Hard to Be a God (13 page)

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.”