Arkady Strugatsky - Hard to Be a God

What a terrible shame, thought Rumata. If I’m killed now, this colony of simpletons will be the last thing I ever see. Only the element of surprise. The element of surprise will save me. Me and Budach. Seize the moment and make a surprise attack. Catch him off his guard, don’t let him open his mouth, don’t let him kill me, I have absolutely no wish to die.

He made his way to the doors of the bedchamber and, holding his swords with both hands, bending his knees slightly as required by etiquette, approached the king’s bed. The king’s stockings were being pulled on. The Minister of Ceremonies, holding his breath, was closely watching the nimble-fingered hands of the two valets. Don Reba stood in front of the messy bed and was quietly conversing with a tall, bony man in a military uniform of gray velvet. This was Father Zupic, one of the leaders of the Arkanarian storm troopers, a colonel of the palace guards.

Don Reba was an experienced courtier. Judging by his face, the conversation was about nothing more important than the paces of a mare or the virtuous behavior of the king’s niece. Father Zupic, on the other hand, as a military man and a former grocer, didn’t know how to control his face. He darkened and bit his lip, his fingers on the sword hilt would clench and unclench, and he finally jerked his cheek, spun around, and, breaking every rule, left the bedchamber heading right at the crowd of courtiers, shocked into stillness by such bad manners. Don Rumata, smiling apologetically, watched him leave, and Rumata followed him with his eyes and thought, There goes another dead man. He was aware of the tensions between Don Reba and the gray leadership. The story of brownshirt leader Ernst Röhm was about to be repeated.

The stockings had been pulled on. The valets, obeying the melodious order of the Minister of Ceremonies, had reverently picked up the king’s shoes with their fingertips. At this point, the king, kicking the valets away, turned toward Don Reba so abruptly that his stomach, which resembled an overstuffed sack, rolled onto one of his knees. “I’m tired of your assassinations!” he screeched hysterically. “Assassinations! Assassinations! I want to sleep at night, not fight off murderers. Why can’t we make it so they do it during the day? You’re a crummy minister, Reba! Another night like that and I’ll give the order to strangle you!” Don Reba bowed, pressing his hand to his heart as the king continued: “Assassination attempts give me a headache!”

The king suddenly stopped and stared vacantly at his stomach. The moment was right. The valets were hesitating. First, Rumata had to draw attention to himself. He snatched the right shoe from the hand of a valet, dropped to one knee before the king, and started to respectfully place the shoe onto the pudgy, silk-covered foot. This was the ancient privilege of Rumata’s family—putting on the right shoe of the crowned heads of the empire.

The king was looking at him dully. A spark of interest appeared in his eyes. “Ah, Rumata!” he said. “You’re still alive? And Reba promised to strangle you!” He giggled. “He’s a crummy minister, that Reba. All he does is make promises. He promised to eradicate insubordination, and insubordination keeps growing. He’s stuffed the palace full of some gray bumpkins. I’m sick and he’s hanged all the healers.”

Rumata finished putting on the shoe and took two steps back, bowing. He noticed Don Reba eyeing him closely, and hastened to assume a haughtily vacant expression.

“I’m very sick,” continued the king. “Everything hurts. I want to retire to rest. I would have long since retired to rest, but you dolts would be lost without me.”

His second shoe had been put on. He stood up and immediately gasped, grimacing, and clutched his knee.

“Where are the healers?” he wailed mournfully. “Where’s my good Tata? You hanged him, moron! The sound of his voice alone made me feel better! Silence, I already know he was a poisoner! And I don’t give a damn! Who cares that he was a poisoner? He was a heaaaler! Get it, murderer? A healer. He’d poison one, heal another! And you only know how to persecute! You ought to have hanged yourself instead!” Don Reba bowed, pressing his hand to his heart, and stayed in this position. “You’ve hanged everyone! There are only charlatans left! And the priests, who give me holy water instead of medicine. Who’ll make the potions? Who’ll rub the salve into my foot?”

“Sire!” Rumata said loudly, and it seemed to him that the whole palace went still. “You only need to give the order, and the best healer in the empire will be in the palace in half an hour.”

The king stared at him in bewilderment. It was an awful risk. Don Reba had only to blink… Rumata knew why there was a row of round black vents under the bedroom’s ceiling-he could feel the number of eyes looking at him intently over the fletchings of their arrows. Don Reba was also looking at him with an expression of polite and benevolent curiosity. “What’s the meaning of this?” the king inquired testily. “All right, I give the order. All right, where’s your healer?”

Rumata felt his whole body tense up. It seemed to him that the arrows were already pricking his shoulder blades. “Sire,” he said quickly, “order Don Reba to present the famous Doctor Budach to you!”

Apparently Don Reba really had been caught off guard. The most important thing had been said, and Rumata was still alive. The king shifted his bleary gaze to the Minister of the Defense of the Crown.

“Sire,” Rumata continued, no longer in a hurry and using appropriate language. “Being aware of your truly unbearable suffering and bearing in mind the debt my family has to the Crown, I sent for the highly learned healer Doctor Budach from Irukan. However, unfortunately Doctor Budach’s journey was interrupted. The gray soldiers of the honorable Don Reba captured him last week, and his further fate is known only to Don Reba. I would assume that the healer is somewhere close at hand, most likely in the Merry Tower, and I hope that Don Reba’s strange aversion to healers has not yet had a fatal effect on Doctor Budach’s destiny.”

Rumata paused, holding his breath. Everything seemed to have gone off without a hitch. Watch out, Don Reba! He took a look at the minister—and went cold. The Minister of the Defense of the Crown had in no way been caught off his guard. He was nodding at Rumata with affectionate paternal reproach. Rumata hadn’t expected this at all. Why, he’s delighted, thought Rumata in bewilderment.

The king, on the other hand, was behaving as expected. “You rogue!” he screamed at Don Reba. “I’ll strangle you! Where’s the doctor? Where’s the doctor, I ask! Silence. I’m asking, where’s the doctor?”

Don Reba stepped forward, smiling pleasantly. “Your Majesty,” he said, “you’re a truly fortunate monarch, for you have so many loyal subjects that they occasionally interfere with each other in their efforts to serve you.” The king was staring at him vacantly. “I will admit that as with everything else that happens in your country, I was aware of the noble plan of the fiery Don Rumata. I will admit that I sent our gray soldiers to meet Doctor Budach—solely for the purpose of sparing a venerable old man the trials of a long journey. I will also admit that I was in no hurry to present Budach of Irukan to your majesty.”

“How dare you?” the king asked reproachfully.

“Your Majesty, Don Rumata is young and is as naive in politics as he’s experienced in noble battle. He is unaware of the lows the Duke of Irukan would stoop to in his insane fury at your majesty. But you and I know this, sire, do we not?” The king nodded. “And therefore I felt it incumbent upon me to make a preliminary investigation. I would not be in a hurry, but if you, Your Majesty”—a low bow to the king—“and Don Rumata”—a nod in Rumata’s direction—“so insist, then this very day after dinner Doctor Budach will appear before you, Your Majesty, to begin a course of treatment.”