Arkady Strugatsky: Hard to Be a God

At the turn of the road, a dark figure materialized from the bushes. The stallion shied, throwing back his head. Rumata grabbed the reins, adjusted the lace on his right sleeve out of habit, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword before taking a good look.

The figure took off his hat. “Good evening, noble don,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon.”

“What is it?” Rumata asked, listening hard.

There’s no such thing as a silent ambush. Robbers give themselves away by the creak of their bowstrings, the gray storm troopers belch uncontrollably from the stale beer, the baronial militiamen breathe avidly through their noses and clatter their weapons, while the slave-hunting monks noisily scratch themselves. But the bushes were quiet. It seemed the man wasn’t a bandit. Not that he looked much like a bandit—a short, thickset city resident in a modest cloak.

“May I run alongside you?” he asked, bowing.

“Certainly,” said Rumata, lifting the reins. “You may hold the stirrup.”

The man began to walk next to Rumata. His hat was in his hand, and a substantial bald patch shone on top of his head. Probably a steward, thought Rumata. Visiting the barons and cattle dealers, buying flax or hemp. A brave steward, though… Maybe he isn’t a steward. Maybe he’s a bookworm. A fugitive. An outcast. There are a lot of them on the night roads nowadays, more than there are stewards. Or maybe he’s a spy.

“Who are you and where are you from?” Rumata asked.

“My name is Kiun,” the man said sadly. “I’m coming from Arkanar.”

“You’re running away from Arkanar,” Rumata said, bending down.

“I’m running away,” the man agreed sadly.

Some eccentric, thought Rumata. Or maybe he really is a spy? I should test him… Actually, why should I? Who says I should? What right do I have to test him? No, I don’t want to! Why can’t I simply trust him? Here is a city dweller, clearly a bookworm, running for his life… He’s lonely, he’s scared, he’s weak, he’s looking for protection. He meets an aristocrat. Due to their arrogance and stupidity, aristocrats don’t understand politics, but their swords are long and they don’t like the grays. Why shouldn’t Kiun the city dweller benefit from the disinterested protection of a stupid and arrogant aristocrat? That’s it. I won’t test him. I have no reason to test him. We’ll talk, pass the time, part as friends…

“Kiun…” Rumata said. “I knew a Kiun once. A seller of potions and an alchemist from Tin Street. Are you a relative of his?”

“Unfortunately, I am,” said Kiun. “Just a distant relative, but it’s all the same to them… until the twelfth generation.”

“And where are you running away to, Kiun?”

“Somewhere… The farther the better. Lots of people run away to Irukan. I’ll try Irukan too.”

“Well, well,” Rumata said. “And you think that the noble don will help you across the border?”

Kiun was quiet.

“Or maybe you think that the noble don doesn’t know who the alchemist Kiun from Tin Street is?” Kiun stayed quiet.

What am I saying? thought Rumata. He stood up in his stirrups and shouted, imitating the town crier in the Royal Square, “Accused and convicted of terrible, unforgivable crimes against God, peace, and the Crown!”

Kiun was quiet.

“And what if the noble don adores Don Reba? What if he’s wholeheartedly devoted to the gray word and the gray cause? Or do you think that’s impossible?”

Kiun was quiet. The jagged shadow of a gallows appeared out of the darkness to the right of the road. A naked body, strung up by its feet, shone white beneath the crossbeam. Bah, it’s not even working, thought Rumata. He reined his horse in, grabbed Kiun by the shoulder, and spun him around to face him.

“And what if the noble don decides to string you up right next to this tramp?” he said, peering into the white face with dark pits for eyes. “All by myself. Quickly and neatly. Why are you quiet, literate Kiun?”

Kiun was quiet. His teeth chattered, and he squirmed weakly in Rumata’s grasp, like a crushed lizard. Then something suddenly fell into the roadside ditch with a splash, and immediately, as if to drown out the splash, he shouted frantically: “Then hang me! Hang me, traitor!”

Rumata took a deep breath and let Kiun go. “I was joking,” he said. “Don’t be scared.”

“Lies, lies…” Kiun mumbled, sobbing. “Lies everywhere!”

“Come on, don’t be mad,” Rumata said. “You’d better pick up what you threw in—it’ll get wet.”

Kiun waited a bit, rocking in place and blubbering, then he pointlessly patted his cloak with the palms of his hands and climbed into the ditch. Rumata waited, hunching wearily in his saddle. That’s how it has to be, he thought; there’s no other way.

Kiun climbed out of the ditch, hiding the bundle underneath his shirt.

“Books, of course,” Rumata said.

Kiun shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “Just one book. My book.”

“And what are you writing about?”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t interest you, noble don.”

Rumata sighed. “Take the stirrup,” he said. “Let’s go.”

For a long time, they were silent.

“Listen, Kiun,” said Rumata. “I was joking. Don’t be scared of me.”

“What a wonderful world,” Kiun said. “What a merry world. Everybody jokes. And everybody’s jokes are the same. Even noble Rumata’s.”

Rumata was surprised. “You know my name?”

“I do,” Kiun said. “I recognized you by the circlet on your head. I was so glad to meet you on the road…”

Ah, of course, that’s what he meant when he called me a traitor, thought Rumata. He said, “You see, I thought you were a spy. I always kill spies.”

“A spy,” repeated Kiun. “Yes, of course. In our times it’s so easy and rewarding to be a spy. Our eagle, the noble Don Reba, is interested in what the king’s subjects say and think. I wish I could be a spy. A rank-and-file informer at the Gray Joy Inn. How lovely, how respectable! At six o’clock I come to the bar and sit down at my table. The proprietor rushes toward me with my first pint. I can drink however much I want, the beer is paid for by Don Reba—or rather, it isn’t paid for at all. I sit there, sip my beer, and listen. Sometimes I pretend to write down conversations, and the frightened little people hurry to me with offers of friendship and money. Their eyes express only the things I want: doglike devotion, fearful awe, and delightful impotent hatred. I can grope girls with impunity and fondle wives in front of their husbands—big burly men—and they’ll only giggle obsequiously. What beautiful reasoning, noble don, is it not? I heard it from a fifteen-year-old boy, a student of the Patriotic School.”

“And what did you tell him?” asked Rumata curiously.

“What could I tell him? He wouldn’t have understood. So I told him that when Waga the Wheel’s men catch an informant, they rip his belly open and fill his insides with pepper. And drunken soldiers stuff the informant into a sack and drown him in an outhouse. And this was gospel truth, but he didn’t believe me. He said that wasn’t covered in school. Then I took out some paper and wrote down our conversation. I needed it for my book, but he, poor thing, decided that it was for a report, and he wet himself from fright.”

The lights of Skeleton Baco’s inn flashed through the bushes ahead. Kiun stumbled and went quiet. “What’s wrong?” asked Rumata.

“It’s a gray patrol,” muttered Kiun.

“So what?” said Rumata. “Listen to another bit of reasoning, worthy Kiun. We love and value these simple, rough boys, our gray fighting beasts. We need them. From now on, a commoner better keep his tongue in his mouth, unless he wants it to dangle out on the gallows!” He roared with laughter, because it was so well put—in the finest tradition of the gray barracks.