burning with curiosity.

  Budach took a number of stone bottles from his bag, opened them, and, sniffing them one by one, lined them up along the table. Then he took the king’s goblet and filled it halfway with wine. Making strange gestures over the goblet with both hands and whispering incantations, he quickly emptied all the bottles into the wine. The distinct smell of ammonia spread through the hall. The king pursed his lips, looked into the goblet, and, screwing up his nose, looked at Don Reba. The minister smiled sympathetically. The courtiers held their breath.

  What is he doing? thought Rumata with surprise. The old man has gout! What is that concoction? His treatise clearly states, massage a three-day infusion of white snake venom into the swollen joints. Maybe this is the salve?

  “What’s this, salve?” the king asked, nervously nodding at the goblet.

  “Not at all, Your Majesty,” said Budach. He had already recovered a little. “This is taken orally.”

  “Orally?” The king pouted and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want anything orally. Massage it in.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty,” Budach said meekly. “But I must take the liberty to warn you that massaging it in will be of no use.”

  “For some reason, everyone else massages,” the king said peevishly, “and you absolutely have to pour this stuff into me.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Budach, proudly standing up, “this medicine is known to me alone! I used it to cure the uncle of the Duke of Iruk
an. As for the massagers, they certainly didn’t cure you, Your Majesty.”

  The king looked at Don Reba. Don Reba again smiled sympathetically.

  “You rascal,” the king said to the healer in an unpleasant voice. “A bumpkin. A lousy weakling.” He picked up the goblet. “I have half a mind to give you a good crack on the teeth with this goblet.” He looked into the goblet. “And if I throw up?”

  “We’d have to repeat it, Your Majesty,” Budach said mournfully.

  “All right, the Lord be with us!” the king said, bringing the goblet almost to his mouth—but he suddenly jerked it away so abruptly that it splashed onto the tablecloth. “Hey, you drink some first! I know you Irukanians! You sold Holy Míca to the barbarians! Drink it, I say!”

  Budach took the goblet with an offended look and drank a few sips.

  “Well, how is it?” said the king.

  “It’s bitter, Your Majesty,” Budach said in a choked voice. “But you have to drink it.”

  “Haaave to, haaave to …” the king said peevishly. “I know I have to myself. Hand it over. Look at this, you polished half of it off, took your chance …”

  He tossed off the goblet in one gulp. Sympathetic sighs sounded around the table—and suddenly everything went still. The king froze with his mouth open. Tears rained from his eyes. He slowly turned purple, then blue in the face. He stretched out a hand above the table, convulsively snapping his fingers. Don Reba hastily handed him a pickle. The king silently hurled the pickle at Don Reba and again stretched out his hand. “Wine …” he wheezed.

  Someone dashed off and got the pitcher. The king, his eyes frantically rolling, swallowed loudly. Red rivulets were pouring down his white waistcoat. When the pitcher was empty, the king threw it at Budach but missed. “Bastard!” he said in an unexpectedly bass voice. “What did you kill me for? Haven’t we hanged enough of you? Blast you!”

  He stopped and touched his knee.

  “It hurts!” he said in his former nasal voice. “It still hurts!”

  “Your Majesty,” said Budach. “For a complete cure, the potion must be taken every day for at least a week’s duration—”

  Something squeaked in the king’s throat. “Out!” he shrieked. “Everyone get out!”

  The courtiers, overturning their chairs, swarmed toward the doors.

  “Ouuut!” the king screeched, sweeping the dishes off the table.

  Rumata rushed out of the hall, then ducked behind a curtain and began to laugh. Someone else was also laughing behind the adjacent curtain—hysterically, gasping for breath, with little yelps.

  Chapter 6

  His shift at the prince’s bedchamber started at midnight, so Rumata decided to stop by his house to make sure everything was in order and to change clothes. The city this evening amazed him. The streets were dead silent, the taverns closed. Clusters of storm troopers with torches in their hands were standing around at the intersections, clanking their weapons. They were quiet, as if waiting for something. A number of them approached Rumata, took a good look at him, and after recognizing him, just as silently let him pass. When he was about fifty steps from his door, a group of shady characters began to trail him. Rumata stopped, clanked his scabbards against each other, and the characters fell back, but he immediately heard the sound of a crossbow being loaded in the dark. Rumata hurried onward, clinging to the walls, groped for the door, and turned his key in the lock. He remained aware of his unprotected back the entire time, and he rushed into the entrance hall with a sigh of relief.

  All the servants were gathered in the entrance hall, armed as best they could be. It turned out that the door had already been tried a few times. Rumata didn’t like that. Maybe I shouldn’t go? he thought. To hell with him, the prince.

  “Where’s Baron Pampa?” he asked.

  Uno, extremely agitated and with a crossbow on his shoulder, answered: “The baron woke up at midday, drank all the brine in the house, and again left to make merry.” Then, lowering his voice, he informed Rumata that Kira had been very worried and had asked about the master more than once.

  “All right,” said Rumata. He ordered the servants to line up.

  There were six servants, not counting the cook, all of them tough and used to street brawls. They wouldn’t tussle with the gray soldiers, of course—they’d be afraid of the anger of the all-powerful minister—but they’d be able to withstand the tramps from Waga’s night army, especially since tonight the bandits would be looking for easy prey. Two crossbows, four poleaxes, heavy butcher knives, iron hats; the doors were sturdy and bound with iron, as was the custom. Or maybe he really shouldn’t go?

  Rumata went upstairs and tiptoed into Kira’s room. Kira was sleeping fully clothed, curled up on the still-made bed. Rumata stood over her with a lamp. To go or not to go? He really didn’t want to go. He covered her with a quilt, kissed her cheek, and came back to his study. He needed to go. Whatever was happening, an operative had to be in the center of things. And it benefits the historians. He chuckled, took the circlet off, wiped the lens carefully with a soft piece of suede, and put it back on. Then he called Uno and ordered him to bring a military uniform and a polished brass helmet. Shivering from the cold, he pulled on a metalstrom shirt shaped like chain mail underneath his waistcoat, right over his undershirt. (The local chain mail offered decent protection from swords and daggers, but crossbow bolts punched right through it.) Tightening the uniform belt with the metallic buckles, he told Uno, “Listen, kid. You’re the one I trust the most. Whatever happens here, Kira must remain alive and well. Let the house burn down, let all the money get stolen, but you must save Kira for me. Take her away over the rooftops, down through the cellars, whatever you like, but save her. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Uno. “Maybe my master shouldn’t go today.”

  “You listen to me. If I don’t come back after three days, take Kira and bring her to the saiva, to the Hiccup Forest. Know where it is? Anyway, in the Hiccup Forest you should find the Drunken Lair—it’s a hut not far back from the road. If you ask, you’ll be shown the way. Just be careful who you ask. A man called Father Cabani will be there. You’ll tell him everything. Got it?”

  “Got it. Only maybe master shouldn’t go.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to. I do—duty calls. Well, take care.”

  He gently flicked the boy’s nose and returned his awkward smile. Downstairs, he gave the servants a short pep talk, went out the door, and found himself in the dark again. The bars clanged shut behind him.

  The prince’s chambers had been poorly guarded through the ages. It’s possible that was precisely why no one ever attempted to assassinate the Arkanarian princes. And there was definitely no one interested in the current prince. No one in the world needed this sickly blue-eyed boy who resembled anyone but his father. Rumata liked the boy. His education had been woefully neglected, and therefore he was smart, wasn’t cruel, and—probably instinctively—couldn’t stand Don Reba. He liked to sing a variety of songs set to Zuren’s poetry and to play with boats. Rumata had ordered him picture books from the metropole, told him about the starry sky, and had won the boy once and for all with his tale of flying ships. For Rumata, who rarely interacted with children, the ten-year-old prince was the antithesis of every social class in this savage country. It was ordinary blue-eyed boys like this one, identical in every social class, who would grow up to be brutal, ignorant, and submissive men; and yet they, the children, showed no traces or beginnings of such rot. Sometimes Rumata thought it’d be great if all the people older than ten years of age disappeared from the planet.

  The prince was already asleep. Rumata started his shift— he stood by the sleeping boy next to the departing guardsman, performing the complex motions with drawn swords required by etiquette. Then, as prescribed by tradition, he checked whether all the windows were locked, whether all the nurses were in place, and whether all the lamps were lit in all the chambers. After this, he came back to the front room, played a game o
f dice with the departing guardsman, and inquired how the noble don felt about what was happening in the city. The noble don, a man of great sagacity, thought very hard and conjectured that the common people were preparing to celebrate the Day of Holy Míca.

  Left alone, Rumata pulled up a chair to the window, sat back, and began to watch the city. The prince’s apartments were on a hill, and during the day, you could clearly see the entire city all the way to the sea. But now, everything was sunk in darkness, and the only things visible were scattered groups of lights—the intersections at which the storm troopers were gathered with torches, waiting for a sign. The city was asleep, or pretended to be. I wonder whether the inhabitants feel something horrible looming over them tonight? Or, like the noble don of great sagacity, did they also think that someone was preparing to celebrate the Day of Holy Míca? Two hundred thousand men and women. Two hundred thousand blacksmiths, gunsmiths, butchers, haberdashers, jewelers, housewives, prostitutes, monks, money changers, soldiers, tramps, and surviving bookworms were currently tossing in bedbug-ridden, stuffy beds; sleeping, making love, recalculating profits in their heads, crying, grinding their teeth in anger or resentment. Two hundred thousand people! To a visitor from Earth, they all had something in common. It was probably the fact that almost without exception, they were not yet humans in the modern sense of the world, but blanks, unfinished pieces, which only the bloody centuries of history could one day fashion into true men, proud and free. They were passive, greedy, and incredibly, fantastically selfish. Almost all of them had the psychology of slaves—slaves of religions, slaves of their own kind, slaves of their pathetic passions, slaves of avarice. And if the fates decreed for one of them to be born or become a master, he didn’t know what to do with his freedom. He would again hurry to become a slave—a slave of wealth, a slave of outlandish excesses, a slave of his slaves. The vast majority of them weren’t guilty of anything. They were too passive and too ignorant. Their slavery was the result of passivity and ignorance, and passivity and ignorance again and again breeds slavery.