Hard to Be a God (17 page)

Don Reba stroked his clean-shaven chin. “That's tooky jelly.”

Waga shrugged. “This is our struntle. Denooting with us isn't rastenly for your gnawpers. It's revided?”

“It's revided,” said the Minister of the Defense of the Crown decisively.

“And drink the circle,” Waga said, getting up.

Rumata, who was listening to this gibberish dumbfounded, discovered a bushy mustache and a pointy gray beard on Waga's face. A true courtier from the time of the last regency.

“It was nice to talk to you,” said Waga.

Don Reba also got up. “The conversation with you gave me great pleasure,” he said. “I have never before seen a man as courageous as yourself, honorable …”

“Me too,” said Waga in a bored voice. “I'm also amazed and proud of the courage of the First Minister of our kingdom.”

He turned his back on Don Reba and shuffled toward the door, leaning on his staff. Don Reba, continuing to look at him pensively, absentmindedly placed his fingers on the handle of the knife. Someone behind Rumata's back immediately took an extremely deep breath, and the long brown barrel of a blowpipe squeezed past his ear toward the gap between the curtains. Don Reba remained standing for a second, as if listening, then he sat back down, opened a drawer, extracted a pile of paper, and became absorbed in his reading. The man behind Rumata's back spat on the floor; the blowpipe was removed. Everything was clear. The spiders had agreed. Rumata got up and, stepping on somebody's feet, started making his way back out from the lilac quarters.

The king dined in a huge hall with two tiers of windows. The ninety-foot table was set for a hundred people: the king himself, Don Reba, the royals (two dozen full-blooded individuals, gluttons and drunks), the Minister of the Court and the Minister of Ceremonies, a group of highborn aristocrats invited by tradition (this included Rumata), a dozen visiting barons with their ox-like baronets, and at the very end of the table various aristocratic small fry, who had somehow finagled an invitation to the royal dinner. When these last were being handed their invitations and chair numbers, they were warned, “Sit still, the king doesn't like it when people fidget. Keep your hands on the table; the king doesn't like it when people hide their hands under the table. Don't look around; the king doesn't like it when people look around.” At every such dinner, vast quantities of fine food were devoured, whole lakes of ancient wines were drunk, and masses of
dishes made from the famous Estorian china were damaged or broken. In one of his reports to the king, the Minister of Finance bragged that just one of His Majesty's dinners costs as much as maintaining the Soanian Academy of Science for half a year.

While he waited for the Minister of Ceremonies to proclaim “To the table!” three times, accompanied by trumpets, Rumata stood in a group of courtiers and listened for the tenth time to Don Tameo's story about the royal dinner that he, Don Tameo, had the honor to attend six months ago.

“… I find my seat, we stand up, the king comes in, sits down, we also sit down. The dinner goes on as usual. And suddenly, imagine this, my dear dons, I feel something wet underneath me. Yes, wet! I don't dare turn around, squirm, or feel it with my hand. However, I find an opportunity to stick a hand underneath me—and what happens? It really is wet! I smell my hand—it doesn't smell like anything in particular. What a fable! Meanwhile, everyone is getting up, and as you can imagine, noble dons, I am somehow afraid to get up. I see the king—the king himself!—walking toward me, but I keep sitting, as if I were a bumpkin baron without any manners. His Majesty comes up to me, smiles indulgently at me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘My dear Don Tameo,' he says, ‘everyone has gotten up and is about to go to watch the ballet, but you're still sitting down. What's wrong, did you eat too much?' ‘Your Majesty,' I say, ‘chop my head off, but something is wet underneath me.' His Majesty was so gracious as to laugh and order me to stand up. I get up—and what happens? Laughter all around! Noble dons, I had been sitting on rum cake for the whole dinner! His Majesty was so gracious as to laugh a lot. ‘Reba, Reba,' he said, finally, ‘these are all your jokes! Would you be so kind as to clean
the noble don up, you soiled his seat!' Don Reba, laughing uproariously, takes out a dagger and starts scraping the cake off my pants. Can you imagine my condition, noble dons? I won't deny it, I was shaking in fear at the thought that Don Reba, humiliated in front of everyone, would take revenge on me. Fortunately, nothing happened. I assure you, noble dons, this was the happiest experience of my life! How the king laughed! How His Majesty was pleased!”

The courtiers roared with laughter. In fact, such jokes were customary at the royal table. The invitees would be seated in pâtés, in chairs with sawed-off legs, on goose eggs. They'd been seated on poisoned needles too. The king liked to be amused. Rumata suddenly thought: I wonder what I would have done in this idiot's place? I'm afraid that the king would have had to look for another Minister of Defense, and the Institute would have had to send another man to Arkanar. In any case, I need to be on my guard. Like our eagle Don Reba.

The trumpets sounded, the Minister of Ceremonies bellowed melodiously, the king limped in, and everyone began to take their seats. The guardsmen on duty were standing motionless in the corners of the hall, leaning on their two-handed swords. Rumata got taciturn neighbors. On his right, the seat was filled with the quivering bulk of the sullen glutton Don Pifa, the husband of the well-known beauty, and on his left, Gur the Storyteller was staring at an empty plate. The guests paused, looking at the king. The king stuffed a grayish napkin in his collar, scanned the dishes, and grabbed a chicken leg. As soon as he sank his teeth into it, a hundred knives fell onto plates with a clatter, and a hundred hands reached for dishes. The hall became full of chomping and sucking sounds; wine started gurgling. The mustaches of the
motionless guardsmen with the two-handed swords began to twitch avidly. Once upon a time, Rumata had gotten nauseated at these dinners. Now he was used to them.

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.