TWO

Rumata woke up with a start. He opened his eyes. It was broad daylight. Down in the street, just below his windows, was some commotion. Somebody, probably a soldier, yelled at the top of his voice: "You stinking bum! Look at this filth! I'll make you lap it up with your tongue! (Good morning to you, thought Rumata.) Shut up, you! I swear by the hunchback of Holy Mickey, you make me lose my temper!"

Another voice, hoarse and coarse, growled: "You've got to watch your step in this miserable street! It rained this morning, but who knows when they last swept this place."

"You'll show me where I'm supposed to look, all right."

"You'd better let go of me, noble don, let go of my shirt, will you!"

"Oh, you'll show me, all right--"

Rumata heard a loud slapping sound. It was evidently the second slap; the first one had woken him up.

"You'd better stop hitting me, noble don." A familiar voice. Who could it be? Probably Don Tameo. I'll let him win back his decrepit Chamalharian nag today. I wonder if I'll ever learn to distinguish a good horse from a poor one. But after all, my family isn't known for their expertise with horses. Camels, yes; we are experts on fighter camels. A good thing there are hardly, any camels here in Arkanar. Rumata stretched his arms and legs, until his joints cracked. He groped for a silken rope attached to the headboard of his bed and tugged at it several times. Little bells could be heard ringing throughout the house. That fellow is probably hanging out of the window, watching the racket down below.

I could simply get up, of course, and get dressed by myself, but that would only start tongues wagging again.

He listened once more to the stream of abuse coming from below his windows. The inventiveness of the human tongue! What entropy, what measure of the uncertainty of human knowledge!

Lately, Rumata continued with his thoughts, some know-it-alls have emerged in the guard troops, declaring that only one sword alone can be used for noble warfare, while the second sword must be used exclusively for street fights--and Don Reba pays too much attention to their worries in beautiful Arkanar. By the way, Don Tameo is not one of them. Too much of a coward, our dear Don Tameo, and an incorrigible armchair politician.

How horrible when the day starts out with Don Tameo ... Rumata sat up in bed and clasped his hands around his knees underneath the patched-up elegant coverlet. He was seized by a feeling of leaden hopelessness. You could ponder forever, keep thinking about how powerless and small we are in the face of circumstances ... On Earth I wouldn't ever dream of doing such a thing. On Terra we are strong, self-assured men with specialized, psychological training, men who are ready for anything. And we do have strong nerves:

We manage, for instance, not to turn away our head when some poor person is beaten or executed. We are capable of tremendous self-control: We can stand to listen unperturbed to the endless babblings of the most abject cretins. We have also forgotten how to feel disgusted: We don't mind when someone puts a dish before us from which the dogs eat, or when they wipe it out afterwards with a duly rag. And aren't we marvelous actors? Not even in our dreams do we lapse into our mother tongue or any of the other languages of Earth. And after all, we are equipped with an invincible weapon: The basis theory of feudalism, worked out in the quiet offices of our officials and in our laboratories, based on studious research and serious discussions...

It's just too bad that Don Reba hasn't the slightest inkling of the theory. And too bad, also, that our special psychological training peels off like sunburnt skin, that we have to go to extremes, that we are forced to submit to a steady mental reconditioning: grit your teeth and remember that you are a god in disguise. Remember that they do not know what they are doing; and that they are almost all free of guilt. And that is why you must have the patience of Job, patience, patience--and meanwhile the fountains of humanism inside us, which on Earth seemed to be well-nigh inexhaustible, are drying up here with frightening speed. Holy Mickey! Weren't we real humanists back on Terra, lovers of mankind, humanism was the mainstay of our nature and in our respect for the human being, in our love for man, we even steered toward anthropocentrism--and now we discover with horror that we did not truly love mankind but only the communards, our compatriots who resembled us ... And more and more frequently we catch ourselves in the act of wondering: Are these human beings, after all? Are they even capable of becoming human beings in time? And then we remember men like Kyra, Budach, Arata, the hunchback, or the unsurpassable Baron Pampa, and we feel ashamed--but this is equally rare and unpleasant and, worse still, it does not help us in the least...

All right, thought Rumata, that's enough of that. At least not so early in the morning. And damn this Don Tameo! So much trouble, so much has accumulated inside me, in my soul, and there is no place to get rid of it in this isolated state. That's what gets me: the isolation, the solitude. What did they call us back home? "Strong and self-assured, strapping young men." When we were back home did we ever imagine in those days that we would ever have to put up with such loneliness? Nobody would believe it. Anton, my friend, what's happening to you? To the West from here, barely three hours by plane, lives Alexander Vassilevitch, a good man with a set of brains. To the East is Pashka, a merry, faithful friend, who went to school with you for seven years. It's just a momentary depression, Anton. Too bad--we believed you had more endurance; but doesn't this happen to all of us? What a wretched grind. We understand. So why don't you go back home to Terra, recuperate from all this, occupy yourself with theoretical research, and the rest will follow...

Incidentally, Alexander Vassilevitch is a dogmatist par excellence. So if the basis theory doesn't take in the Gray Ones--"In fifteen years of working on this, my friend, I have never once come across an exception like this ..." In other words, I am simply dreaming of the Gray hordes. And if I dream about them, it simply means that I am overworked, under too much tension, that they should send me home for a rest. "All right, Don Rumata, I promise to investigate this personally and advise you of my findings. But in the meantime, give me your word, no excesses, please . . ." And then there is Pavel, whom I used to call Pashka when we were kids together: now he's a scientist, an expert, a brain full of information. He became totally immersed in the history of two planets and proved with enthusiasm that the phenomenon of the Gray hordes represents merely the most common occurrence in the relationship of the bourgeoisie against the barons--" By the way, I'll pay you a brief visit in a few days. To be frank with you, I'm quite disturbed when I think about the incident with Budach . . ." Many thanks! And that's the end of it! I'll take care of the Budach case myself, even if I'm no longer much good for anything else.

The most learned Doctor Budach. A great physician, a most devoted citizen of Irukan; the duke almost knighted him, but then he changed his mind and had him incarcerated. The most distinguished specialist for cures by drugs in the entire empire. Author of the widely known and famous treatise Concerning Herbs and Other Plants, which Items in Mysterious Ways Cause and Occasion Sorrow, Joy or Tranquility; Concerning the Salivary and Body Fluids of Reptiles, Spiders and the Hairless Wild Sow Y, which Last Disposes over said Characteristics and Many Others Besides. A remarkable person, undoubtedly, and a genuine mental giant, at the same time a devoted humanist and eccentric who never had any money. His entire fortune consisted of a sack full of books. Who needs you, Doctor Budach, in this country of darkest ignorance that wallows in a bloody morass of conspiracy and greed?

Let us assume you are alive and you are in Arkanar. Of course you may have fallen into the hands of the barbarians, who periodically raid the countryside from their mountain strongholds. If this should be the case, then Don Kondor will contact with our friend Schumtuletidovodus, a specialist in the history of antique cultures, who presently works as an epileptic shaman for the chieftain whose first name consists of forty-five syllables. But if you should be in Arkanar after all--first of all, you might have been captured by the nocturnal armies of the robber chieftain Waga Koleso. No, not "captured, " - but simply taken along, for they would consider your companion the far more desirable booty, your friend, the noble don, who has gambled away his entire fortune. Either way, they will not kill you: Waga Koleso is far too avaricious.

There's an equal chance, though, that some idiot of a baron has you in his clutches. Without any malicious intentions, merely out of boredom and some warped idea of hospitality. He simply would like to drink together with a noble guest, so he sends out his hordes and has them drag you to the castle of your companion. And you will be sitting in the stinking chamber until the dons have drunk themselves into oblivion and finally part company. In that case no harm will befall you.

But it's quite another story with the remnants of the recently defeated peasant army of Don Ksi and of Pert Posvonotchnik, who have retreated to the hamlet "Rotten Nest" where they are secretly supported and fed by our bright eagle, Don Reba himself--just in case some complication should arise in his relationship with the barons. These peasant soldiers know no mercy; better not even imagine the eventuality. And then there is Don Satarina, a crabby imperial aristocrat, 102 years of age and, of course, totally senile. He carries on a family feud with the dukes of Irukan, and snatches--whenever he revives sufficiently--anything that crosses the Irukanian border. He is very dangerous; when he is under the influence of Cholezistit, he is quite capable of issuing commands with such catastrophic results that the churches cannot collect the corpses from his cellars fast enough.

And then there's the top possibility. Not the most dangerous one, but the one most likely to occur: the Gray Patrol of Don Reba. The Sturmoviks on the main roads. You might have fallen into their hands quite by accident, Budach, in which case your only hope would be the quick wit and cool head of your companion to get you out of this calamity. But what if Don Reba should be interested in you personally? For Don Reba will occasionally display an unexpected concern . . . His spies might report that you are traveling through Arkanar, then a detachment under the command of some very eager Gray officer will be sent out to meet you. And this Gray cretin of low rank will be responsible for your ending up in a bag of stones in the Tower of Joy...

Rumata pulled once more at the rope, very impatient now. The bedroom door opened with a repulsive creak and a thin, somber-looking boy entered the room. His name was Uno, and his fate might have served as the theme for a ballad. He bowed deeply as he stood on the threshold, scraping the floor with his torn shoes, and stepped up to the bed. On the small bedside table he put down a tray with letters, some coffee, and a stale bread crust to be chewed, which in turn was supposed to strengthen and cleanse the teeth. Rumata glanced at him, very annoyed.

"Tell me please, are you ever going to oil that creaky door?"

The boy looked silently at the floor. Rumata threw the coverlet back, let his bare feet dangle down over the edge of the bed and reached for the tray. "Washed yourself this morning?" he asked. The boy shifted from one foot to the other; without answering he wandered through the room, picking up the scattered garments that lay on the floor.

"I believe I asked you whether you washed yourself today?" said Rumata while he opened his first letter.

"Water won't wash away your sins," muttered the boy under his breath. "So why, noble don, should I wash myself?"

"And what did I tell you about microbes?" said Rumata. Carefully, the boy placed his master's green trousers over the back of the armchair, then passed his thumb in a circle above it to chase away the wicked ghosts.

"I prayed three times last night," he said. "What more could I do?"

"You numbskull," said Rumata and started to read his letter.

It was from Dona Okana, a lady-in-waiting, the latest favorite of Don Reba. She invited him to come and visit her this very evening, and signed the letter "amorously languishing for you." The P.S. stated in clear, simple language what she really expected from this rendezvous. Rumata felt embarrassed; he blushed. Throwing a side glance at the boy, he murmured: "That's really too much . . ." He ought to think it over. To go there was disgusting; not to go there would be foolish. Dona Okana was a well-informed person. He quickly drained his cup of coffee and put the chewing-crust into his mouth.

The next envelope was made of heavy paper; the seal was damaged. It was obvious that the letter had been opened. The letter was from Don Ripat, an unscrupulous careerist and lieutenant in the Gray Militia, who inquired after his esteemed well-being, expressed his belief in the imminent victory of the Gray Cause, and begged to postpone payment of his debt, by quoting various unfavorable circumstances. "All right, all right," Rumata mumbled and put the letter aside, picked the envelope up once again and examined it with great interest. Oh yes, they were working much more carefully now; much more carefully.

The third letter contained an invitation to a duel because of a certain Dona Pifa, but the writer was willing to withdraw his challenge provided the noble Don Rumata would testify that he was making no claims upon the person of Dona Pifa and had never made any such claims. The letter was typical: the basic text had been written by a calligrapher and the blanks had been filled in with names and times-- in a clumsy hand and full of mistakes.

Rumata put the letter down and scratched the mosquito bites on his left hand.

"I want to wash up. Bring the things in!" he ordered.

The boy disappeared behind the door, to return soon with a wooden basin. He dragged the tub along the floor, his behind wagging with the exertion. Then he ran once more out of the room and dragged in an empty tub with a big dipper.

Rumata now jumped to his feet, pulled the elaborately embroidered nightshirt over his head, and noisily unsheathed the swords that had been hanging over the headboard of his bed. Cautiously, the boy ducked behind a chair. For ten minutes Rumata practiced attack and defense; then he leaned the swords against the wall, bent over the empty tub, and ordered: "The water!" It was rather miserable to wash without soap but Rumata had become used to it. The boy scooped up the water with the dipper and poured it over Rumata's back, neck, and head. Dipper after dipper filled with water. All the while he kept grumbling: "Everywhere else people behave like human beings, only here in our house must we bother with such refined nonsense. Who has ever heard of such a thing? To wash yourself with two buckets of water? Every day a fresh towel . . . And His Lordship jumps around all naked with two swords every morning, without having said his prayers first.. ."

While Rumata toweled himself vigorously, he spoke with an authoritative tone: "I am a member of the court, not just some lousy baron. A courtier must always be clean and sweet-smelling."

"His Royal Highness will hardly sniff at you," replied the boy. "Everyone knows that his Highness prays day and night for us sinners. And Don Reba--he never washes. I have it first-hand; his servant has told me so."

"All right, don't fret," said Rumata and put on his nylon undershirt. The boy regarded the undershirt with dismay. Rumors about it had been circulating for quite some time now amongst the servants in Arkanar. But there was nothing that Rumata could do about it, for very natural reasons growing out of his masculine mentality. As Rumata slipped on his shorts, the boy jerked his head to one side, moving his lips as if he wanted to shoo away the spirit of impurity.

Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea to introduce here the fashion of wearing undergarments, thought Rumata. But such innovations could naturally be carried out only with the help of the fairer sex. And in this area, too--unfortunately for him--he distinguished himself by rather high requirements. Quite inconvenient for a spy. For a cavalier and man of the world, for a renowned connoisseur of court etiquette and for a person who was sent to the provinces, there to fight duels to settle love affairs, it was only fitting to have twenty mistresses. Rumata made heroic endeavors to keep up with his reputation. Half the members of his agency, rather than devote their time to more serious efforts, spread the most despicable rumors--rumors calculated to arouse the envy and delight of the young men of the Arkanarian Guard. Dozens of overjoyed and disappointed ladies whom Rumata visited until late in the night--reciting poems all the time (third night watch: fraternal kiss on the lady's cheek, a mighty leap over the balcony's balustrade and right into the arms of the commander of the night watch, whom he knew well)--dozens of ladies would outdo each other with tales of the marvelous style of the genuine cavalier from the big city. Rumata used the vanity of these women, depraved to the point of repulsiveness, for his own purposes. However, the question of underwear was never touched on.

How much simpler had been the business with the handkerchiefs! On the occasion of the very first ball be had pulled an elegant silk cloth from his waistcoat pocket, and with flourish had proceeded to dry his lips with it. And at the next ball, the manly youths were drying their sweaty faces with large or small pieces of cloth of various colors, gaily embroidered and with monograms. And within one month, the ladies' men were outdoing each other by draping bedsheets over their hand, dragging the four comers elegantly along the floor behind them ...

Rumata put on his green trousers and a white batiste shirt with a freshly pressed, upturned collar.

"Any callers?" he inquired of the boy.

"The barber is waiting," said the boy. "And there are two dons sitting in the drawing room, Don Tameo and Don Sera. They had me bring them some wine and are quarreling violently. They are waiting to have breakfast with you."

"Go and get the barber. Tell the noble dons that I'll join them very soon. But don't be rude to them, do you hear me? You must always remain polite."

Breakfast was not very opulent and left room for an early lunch. A strongly spiced roast was served along with dogs' ears, marinated in vinegar. They drank Irukanian sparkling wine, the viscous, brown Estorian and the white Soanian. While he skillfully dissected a leg of lamb with the aid of two daggers, Don Tameo complained about the overbearing temerity of the lower classes. "I will lodge a complaint at the highest instance," he declared. "The nobility demands that the plebs, the peasants, and the artisans be forbidden to show their faces in public places and in the street. Let them use the courtyards and back entrances. In those instances where the appearance of a peasant cannot be avoided--for example, when they deliver bread, meat, or wine--they should obtain a special permit from the Ministry for the Protection of the Crown.'"

"What a clever brain!" Don Sera spoke with enthusiasm and sprayed the area before him liberally with saliva and juice from the meat. "But last night at the Court . . ." And he related the latest gossip. Don Reba's current flame. Lady in waiting Okana, had been careless enough to step on the king's sore foot. His Highness flew into a rage and turned to Don Reba, ordering him to mete out an exemplary punishment to the evildoer. Whereupon Don Reba, without even so much as batting an eyelid, replied; "It will be carried out, Your Highness. This very night!"

"I laughed so hard that two buttons popped off my waistcoat!" remarked Don Sera, cocking his head to one side.

Protoplasm, though Rumata. Nothing but ingesting and digesting and procreating protoplasm.

"Indeed, noble dons," he said. "Don Reba is truly a very, very clever man."

"Ho, Ho!" said Don Sera. "Much more--he is an intellectual luminary!"

"An outstanding statesman," said Don Tameo emphatically, with a knowing expression.

"Yes it's really very strange," Don Rumata continued with a friendly smile, "when you remember the kind of things people would tell about him hardly a year ago. Do you recall, Don Tameo, how wittily you expressed yourself on the subject of his bow legs?"

Don Tameo's drink almost went down the wrong way as he quickly swallowed a little glass of Irukanian wine.

"I can't remember a thing," he grumbled. "And besides I am not known as a wit--"

"Oh surely you must remember," said Don Sera and reproachfully wagged his head.

"Yes, indeed!" shouted Don Rumata. "You were present at the conversation, Don Sera! I remember so well how you laughed at Don Tameo's witty ideas. You laughed so hard that something popped off the clothes you were wearing."

Don Sera turned red and blue in the face and started to justify his remarks with long-winded and distorted explanations. He was lying in his teeth, of course. Don Tameo's face had grown somber. He made a long face. He devoted himself wholeheartedly to the strong Estorian wine, and since he had--according to his own words--"begun two mornings ago, and had not been able to desist till now," he had to be supported from either side when they finally departed.

It was a sunny, friendly day. The common people stood around in the streets and gaped as if there were something to look at; little boys whistled and screamed, throwing mud at each other; prettily bedecked housewives with bonnets on their heads leaned out of the windows; daring servant girls flashed their shy glances from moist eyes. Don Sera's mood began to improve. He tripped a peasant and almost split his sides to see how the man wallowed in the mud. Don Tameo suddenly noticed that he had put on his fez with the double sword ornament back to front. He yelled: "Stop! Stay put!" and raised his fez, held it up steady, while he tried to turn his body 180 degrees underneath the fez. Another item popped off Don Sera's waistcoat. Rumata seized a pretty servant girl passing by the group, tugged at her pink ear and begged her to put Don Tameo's headgear in order. A crowd of onlookers quickly gathered around the three noble dons, all eagerly dispensing advice to the girl whose face was as red as a beet--and Don's Sera's waistcoat kept losing a steady stream of buttons, buckles, and hooks. When finally they were on their way again, Don Tameo summoned up his courage and on the spot drew up an addenda to his complaint wherein he pointed out how necessary it was "To keep pretty persons of the female gender at a proper distance from peasants and the common people."

And then a cart loaded with earthenware pots blocked their path. Don Sera unsheathed both his swords and stated that it was not fit and proper for the noble dons to make a detour around pots of any kind and declared his determination to pave his way straight through the cart. But while he was still busy trying to aim properly and distinguish where the wall of the house ended and where the pots began, Rumata grasped the spokes of two wheels and turned the cart around, and thus cleared the road. The gaping crowd, who had followed the incident with delight, began to cheer: Hip, hip, hooray! The noble dons were about to continue on their way when from a second-storey window a fat merchant's gray-blue head popped out, loudly giving forth with a tirade concerning the rudeness of the courtiers against whom "Our Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba, would soon find some proper remedy." Of course they had to stop on the spot once more and transfer the entire load of pots into the merchant's window. Rumata saved the last pot, threw two gold pieces with the profile of Pitz the Sixth inside into the vessel and presented it to the petrified owner of the wagon.

"How much did you give him?" asked Don Tameo as they started out again.

"Oh, it's not worth mentioning," answered Rumata, shrugging his shoulders. 'Two pieces of gold."

"I swear by the humpback of our Holy Mickey!" broke from Don Tameo's lips. "You do have money! If you want, I'll sell you my Chamalharian stallion!"

"I'd rather win that stallion from you in a game of knucklebones," said Rumata.

"Splendid!" shouted Don Sera and stopped in his tracks. "Let's have a game of knucklebones!"

"Right here?" asked Rumata.

"Why not?" asked Don Sera. "I see no reason why three noble dons can't play a game of knucklebones wherever it pleases them!"

Suddenly Don Tameo stumbled and sprawled full length in the mud. Don Sera's legs, too, suddenly became entangled and he fell down.

"Oh, I completely forgot," he said. "We're supposed to be on guard duty now."

Rumata dragged the two to their feet and led each by the arm along the way. Before the giant dark house of Don Satarina he came to a halt

"We ought to pay a visit to the old don," he suggested.

"Sure, can't see any reason why three noble dons shouldn't call on Don Satarina," said Don Sera.

Don Tameo opened his eyes.

"In the king's Service," he managed the words painfully, "we must all look ahead to the future. D-d-d-on Satarina-- that's a piece of the past already. Onward, noble dons! I must get to my guard post."

"Onward!" echoed Don Rumata.

Don Tameo's head dropped forward to rest on his chest; he did not wake up a second time. Don Sera cracked his knuckles and began to tell stories about his ever-successful amorous adventures. They arrived at the palace and went to the guardroom where Rumata, very relieved, laid Don Tameo on a bench. Don Sera, however, took a seat at the table, grandly swept aside a pile of orders signed by the king, and declared that the time had finally come to drink a glass of cold Irukanian wine. The landlord ought to roll out a little barrel, he stated, and these old women (he pointed to the officers of the guard on duty who were playing cards at another table) should join them for a drink. The commander of the guard, a lieutenant of the guard troop, came over. He eyed Don Tameo and Don Sera from top to toe. And after Don Sera had directed an inquiry to him--"Why are all the flowers fading away in the shelter of my solitude?"--he decided it would not make any sense to send them to their sentry post in the present condition; they'd be better off to lie there for a while.

Rumata won a gold piece from the lieutenant and talked with him about the new ribbons on their uniforms and the best method of polishing a sword. He mentioned a short time later that he hoped to visit Don Satarina, who was known to possess some fine grinding stones, and seemed visibly upset to learn that the honorable grandee apparently had now lost his mind for good. One month earlier he was said to have released all his prisoners, had dissolved his bodyguard and handed over to the state his rich arsenal of instruments of torture. At the age of 102 years, the old man declared, it was his intention from now on to devote the rest of his life to good deeds. He'd probably not be long for this world now.

Taking his leave of the lieutenant, Rumata left the palace and ambled over in the direction of the harbor. He had to walk around puddles and jump over deep wheel ruts filled with greenish-brown water. Without further ado, he pushed the loitering onlookers out of his path, winked at the girls (who seemed greatly impressed by his outfit), bowed deeply to the ladies who were being carried down the street in sedan chairs, waved friendly greetings to his acquaintances from the court and deliberately ignored the Gray Sturmoviks.

Next, Rumata made a little detour to look in at the School of Patriots. This school had been founded two years previously under the protection of Don Reba himself for the purpose of training the adolescent sons of merchants and the lower middle class for positions as low-ranking military and administrative officials. The building was constructed of stone, without any columns or ornaments; it had thick walls with narrow, embrasurelike windows; on either side of the main entrance were two semicircular towers. If necessary, one could defend oneself there for quite a while.

Rumata climbed up a narrow circular staircase leading to the second floor, his spurs clanking on the stone floor. On his way to the office of the school's procurator he passed by the classrooms. A monotonous, uniform hum of voices came from the rooms; answers were given in unison. "What is our king?"--"A sublime person." "What are our ministers?"-- "Faithful and without the spirit of contradiction." "And God, the Creator, spoke: 'I pronounce a curse.' And He pronounced a curse . . ." ". . . and at the sound of the horn blowing twice, run two by two and form a chain, holding your spears ready to thrust ...""... in case the tortured should lose consciousness, the torturing must be interrupted immediately..."

The school, thought Rumata. The breeding ground of wisdom. The mainstay of culture ...

Without knocking, he pushed open the low entrance door and entered the office; it was dark and icy as a crypt. Behind an immensely massive writing desk, heaped with papers and thrashing canes, a tall, angular man jumped to his feet. A pair of deep-seated eyes peered from his bald head, and on his tightly braided gray uniform could be seen the epaulets of the Ministry of Security. He was the procurator of the School of Patriots, the most learned Father Kin, a sadist, a murderer, and a monk at the same time, author of the Treatise Dealing with Denunciations, which had aroused Don Reba's interest

"Well, how are you faring here?" asked Don Rumata with a benevolent smile. 'The literate folk . . . Some we slaughter and others we teach, eh?"

Father Kin smiled wryly.

"Not every literate man is an enemy of the crown," he said. "The king's enemies are the literate dreamers, skeptics, and disloyal dissidents! Whereas our task here--"

"All right, all right," said Rumata. "I believe you. Are you writing anything new? I have read your treatise--a very useful work, but stupid. How can you harbor such thoughts? How do you get such ideas? That isn't very good, my dear ... procurator, is it... ?"

"I make no boastful claims of special intelligence or wisdom," answered Father Kin with dignity. "My only goal is the good of the state. We need no clever people. We need loyalty. And we--"

"That will do, that will do," said Rumata. "All right then. But are you writing anything new or not?"

"In the near future I will hand the minister an outline of the New State for his perusal. I have used the Realm of the Holy Order as a model for it"

"The very ideal" Rumata was filled with wonder. "Do you intend to make monks of all of us?"

Father Kin pressed his palms together and leaned forward.

"Permit me, noble don, to make myself clear," he said excitedly, licking his lips. "The crux of the matter lies somewhere else. The crux of the matter lies in the basic pillars of the New State. And the basic pillars are rather simple; there are but three: blind belief in the infallibility of the law; total submission to the law; and finally, the unrelenting observation of everyone by all."

"Hum," said Rumata. "And what for?"

"What do you mean, what for?"

"You are stupid after all," said Rumata. "All right, I believe you. I wanted something else. What was it now? . . . Oh, yes. Tomorrow you'll get two new teachers to add to your staff. Father Tarra, a venerable old man, is dabbling in --cosmography; and Brother Nanin, also a most worthy man, specialist in history. They are my people, and you are to treat them right! Here is my pledge." He threw a money pouch of leather on the table. "That's for you, five gold pieces. All clear?"

"Yes, noble don," said Father Kin humbly.

Rumata yawned and looked around.

"Just as long as we understand each other," he said. "For some reason my father used to love these people very dearly, and charged me with the task of making their lives as pleasant as possible. Would you do me a favor and explain, you learned man, why such a most noble don would be so inclined toward the sciences?"

"Some special merits perhaps?" guessed Father Kin.

"What are you babbling about?" asked Rumata angrily. "But then again, why not? Indeed, why not? There might be a beautiful daughter, or a sister . . . Don't you have any wine here? Of course not--"

Father Kin shrugged his shoulders guiltily. Rumata took one of the papers that cluttered the writing desk and held it against the light for a while.

"Defensive belt breakthrough," he read out loud. "Oh, you crafty fellows!"

He dropped the paper on the floor and rose to his feet "Just make sure that your educated brood doesn't bother these two. Ill come to visit them some time soon, and if I hear that--" He pushed his fist under Father Kin's nose.

"All right, all right, don't worry." Father Kin snickered obsequiously.

Rumata nodded curtly and walked out the door, scraping his spurs along the floor.

On the Boulevard of Overwhelming Gratitude, he went into an armorer's workshop and bought new rings for his sword sheath. He tried out a few daggers, hurled them against the wall, weighed them in his hand, but could not decide on any of them. Then he sat down on a table and chatted with the owner of the place, a certain Father Hauk. Father Hauk had kind, sad eyes, and small pale hands, stained with inkspots. Rumata discussed with him for a while the merits of Zuren's poetry, listened to an interesting commentary on the poem. "It weighs upon my soul like fallen leaves," and asked for something new to read. Before leaving, he sighed with the author over the inexpressibly sad verses and recited "To be or not to be" in an Irukanian translation.

"Holy Mickey!" Father Hauk cried out exuberantly. "Who writes such verses?"

"I do," said Rumata and left the store.

He made his way to the Gray Joy Inn, drank there a glass of Irukanian white wine, patted the innkeeper's wife on the cheek, skillfully overthrew with one thrust of his sword a table where a government spy sat staring at him with empty eyes. Then he walked to a far comer of the inn and found there a ragged, bearded man, who had an inkwell suspended around his neck.

"Good day, Brother Nanin," he greeted the man. "How many petitions have you written today?"

Brother Nanin's embarrassed smile displayed his small decayed teeth.

"Nowadays people want to write very few petitions, noble don," he answered. "Some believe that it is useless to beg for favors. And others count on the likelihood that they will get what they want soon anyhow, without having to ask for it."

Rumata bent over and whispered in his ear that he had arranged the matter with the School of Patriots.

"Here are two pieces of gold for you," he said finally. "Clean up and put on some decent clothes. And weigh your words. At least for the first few days. Father Kin, the procurator, is a dangerous man." .

"I'll read him my treatise about rumors," said Brother Nanin merrily. "I thank you, noble don."

"The things one does in memory of a dear departed father," said Rumata. "But, tell me, where can I find Father Tarra?"

Brother Nanin's smile vanished suddenly and a nervous tick played around his mouth.

'There was a brawl here yesterday," he said. "And Father Tarra had a bit too much to drink and got somewhat out of hand. And, then, you know, he has red hair . . . They broke his ribs."

"What a mess!" Rumata said. "Why do you all drink so much?"

"Sometimes it's hard to control oneself," said Brother Nanin sadly.

"That's very true," said Rumata. "Well, here's a few more gold pieces, and try to take care of him, will you?"

Brother Nanin bowed low and wanted to kiss Rumata's hand but Rumata stepped back quickly.

"Now, now," he said. "I have seen you make better jokes in your time, Brother Nanin. Farewell!"

The harbor smelled like no other spot in Arkanar. It smelled of seawater and foul algae, of spices, tar, smoke, and rotten corned beef, and from the taverns came a nauseating odor of boiled fish and home brewed beer turned sour. The sultry air was filled with a jumble of curses in many tongues. On the piers, in the narrow lanes between the warehouses and around the taverns, thousands of people shoved and pushed. They caught the eye. Down-and-out seamen, bloated merchants, fishermen with somber faces, slave traders, pimps, heavily made-up whores, drunken soldiers, men impossible to classify, hung with arms from head to toe, and fantastic vagabonds in torn clothes with golden bracelets around their dirty wrists. And all were excited and ill-tempered. Don Reba had issued an edict three days before, forbidding any ship or boat to leave the harbor.

The Gray Sturmoviks lounged on the quays, playing with their rusty butcher cleavers. They spat into the water and bestowed impertinent and malicious glances on the crowd. On some of the ships that were moored near the quays, groups of five or six men huddled, brawny, copper-skinned men clad in heavy furs turned inside out. These were the barbarian mercenaries. They were no good in a fight at close range, but when they were at a distance (as they were now) they were very dangerous with their blowpipes and poisoned arrows. In the distance loomed the black masts of the war galleys of the royal fleet, like threatening fingers pointing skywards. From time to time, streams of fire issued from them and landed on the surface of the water toward the quays: the oil slicks were ignited in this way in order to intimidate the waiting crowd.

Rumata passed the customs shed where the ship captains were waiting in front of closed doors in vain, trying to obtain their permit to depart. He thrust through the noisy crowd that was busy at bartering and trading with anything at hand: from slave girls and black pearls to narcotics and trained spiders. He continued on to the quays, threw a swift glance over to the side where corpses in sailors' uniforms were publicly displayed. The dead bodies had already swelled up under the hot sun. He described a wide circle around a square which was littered with all kinds of junk and garbage, and finally entered an evil-smelling little side street. It was much quieter here. Half-naked prostitutes were sprawled in the doorways of cheap waterfront dives; at a street crossing a soldier lay, dead drunk, his nose bashed in and his pockets tamed inside out: suspicious figures with pale nocturnal faces crept along the walls of the houses.

This was the first time that Rumata had come here during the day. At first he was surprised at the lack of reaction to his presence. The people he encountered either looked past him with their watery eyes or saw straight through him. Still, they stepped aside to let him pass. Once when he tamed around a comer and then swiftly looked back, he saw some twenty various heads--male and female, bushy-haired and bald--disappear instantly behind doorways, windows, and fences. Suddenly he felt the strange atmosphere of this nauseating neighborhood, an atmosphere filled not so much with hostility or danger as with an evil, avaricious interest.

He pushed a door open with his shoulder and entered one of the taverns. Inside the darkened room a man dozed behind the bar. He was very old, with a face like a mummy and an extraordinarily long nose. There were no patrons in the room. Rumata approached the bar and was just about to flip his fingers against the enormous nose of the old man when all of a sudden he became aware that the old man was not really asleep, but was watching him carefully from behind his almost closed eyelids. Rumata threw a silver coin on the table and the old man's eyes jerked open as if pushed by a button.

"What would you like, noble don?" he inquired officiously. "Something to eat? To sniff? Or maybe a girl?"

"Don't ask such stupid questions," said Rumata. "You know quite well what I'm here for."

"Well! Now isn't that the noble Don Rumata!" shouted the old man as if completely taken by surprise. "There I am, just sitting there--and suddenly I see a familiar face--"

After this long speech, the old man closed his eyes again. Rumata got the message: the coast was clear. He walked around the bar and crawled through a tiny door into the adjoining room. It was very crowded and dark inside and the room was filled with a penetrating odor of sour beer. In the middle of the room, standing behind a high desk, was an elderly man. His deeply wrinkled face was bent over a pile of papers. His head was covered by a flat black cap. A weak oil lamp flickered on the high desk and its pale light barely illuminated the faces of the men sitting motionless along the wall. Rumata used his two swords like canes and groped for a low chair near the wall. He sat down. Special laws and a special etiquette ruled here. None of those present paid the slightest bit of attention to the newcomer. If somebody entered, then that was the way it was supposed to be; but in case it was not the way it was supposed to be, then you blinked just once and that person disappeared. You could search the wide world over and never find a trace of him . . . The pucker-faced old man busily scratched his pen over the paper; the people along the wall did not budge. From time to time one of them would sigh deeply. Up and down the walls scurried invisible salamanders, hunting for flies.

The motionless men along the wall were the leaders of robber bands. Rumata had known some of them by sight for quite a while now. These dull brutes were not worth anything, actually. Their psyches were no more complicated than that of the average shopkeeper. They were stupid, brutal, and very handy with .knives and cudgels. But then there was the man at the high desk.

He was called Waga Koleso, and he was all-powerful; there was no competitor who would have contested his position as chief of all the criminal forces in the land, from the Pitanian swamps in the Western regions of Irukan to the maritime borders of the mercantile republic of Soan. He had been cursed and expelled from all three official churches of the empire because of his excessive haughtiness, for he claimed to be the younger brother of the ruling prince. He had at his disposal a standing nocturnal army, some ten thousand men strong; had a few hundred thousand gold pieces in his treasure chests; and his agents penetrated as far as the very heart of the government machine. He had been officially executed at least four times during the past twenty years, each time in the presence of a large populace. According to an official version he was currently languishing simultaneously in three of the darkest jails of the realm. Don Reba, however, had repeatedly issued commands "regarding the rebellious spreading of rumors and legends by enemies of the State and other malevolent persons regarding a certain so-called Waga Koleso, who in actuality does not exist and thus belongs to the realm of legends."

According to certain rumors, the same Don Reba summoned several barons, who disposed of strong troops of warriors, and promised the following reward: five hundred gold pieces for Waga's body and seven thousand for Waga alive. In his time, Rumata himself had had to spend a great deal of effort and money in order to establish contact with Koleso. He felt violently repelled by the old man but Koleso was occasionally very useful, even literally indispensable. Besides, Waga was of scientific interest to him, namely as a most intriguing specimen in Rumata's collection of medieval monsters, and as a person who apparently lacked any trace of a past.

Finally, Waga put his quill aside, straightened up his back and said with a croaking voice:

"Well, then, my dear children. Two and a half thousand pieces of gold within three days. And expenses run only 1996. Five hundred and four little round pieces of gold in three days. Not bad, my dear children, not bad at all..."

Nobody moved. Waga .left his place behind the high desk, took a seat in a comer and forcefully rubbed his dry palms together.

"Isn't that something to make you jump for joy, my dear children?" he said. "These are good times for us, these fruitful years . . . But we must work hard for our daily bread. Indeed, how hard! My older brother, the king of Arkanar, has set his mind on annihilating all learned men in his own kingdom as well as in mine. Well, he in his wisdom ought to know what should be done. After all, who are we to doubt the wisdom of his judgment? It does not behoove us to criticize his most exalted decisions. On the other hand, we may--nay, we must--extract some profit from these decisions. And since we are his loyal subjects, we must serve him. As we are but his nocturnal subjects we will not deliver into his hands our modest part of these profits without further ado. He, of course, won't notice it, and therefore he will not be annoyed at us. What is the matter?"

Nobody moved.

"I had the impression that Piga was sighing over there. Am I right, Piga, my son?"

There was a slight commotion, somebody fidgeting in his seat, apparently, as nothing could be seen in the darkened room. A slight cough came from a comer.

"I didn't sigh, Waga," said a coarse voice. "I wouldn't.. ."

"That's it, Piga, just keep quiet! Excellent! Now hold your breath and listen to me carefully! Look sharp and set to work and nobody will bother you at your difficult task. My older brother, His Royal Highness, has let it be known through his mouthpiece, the noble Don Reba, that he has set a rather considerable sum of money on the heads of several learned men who are in hiding or who wish to flee from here. We must deliver these heads into his royal hands, just to humor the old man. On the other hand, though, some of these scientists want to hide from my older brother's wrath, and are willing to remunerate whoever will assist them in it. Out of compassion, in the name of pity, and also to guard my brother's soul from the burden of excessive misdeeds, we will help these people. And if later on His Royal Highness should still be in need of these heads, he can still get them from us. At a good price. Very cheap ..."

Waga fell silent and lowered his head. Tears were trickling down his cheeks all of a sudden--the slow tears of an old man.

"I am getting old," he sighed, trying vainly to stifle a sob. "My hands are trembling with age, my legs fail me and my memory begins to fade. Indeed, I forgot completely that inside this tiny, stifling cage a noble don is languishing in our midst--surely he does not care to hear about our petty money deals. I am leaving you, I will rest. But meanwhile, my children, let us ask the noble don to be gracious enough to forgive our oversight . . ." Moaning and groaning he rose to his feet, arched over to make a bow. The rest of the men also got to their feet and bowed before Rumata, but indecision and fear showed plainly in their faces. Rumata could literally hear their dull, primitive brains crackling with the strain of trying to interpret the old man's words and gestures.

Things were perfectly clear, however. The clever old man would seize the opportunity at the right moment to inform Don Reba of his intention that he and his nocturnal army would join the Gray hordes in the pogrom they had just started. Now, however, the time for concrete orders had come, when lists of names were to be handed out and the exact date and hour were to be determined when the plans would be carried out. At this point Don Rumata's presence was, to put it mildly, considered undesirable. This way it was suggested to the noble don to state quickly the purpose of his visit and then to take his leave as fast as possible. What a morose old man! A nasty person! What was he doing here in town? Waga couldn't stand city life.

"You are right, my dear Waga," said Rumata. "My time is limited. But it is I who must beg your pardon because I will bother you with some inconsequential little business." Rumata remained seated while all the others listened to him standing up.

"It has come about that I am in need of your advice . .. You may sit down."

Waga bowed once more and sat down.

"This is what I came to tell you," continued Rumata. "Three days ago I was supposed to meet my friend, a noble don from Irukan, at the Square of the Heavy Swords. We failed to meet. He has vanished. But I knew for certain that he has crossed safely the Irukanian border. Perhaps you might know something further about his fate?"

Waga did not reply for a long time. The bandits kept clearing their throats and sighed deeply. Then Waga, too, cleared his throat.

"No, noble don," he said. "Nothing is known to us in this matter."

Rumata instantly stood up.

"Thank you, my friend," he said. Then he walked over to the high desk in the middle of the room and set down a leather pouch with ten gold pieces. "I'm leaving this here with you with the following request: Should you hear of any further news, let me know about it, please." He touched his cap. "Farewell!"

He stopped once more, just before he reached the door, turned around and remarked casually:

"You mentioned something about learned men. A thought just occurred to me. I have the feeling that the King of Arkanar won't succeed in capturing any proper bookworms even if he should try for a whole month. And I must found a university in the capital city. I once made such a vow when I was cured there from the plague. So if you should seize any bookworms, will you let me know before you inform Don Reba. Maybe I might use one or the other for my university."

"That will cost you dearly," warned Waga with a mawkish voice. "The merchandise is hard to come by."

"But my honor is dearer still," bragged Rumata as he turned to go.