Hard to Be a God (20 page)

“Let's go, Don Rumata,” said the man in the cloak.

Rumata walked toward the curtains, going around the group of prisoners. I don't understand a thing, he thought. In the darkness behind the curtains they grabbed him, searched him, tore the empty scabbards off his belt, and then pushed him into the light.

Rumata immediately realized where he'd been taken. He was in Don Reba's familiar office in the lilac quarters. Don Reba was sitting in the same place and in exactly the same position, tensely upright, his elbows on the desk and his fingers interlaced. You know, the old man has hemorrhoids, Rumata suddenly thought with pity. On Don Reba's right side, Father Zupic sat in state—pompous, concentrated, with pursed lips; on his left side, there was a genially smiling fat man with captain's stripes on his gray uniform. There was no one else in the office.

When Rumata entered, Don Reba said, quietly and affectionately, “And here, my friends, is the noble Don Rumata.”

Father Zupic grimaced contemptuously, while the fat man nodded graciously.

“Our old and rather constant foe,” said Don Reba.

“Foes get hanged,” Father Zupic rasped.

“And what is your opinion, Brother Aba?” asked Don Reba, helpfully leaning toward the fat man.

“You know … somehow I don't even …” Brother Aba gave an uncertain, childlike smile, spreading his pudgy little hands. “You know, somehow I don't care. But maybe we shouldn't hang him? Maybe we should burn him, what do you think, Don Reba?”

“Yes, probably,” Don Reba said pensively.

“You see,” the enchanting Brother Aba continued, smiling affectionately at Rumata, “we hang the trash, the small fry. And we must maintain the people's respect for the social classes. After all, he's a scion of an ancient family, a noted Irukanian spy—it's Irukanian, if I'm not mistaken?” He grabbed a piece of paper off the desk and peered at it with nearsighted eyes. “Oh, and Soanian too. Even more so!”

“So let's burn him,” Father Zupic agreed.

“Very well,” said Don Reba. “Agreed. We'll burn him.”

“However, I think Don Rumata can improve his own lot,” Brother Aba said. “You see what I'm saying, Don Reba?”

“I have to admit, not exactly.”

“The property! My dear noble don, the property! The Rumatas are a fabulously rich family!”

“You are right, as always,” Don Reba said.

Father Zupic yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, and glanced at the lilac curtains to the right of the table.

“Well, let us then begin in due form,” Don Reba said with a sigh.

Father Zupic kept glancing at the lilac curtains. He was clearly waiting for something and was completely uninterested in the proceedings. What are they playing at? thought Rumata. What does this mean?

“Well, my noble don,” Don Reba said, addressing Rumata, “it would be extremely gratifying to have you answer a number of questions of interest to us.”

“Untie my hands,” said Rumata.

Father Zupic recoiled and dubiously moved his lips. Brother Aba frantically shook his head.

“Oh?” Don Reba said and first looked at Brother Aba, then at Father Zupic. “I understand you, my friends. However, under the circumstances, which Don Rumata probably suspects …” He gave an expressive look at the rows of vents beneath the ceiling. “Untie his hands,” he said, without raising his voice.

Someone silently came up behind him. Rumata felt someone's strangely soft, dexterous fingers touch his hands, and he heard the ropes creak as they were being cut. Brother Aba, with surprising agility for his bulk, took a huge combat crossbow out from underneath the desk and placed it on the papers in front of him. Rumata's hands dangled at his sides like whips. He almost couldn't feel them.

“Let us begin,” Don Reba said briskly. “Your name, family, station?”

“Rumata, from the family of the Rumatas of Estor. A noble gentleman through twenty-two generations.”

Rumata looked around, sat down on the sofa, and began to massage his wrists. Brother Aba, breathing anxiously through his nose, aimed the crossbow at him. “Your father?”

“My noble father was an imperial advisor, loyal servant, and faithful friend of the emperor.”

“Is he alive?”

“He's dead.”

“How long?”

“Eleven years.”

“How old are you?”

Rumata didn't have the time to answer. There was a noise behind the lilac curtains. Brother Aba looked around, displeased.

Father Zupic, smiling ominously, slowly stood up. “Well, that's all, my dear sirs!” he began, cheerfully and maliciously.

Three people Rumata least expected to see here jumped out from behind the curtains. They were enormous monks in black cassocks with hoods pulled down over their eyes. They swiftly and silently ran up to Father Zupic and took him by the elbows.

“Ah … b-bu—” mumbled Father Zupic. His face had turned ashen. He had clearly been expecting something completely different.

“With your permission, Brother Aba?” Don Reba inquired calmly, bending down toward the fat man.

“But of course!” he replied emphatically. “Certainly!”

Don Reba made a slight motion with his hand. The monks picked up Father Zupic and, moving just as noiselessly as before, took him away behind the curtains. Rumata winced in disgust. Brother Aba rubbed his soft little paws together and said briskly, “Everything went marvelously, don't you think, Don Reba?”

“Yes, it wasn't bad,” Don Reba agreed. “But let us continue. Well, how old are you, Don Rumata?”

“Thirty-five.”

“When did you arrive in Arkanar?”

“Five years ago.”

“From where?”

“I was previously living in Estor, at the family castle.”

“And what was the purpose of your relocation?”

“Unfortunate circumstances forced me to leave Estor. I was searching for a capital that could compare in splendor to the capital of the metropole.”

Fiery prickles finally started running up and down his arms. Rumata continued to patiently and persistently massage his swollen wrists. “Do tell us, what were these circumstances?” asked Don Reba.

“I killed a member of a most august family in a duel.”

“Is that so? Who was it?”

“The young Duke Ekin.”

“And the reason for the duel?”

“A woman,” Rumata said curtly.

He began to suspect that all these questions didn't mean anything. This is a game, he thought, just like the discussion of the method of execution. I'm waiting until my hands recover. Brother Aba, the fool, is waiting for the gold from Don Rumata's ancestral treasury to pour into his lap. Don Reba is also waiting for something. But the monks, the monks! Why are there monks in the palace? Especially such skillful and energetic ones?

“The woman s name?”

The questions he asks, thought Rumata. They couldn't be any stupider. Let me try to wake them up a bit. “Doña Rita,” he answered.

“I didn't expect you to answer. Much obliged.”

“I'm always ready to be of service.”

Don Reba bowed. “Have you ever been to Irukan?”

“No”.

“Are you certain?”

“You are certain of it too.”

“We want the truth!” Don Reba demanded. Brother Aba nodded. “And nothing but the truth!”

“Aha,” said Rumata. “And here I thought …” He paused.

“What did you think?”

“I thought you mostly wanted to get your hands on my ancestral property. I simply can't imagine, Don Reba, in what way you hope to get it.”

“What about a deed of gift? A deed of gift?” Brother Aba cried out.

Rumata laughed as derisively as possible. “You're a fool, ‘Brother Aba,' if that's what you're called. I could immediately tell that you're a shopkeeper. Are you not aware that an entailed estate cannot be transferred into the hands of a stranger?”

He could see that Brother Aba was completely furious but restraining himself.

“You shouldn't speak in that tone,” Don Reba said gently.

“You wanted the truth?” Rumata countered. “Here's the truth, the real truth, and nothing but the truth: Brother Aba is a nitwit and a shopkeeper.”

However, Brother Aba had already regained control of himself. “I believe we've digressed,” he said with a smile. “What do you think, Don Reba?”

“You are right, as always,” said Don Reba. “Noble don, have you ever been to Soan?”

“I've been to Soan.”

“For what purpose?”

“To visit the Academy of Science.”

“A strange purpose for a man of your rank.”

“A whim.”

“And are you familiar with the chief justice of Soan, Don Condor?”

Rumata became wary. “He is a very old friend of my family.”

“A most noble man, is he not?”

“A very respectable person.”

“And are you aware that Don Condor was involved in the plot against His Majesty?”

Rumata jutted out his chin. “Get it into your head, Don Reba,” he said arrogantly. “For us, the hereditary nobility of the metropole, all these Soans and Irukans, and even Arkanars, were and will always remain vassals of the imperial crown.” He crossed his legs and turned away.

Don Reba was looking at him thoughtfully. “Are you rich?”

“I could buy all of Arkanar, but I'm not interested in garbage dumps.”

Don Reba sighed. “My heart is bleeding,” he said. “To cut down such a glorious offspring of such a glorious family! It would be a crime, if it were not brought about by the exigencies of state.”

“Think less about the exigencies of state,” Rumata said, “and more about your own hide.”

“You're right,” Don Reba said, then snapped his fingers.

Rumata quickly clenched and unclenched his muscles. His body seemed to be working. Three monks again jumped out from behind the curtains. With the same elusive speed and accuracy, indicating vast experience, they formed a circle around Brother Aba, who was still smiling sweetly, grabbed him, and bent his hands behind his back.

“Ow-ow-ow-ow!” shrieked Father Aba. His fat face contorted in pain.

“Quick, quick, hurry up!” Don Reba said with distaste.

The fat man resisted frantically as he was dragged behind the curtains. They could hear him screaming and yelping,
then he suddenly shrieked in a horrible, unrecognizable voice and immediately went silent. Don Reba stood up and carefully unloaded Father Aba's crossbow. Rumata watched him, stunned.

Don Reba paced up and down the room, pensively scratching his back with a crossbow bolt. “Good, good,” he mumbled almost tenderly. “Charming!” He seemed to have forgotten about Rumata. His steps kept getting quicker and quicker; he waved the bolt like a conductor's baton as he walked. Then he suddenly stopped abruptly at the desk, tossed the bolt away, gingerly sat down, and said, smiling from ear to ear: “How I got them, huh? Not a peep! They can't do that where you come from, I think.”

Rumata was silent.

“Yes
…” Don Reba intoned dreamily. “Good! Well, now let us talk, Don Rumata. Or maybe it's not Rumata? Maybe you're not even a don? Hmm?”

Rumata was silent, examining him curiously. Pale-skinned, with red veins on his nose, whole body shaking with excitement—he just wants to shout, clapping his hands, “I know! I know!” And you don't know a thing, you son of a bitch. And if you find out, you won't believe it. Well, go on, go on, I'm listening. “I'm listening to you,” he said.

“You're not Don Rumata,” Don Reba announced. “You're an impostor.” He looked at Rumata, a severe expression on his face. “Rumata of Estor died five years ago and is lying in his family's vault. And the saints have long since laid to rest his rebellious and, frankly, not particularly pure soul. Well, will you confess on your own, or do you need some help?”

“I'll confess,” said Rumata. “My name is Rumata of Estor, and I'm not accustomed to having my words doubted.” Let
me try to make you a little angry, he thought. My side hurts, or I'd lead you on a merry chase.

“I see that we will have to continue the conversation elsewhere,” Don Reba said ominously.

His face was undergoing extraordinary changes. Gone was the pleasant smile, his lips had compressed into a hard line. The skin on his forehead was moving in a strange and eerie way.

Yes, thought Rumata, he really can be frightening. “Is it true that you have hemorrhoids?” Rumata asked solicitously.

Something flickered in Don Reba's eyes, but his facial expression didn't change. He pretended not to hear.

“You used Budach badly. He's a real master,” Rumata said. “At least he was,” he added significantly.

Something flickered in the faded eyes again.

Aha, thought Rumata, Budach must still be alive. He sat back and wrapped his arms around one knee.

“Thus, you refuse to confess,” said Don Reba.

“To what?”

“To being an impostor.”

“Honorable Reba,” Rumata admonished, “such things need to be proved. You're insulting me!”

Don Reba's expression turned cloying. “My dear Don Rumata,” he said. “Forgive me, I will keep calling you by that name for the time being. Anyway, I usually don't prove a thing. They prove things elsewhere, in the Merry Tower. For this purpose, I keep experienced, well-paid professionals, who are capable of using Holy Míca's Meat Grinder, the Greaves of Our Lord, the Gloves of the Great Martyr Pata, or, say, the Benches …
uhhh
… I'm sorry, the
Chairs
of Totz the Warrior to prove anything whatsoever. That God exists and that God doesn't exist. That people walk on their hands
and people walk on their sides. Do you see what I'm saying? You may not be aware of this, but there's a whole science devoted to obtaining proofs. Judge for yourself: why would I prove what I already know? And after all, a confession isn't dangerous for you.”