SEVEN

He was lying on a grassy hill looking up into the clouds that sailed along the deep, blue sky. He felt quiet and at peace but on the grassy hill next to him sat the embodiment of shooting pain. The pain was externalized, and yet he could also feel it inside himself, especially on his right side and on the back of his neck. "Kicked the bucket, has he? I'll cut off your heads!" And then a flood of icy cold water poured down on him from out of the sky. True, he was lying on his back and looking up into the sky, but it was not a grassy hill, but a puddle of water; and the sky was not blue either, it was leaden black with red stripes. "Not a bit," said another voice. 'That's alive. Twitching with the eyes." I am the one who is alive, he thought. They are talking about me. I am the one whose eyes are twitching. What's all this drivel? Don't they know how to speak properly?

Someone moved nearby and hit the water with some heavy object. The black silhouette of a head with a flat cap appeared on the sky.

"How about it, noble don, will you walk under your own power or shall I have them carry you?"

"Untie my legs!" snapped Rumata, and felt at once a sharp, burning pain in his bruised lips. Gingerly he passed his tongue over them. Some lips, he thought. More like flabby pancakes.

Someone busied himself about his feet, pushing and pulling them unceremoniously. People were conversing nearby in subdued voices.

"You certainly made a mess of him."

"Had to, he almost got away . . . He's bewitched--arrows bounce off his body ..."

"I knew a fellow once, you could work him over with an ax and he wouldn't bat an eyelash."

"Probably a peasant."

"Of course he was."

"So? But this one is a blue blood."

"To hell with it. Look how they tied these knots! Even our Holy Mickey couldn't untie those. Pass me a torch!"

"Better take, a knife!"

"Hey, fellows, leave his legs tied up. Hell start thrashing at us again. He almost knocked my head off."

"No, no, he won't do anything."

"Whatever anyone says, comrades, I sure let him have it with my spear. It went right through his armor."

Some voice called out peremptorily from the darkness.

"Finish up, will you!"

Rumata felt now that his legs were free; he stretched them, tried to stand up, but fell down immediately. Several Sturmoviks who were crouching on the ground watched in silence as he wallowed in the muddy puddle. Rumata gnashed his teeth in fury and humiliation. He jerked his shoulder blades: his hands were bound and turned up on his back, but so tightly that he could not tell where his palms and where his elbows were. He gathered up all his strength and violently jerked them upwards, but at once doubled over in pain. The Sturmoviks broke out in laughter.

"Can't escape that way," said one of them.

"I think he's a little tired. Hey, you, drop dead."

"Hey, don, not too pleasant, is it?"

"Shut up! Stop that silly babbling!" said the imperative voice from the dark. "Come over here, Don Rumata!"

Rumata struggled to his feet and walked toward the voice; he felt himself staggering uncertainly from side to side. A man appeared from somewhere, holding a torch, and led the way for him. Rumata recognized the locality. It was one of the innumerable interior courts of the Ministry of Security, near the royal stables.

He thought quickly. If they lead me to the right, that would mean the Tower, the dungeon. To the left: The offices of Don Reba's Ministry. He shook his head. So what, he thought. I am still alive, I'll make out all right.--They turned to the left. These new, bright worlds seemed to be buoyed up by an unknown force, seemed to be filled with wonderful human beings and staggering emotions. And somewhere down there Doctor Budach was spending the night, who knew how? Humbled, forced to his knees, and beaten, but still alive ... My brothers all, thought Rumata. I am one of you; after all, we are of the same flesh! All of a sudden he was overwhelmed by an insight that he was actually no god protecting the luminaries of the mind between the palms of his hands, but rather a brother helping another brother or a son hurrying to come to his father's rescue. "I'll kill Don Reba."--"What for?"--"He has destroyed my brothers."--"He does not know what he is doing."--"But he is murdering the future!"--"He is not guilty; he is a child of his time."--"You mean he does not realize his guilt? But what does it matter whether or not he is aware of his guilt?"--"And what about Father Zupik? What wouldn't he give if somebody were to slay Don Reba. Now you're silent. You'll have to do a lot of killing, won't you?" --"I don't know. Perhaps. One after the other. All those that try to prevent the future from happening!"--"That's an old story. Poison, homemade bombs--And nothing ever changed."--"Oh yes, something did change. The strategy of the revolution was born."--"What do you care about the strategy of the revolution? All you want is to kill!"-- "Yes, I want to kill."--"Can you really go through with that?"--"Yesterday I caused the death of Dona Okana. I knew she would be killed the moment I went to her house with a feather stuck behind my ear. I only regret having killed her senselessly. They've almost managed to teach me such things here."--At least not right away, thought Rumata. First an interrogation, a cross-examination. Awful. In that case, what can they accuse me of? That's obvious enough. Inducing the poisoner Budach to poison the king, conspiracy, plotting against the crown. Maybe also murdering the prince. And, of course, spying for Irukan, Soan, the barbarians, the barons, the Holy Order, and so on and so on. Surprising enough that I am still alive. That means he has been thinking of something else still, the toadstool.

"This way," said the man with the imperious voice. A low door flew open. Rumata ducked his head and entered a large room, lit up by a dozen chandeliers. The men who sat or lay on the worn rug in the center of the room were tied up and covered with blood. Some were already dead or had fainted. Almost all were barefoot and wore only worn and ripped night shirts. Along the walls, the red-nosed Sturmoviks were leaning negligently on their hatchets and battle axes. They looked about with wild eyes and were satisfied. They had been victorious. The officer on guard was striding up and down before them, his hands clasped on his back. He wore a gray uniform with a very greasy collar. Rumata's companion, a tall man in a black cloak, approached the officer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded his head, regarded Rumata for a moment with great interest and disappeared behind the heavy, colorful drapes at the other end of the room.

The Sturmoviks examined Rumata in turn, also very interestedly. One of them, with a dim eye, said:

"Say, that's some precious stone there on his forehead!"

"Not bad, that stone," agreed another soldier. "Some booty for the king. And the circlet is made of pure gold."

"We are the kings now."

"Down with it then, eh, what do you think?"

"Get away from there," growled the man in the black cloak.

The Sturmoviks stared at him in surprise.

"Another one to patronize us?" asked the Sturmovik with the blind eye.

The man with the black cloak did not answer, but turned his back on him and stepped close to Rumata. The Sturmoviks looked him up and down, their eyes filled with mistrust.

"Perhaps a blackbird, a priest?" said the Sturmovik with the blind eye.

"Hey, blackie, want a smackie?"

The Sturmoviks cackled and crowed in amusement. The dim-eyed man spat on his palms, tossed his hatchet from hand to hand and moved toward Rumata. He's going to get it now, thought Rumata, and slowly pulled back his right foot.

"The people I have always beaten up," said the Sturmovik as he came to a halt before the man in black, and staring at him insolently, "were the priests, any learned trash and our so-called masters. Once I--"

The man with the black cloak raised his outstretched hand. A buzzing click could be heard all of a sudden, just below the ceiling. Sh-sh-sh-! The Sturmovik with the blind eye dropped his hatchet and fell over backwards. A thick, feathered arrow protruded from the middle of his forehead. All at once there was absolute silence. The Sturmoviks shifted nervously from one foot to the other, their eyes flitted anxiously along the openings below the ceiling.

"Get rid of that body, quick!"

Several Sturmoviks bent down, grabbed their comrade by his arms and legs and dragged him outside. A Gray officer came out from behind the curtains and beckoned to Rumata and the man in black.

"Let's go, Don Rumata," said the man in black.

Rumata passed the bodies of the prisoners and walked over to the curtains. I don't understand anything any more, he thought. Once behind the drapes, he was seized by invisible hands that expertly frisked his body in the darkness, tore the empty scabbards from his belt, then pushed him into the light.

Rumata knew at once where he was.

This was the infamous cabinet of Don Reba in the lilac-colored apartments. Don Reba sat at the same spot, striking the identical pose as once before; his back straight, elbows resting on the tabletop and fingers clasped. I bet the old man is suffering from hemorrhoids, the thought abruptly flashed through Rumata's mind. He felt sorry for him. To the right of Don Reba was enthroned Father Zupik, concentrating hard and pompously biting his lips. To Don Reba's left sat a kindly smiling potbellied man, the epaulettes on his shoulders marking him as a captain of the Gray Army. Nobody else was in the room besides these three- As Don Rumata entered, Don Reba said benevolently in a low voice:

"Well, my friends, here we have finally the noble Don Rumata."

Father Zupik smiled condescendingly and the fat man started to nod his head kindly.

"Our old and very consistent enemy," said Don Reba.

"An enemy? Hang him!" remarked Father Zupik hoarsely.

"And what is your opinion, Brother Aba?" asked Don Reba, throwing a warning glance at the potbellied man.

"You know . . . somehow I have . . ." Brother Aba smiled rather childishly and lost, fidgeting with his short arms in the air. "Somehow, you know, I actually do not care. But maybe we ought to hang him anyhow? Or perhaps burn him, what do you say, Don Reba?"

"Why not," said a pensive Don Reba.

"You see," continued Brother Aba desperately, and directed a strangely friendly smile toward Rumata, "in general we hang the riff-raff, the little fish. But we must maintain a respectful relationship toward the aristocracy. For the sake of the people. After all, he is a descendant from old nobility, an important Irukanian spy. Irukanian, isn't that right?" He took a piece of paper from the table and stared at it with nearsighted eyes. "Ah, and besides that, also a Seaman spy. Even worse!"

"Burn him then," concurred Father Zupik.

"Fine," said Don Reba. "Then we are all agreed. Burn him!"

"By the way, I believe Don Rumata might ease his lot!" said Brother Aba. "You know what I mean, Don Reba?"

"To be quite frank with you, not quite."

"His fortune! My noble don, his fortune! The Rumatas are a fabulously wealthy family... !"

"You're right, as always," said Don Reba.

Father Zupik yawned, covered his mouth with his hand, and kept stealing glances toward the heavy lilac-colored drapes to the right side of the table.

"All right then, let's start according to the rules," said Don Reba with a sigh.

Father Zupik still cast furtive glances at the drapes. Evidently he was waiting for something definite and was not at all interested in this cross-examination. What kind of a farce is that? thought Rumata. What is the meaning of all this?

"Well, then, my noble don," said Don Reba and turned to Rumata, "it would be most pleasant to hear your answers to some questions we are interested in."

"Remove these bonds from my hands," said Rumata.

Father Zupik flinched, while making desperate chewing motions with his lips. Brother Aba moved his head from side to side excitedly.

"Well?" said Don Reba and looked first at Brother Aba, then at Father Zupik. "I do understand you, my friends. However, considering the circumstances and the fact that they will also be clear to Don Rumata . .." With a meaningful glance he let his eyes sweep along the rows of openings in the walls underneath the ceiling. "Untie him," he said in the same quiet, even voice.

Without making a sound, somebody stepped up to Rumata from behind. He felt the oddly soft, skillful fingers touching his hands, and then heard the ropes being cut with a knife. With amazing speed--considering his bulk--Brother Aba pulled a huge crossbow from underneath the table and placed it directly in front of him on top of a pile of papers. Rumata's arms fell to his sides like two braids. He had almost no feeling in them.

"Well, then, let's begin," said Don Reba cheerfully. "Name, family, and rank?"

"Rumata, descended from the race of the Estorian Rumatas. Noble courtiers for the past twenty-two generations."

Rumata looked around, saw a sofa, sat down and started to massage his wrists. Brother Aba gasped for air and aimed the crossbow at him.

"Your father?"

"My noble father--imperial councilor, loyal servant and personal friend of the emperor."

"Is he alive?"

"He's dead."

"When?"

"Eleven years ago."

"How old are you?"

Rumata found no time to reply. From behind the lilac-colored curtains came suddenly some noises, and Brother Aba turned around suspiciously. Father Zupik rose slowly from his seat and laughed maliciously.

"Well, there you are, gentlemen ..." That was all he managed to say. For three men jumped out from behind the heavy drapes, to Rumata's greatest surprise--they were the last people he would have expected in this place. Apparently his feelings were shared by Father Zupik. The three men were powerfully built, clad in black monk's garb, their hoods pulled down over their eyes. Swiftly and noiselessly, they leapt over to Father Zupik and seized him by the elbows.

"Devil take it!" he uttered somehow. A deathly pallor fell over his face. Undoubtedly he had expected something quite different.

"What do you think, Brother Aba?" inquired Don Reba calmly and leaned slightly toward the fat man.

"Yes, of course!" Father Aba answered resolutely. "Of course!"

Don Reba motioned with his hand. The monks lifted Father Zupik off his feet and carried him, still treading noiselessly, behind the curtain. Rumata frowned in disgust, Brother Aba rubbed his soft palms together and said boldly;

"That went off splendidly. What did you think, Don Reba?"

"Yes, not bad," nodded Don Reba in consent. "But let's go on. So. How old are you, Don Rumata?"

"Thirty-five years."

"How long have you been in Arkanar?"

"It has been five years."

"Where did you come from?"

"Till then I had been living in Estoria on my family's ancestral seat."

"Why this change of residence?"

"I was forced by circumstances to leave Estoria. I was in search of a city that could challenge the splendor of our capital." Finally he began to feel a fiery tingling in his arms. Patiently and untiringly, Rumata continued to massage his swollen joints.

"What kind of circumstances?" asked Don Reba.

"I killed a member of the imperial household in a duel."

"Oh? Who?"

"The young Duke Ekin."

"And what was the reason for this duel?"

"A woman," answered Rumata briefly.

He became gradually suspicious that all these questions were actually meaningless. That they were just as much part of the game as the consultation regarding the manner of his execution.

The three of us are waiting for something. I am waiting until I have regained full use of my hands. Brother Aba, the dunderhead, is waiting for me to drop all the gold of the family treasure of the Rumatas in his lap. Don Reba, too, is waiting for something. But the monks, the monks! How did the monks come to be here at court? And especially such skillful and nimble fellows--?

'The name of that woman?"

Oh, these questions, thought Rumata. One would be hard put to think up a more witless batch. I'll try to throw him out of gear a bit.

"Dona Rita," he replied.

"I did not expect that you would answer me. Thank you."

"Always at your service."

Don Reba slightly bowed his head. "Have you ever been in lrukan?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you?"

"We want to speak the truth!" said Don Reba in a didactic tone of voice. Brother Aba produced a quivering nod of his head. "Nothing but the truth."

"Aha!" said Rumata. "And I was under the impression .. ." He fell silent.

"Under what impression?"

". . . that you were mainly interested in laying your hands on my fortune. But for the life of me I can't imagine, Don Reba, how you will finagle that?"

"How about donating it? Yes, donate it!" shouted Brother Aba.

Rumata laughed impudently.

"You are an ass, Brother Aba, or whatever your name might be. One can see with half an eye that you're nothing but a miserable little shopkeeper. You probably are not aware that the right of primogeniture is not subject to transfer into other hands?"

It was plain to be seen that the fat man was ready to explode with rage. But he managed to keep himself under control.

"You are not entitled to speak in such a manner," said Don Reba in a gentle voice.

"You want the truth?" countered Rumata. "Here it is, the truth, nothing but the truth--the absolute truth: Brother Aba is an ass and a petty shopkeeper."

Meanwhile, Brother Aba had completely regained his composure.

"It seems to me that we are not sticking to the point," he said with a smile. "What do you think, Don Reba?"

"You're right, as always," said Don Reba. "My noble don, did you ever go to Soan?"

"I was in Soan."

"For what purpose?"

'To attend the Academy of Sciences."

"What a peculiar occupation for a young man of your circumstances."

"That's what I fancied."

"And are you acquainted with the chief judge of Soan, Don Kondor?"

Rumata became suspicious; he smelled a rat

"He is an old friend of my family."

"A most worthy man, isn't he?"

"A most honorable person."

"Are you familiar with the fact that Don Kondor is a member of the conspiracy against His Majesty the King?"

Rumata's chin began to jut out imperceptibly.

"Put your own house in order first, Don Reba," said Rumata haughtily. "As far as we, the old nobility of the capital, are concerned, all these Soanians and Irukanians, as well as the Arkanarians, are and will always be nothing but vassals of the imperial crown!" He crossed his legs and turned away.

Don Reba studied him pensively.

"Are you rich?"

"I could buy up all of Arkanar if I had a mind to. But I am not interested in trash."

Don Reba took a deep breath.

"My heart bleeds," he said, "when I consider how I am forced to chop off the famous branch of such a famous and noble lineage! It would almost be a crime if I were not driven to do it in the higher interests of State."

"Don't worry so much about the interests of the state," said Rumata. "Better worry about how to save your own skin."

"You are quite right," said Don Reba and snapped his fingers.

Rumata alternately tensed and relaxed his muscles. His body was apparently functioning normally again. From behind the curtains, once more three monks jumped out, with the same incredible agility and precision which bespoke a great deal of experience. They surrounded the still smiling Brother Aba and grasped his arms, twisting them up behind his back.

"Ou-ou-ou-ouch!" he screamed in pain, his fat face distorted in agony.

"Hurry up, get it over with quickly!" commanded Don Reba.

As they were dragging him behind the drapes, the fat man resisted furiously. He could still be heard, crying and whining; then suddenly he roared briefly in a weird, hardly recognizable voice, and finally all became quiet again.

Don Reba stood up and cautiously unloaded the crossbow. Rumata, quite perplexed, followed his motions with his eyes.

Slowly, Don Reba began to pace the floor, apparently lost in deep thought, while scratching his back with the arrow. "Good, good," he murmured, almost tenderly. "How perfect . . ." He seemed to have completely forgotten Rumata's presence. He kept pacing faster and faster, twirling the arrow in the air like a baton. Then, abruptly, he stopped in his tracks by the table, threw the arrow away, sat down gingerly, his face suddenly lit up by a smile, and said:

"Well, what do you say to that? Neither of them even put up a good fight. I don't think we'd get away as easily as that with you."

"Ye-e-es ...," said Rumata slowly, thoughtfully.

"All right then. Now let's have a talk, Don Rumata. Or is it maybe not even Rumata? And perhaps not even a don? How about it?"

Rumata remained silent and examined him interestedly. Don Reba was pale, and little red veins showed on his nose. He was nearly shaking with excitement, as if he were about to clap his hands in glee and scream out: "I knew it! I knew it!"--You know nothing at all, you dog, he thought. And even if you should find out, you would not believe it anyhow. Go ahead, speak, I'm listening.

"I'm listening," said Rumata.

"You are not Don Rumata," explained Don Reba. "You are an usurper." He looked seriously into Rumata's eyes. "Rumata of Estoria died five years ago and is entombed in the family crypt of his ancestors. And the saints have long since quieted his rebellious and--excuse me--none too pure soul. So? Do you confess or do you need some prompting?"

"I confess," said Rumata. "I am called Rumata of Estoria, and I am not accustomed to people doubting my words."

Let me annoy you a bit, thought Rumata. Look out, here we go.

"I can see well have to continue this talk somewhere else," said Don Reba in an ominous tone.

Remarkable changes came over Don Reba's face. The pleasant smile disappeared, his lips narrowed to a thin line. It was odd, almost to the point of eeriness: even the skin on his forehead started to twitch. Yes, thought Rumata, a man like that can be frightened. "You do have hemorrhoids, don't you?" he asked solicitously.

Something flashed in the comers of Don Reba's eyes but he did not bat an eyelid. He acted as if he had not heard.

"You treated Budach very badly," said Rumata. "He is an excellent physician. That is to say, he was . . . ," he added significantly.

For another moment, Don Reba's eyes flashed again. Aha, thought Rumata. Budach is presumably still alive ... He settled more comfortably in his chair, clasped his hands around his knees.

"You refuse to confess," said Don Reba.

"What?"

"That you are an usurper!"

"My most honorable Don Reba," said Rumata with the intonation of a schoolmaster. "Such accusations usually ought to be solidly backed by concrete proof. You insult me!"

Don Reba's face assumed an expression of utter sweetness.

"My dear Don Rumata," he said. "Forgive me if I continue to use that name for the time being. I am not usually in the habit of proving anything. The proof comes over there, in the Tower of Joy. For this purpose I have at my service experienced, well-paid specialists who work with the meat grinder of our Holy Mickey, with the weapons of the sole divine force, the gloves of the holy martyr Tata, or, for instance, with the seating accommodation--oh, pardon me, with the iron chair of Totz, the fighter. They can prove anything they please with these implements. That God exists or that He does not exist. That human beings walk on their hands or even on their sides. Do you understand me? You are perhaps unaware of it but we have an entire science devoted to obtaining confessions. Just think for a moment:

Why should I try to prove what I already know? And what's more, no harm will befall you after you have confessed . .."

"I am not threatened by any harm, but you are," interrupted Rumata.

Don Reba pondered for a while.

"All right," he said finally. "Apparently I will have to make a beginning. Let's examine in what way Rumata of Estoria has distinguished himself during the five years of his stay in the kingdom of Arkanar. And then you will explain the meaning of it all. Agreed?"

"I won't make any rash promises," said Rumata. "But I am interested in listening to what you have to say."

Don Reba started to rummage in his writing desk, took out a thick pile of square papers and skimmed them with raised eyebrows.

"You are probably aware of the fact," he started with a pleasant smile, "that in my capacity as Minister of Internal Security I have undertaken some steps--for the protection of the Crown--against the so-called bookworms, scholars and other elements that are useless and harmful for the State. These actions encountered strange resistance. At the same time as the entire population helped me in a unanimous wave of patriotism and loyalty--denouncing hidden criminals, organizing trials on the spot, giving useful hints as to who the suspicious characters were that had escaped my attention--just at that time some unknown but extremely energetic person snatched away from right under my nose all the most important, incorrigible and detestable criminals and abducted them across the border. This way many have gotten away, as for instance the godless astrologer Bagir Kissenski; the criminal alchemist Synda, who, it has been definitely proven, was in alliance with the devil's brood as well as with the Irukanian potentates; the vile pamphleteer and disturber of the peace, Zuren; and several others of low rank. And the mad magician and mechanic Kabani has slunk away and is hiding in some hole somewhere. Some unknown person has distributed enormous sums of gold in order to prevent the people from venting their righteous anger on those blasphemous spies and poisoners, the former personal physicians of His Majesty. Someone liberated Arata, the hunchback, under the most fantastic circumstances which once more lead us to suspect the unknown to be in league with ungodly forces--Arata, a regular demon of depravity, who seditiously poisons the nation's soul, the instigator and leader of peasants' revolts ..."

Don Reba stopped, wrinkled his forehead and regarded Rumata with a meaningful glance. Rumata turned his eyes up to the ceiling and smiled dreamily. True, he had kidnapped Arata, the hunchback, yes, indeed--with a helicopter at that. It had made a tremendous impression on Arata's guards. On Arata, too, by the way. I'm quite a guy, I must admit, he thought. That was a good piece of work.

"You are probably also aware that the aforementioned Arata is currently in the eastern sectors of the capital, leading a mutineering army of slaves, shedding considerable quantities of noble blood--and he still disposes over sufficient money and arms."

"I can easily believe that," said Rumata. "He impressed me right away as a very determined man."

"You confess then?" quickly asked Don Reba.

"To what?" asked Rumata surprised.

They remained silent for a while, just staring at each other.

"I'll continue," said Don Reba. "In order to rescue all these spoilers of souls, you, Don Rumata, have poured out at least over one hundred pounds of gold, according to my moderate and incomplete calculations. I will not make mention here of the fact that contact with these forces of evil has sullied your soul for all eternity. Neither will I discuss here the fact that you did not receive a single copper penny from your Estorian estates as long as you have been staying within the borders of the Arkanarian realm; surely, after all, why should you have gotten any money? Why provide a dead man with money even if he's a relative? But your gold, your gold!"

He opened a strong-box that had been buried under a pile of papers on the table and took out a handful of gold coins showing the profile of Pitz the Sixth.

"This gold alone would suffice to have you burnt at the stake!" he cried. 'This gold is the devil's work! Human hands are not capable of producing gold of such purity!"

He literally pierced Rumata with his glance. I must admit in all honesty, Rumata thought, he's got me there. Touche. We didn't think of that one. Must give him credit for that; he's the first to have noticed it . .. But Don Reba grew suddenly very mild again. Paternal, solicitous tones came into his voice:

"And in general you are behaving in a most imprudent manner, Don Rumata. I kept worrying about you the whole time. What a duelist, what a mischief-maker! One hundred and twenty-six duels within five years! And not a single person killed . . . After all, in the final analysis, one might arrive at some conclusions. I, for instance, have done so. And I am not the only one. Just take Brother Aba, for example--well, we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he was a very cruel man, and I never could really stand him . . . Well, then. Brother Aba selected not the most skillful, but the biggest and strongest men to have you put under arrest. And he was right in the end. A few dislocated shoulders, wrenched necks, not to mention some bashed-in teeth . . . And here you are standing in front of me! But how could you know you were fighting for your life? You are a master! You are undoubtedly the best sword fighter in the whole country. And there can be no doubt that you have sold your soul to the devil, for only in hell is it possible to learn such fantastically masterful swordsmanship. I am even inclined to admit that you were given this fabulous skill only under condition never to kill anyone. Although I am hard put to imagine why the devil of all creatures should insist on such a stipulation. But that's something for our scholars to figure out..."

A thin, high scream, a sound like a squealing pig, interrupted Don Reba's deliberations. Annoyed, he looked at the lilac-colored, heavy drapes. Sounds of people scuffling came from behind them. There were thuds, blows, and someone shouting, "Let go! Let go!" and then hoarse voices, cursing and shouting in an incomprehensible dialect. Suddenly the curtain tore with a crack like a whip and fell to the ground. Into the cabinet staggered a bald-headed man on all fours, his chin bleeding and his eyes open wide. Huge human paws pushed through a chink of the other curtains that were still in place, seized the man by his-feet and pulled him back again. Rumata recognized the man--it was Budach.

He screamed like a wild animal:

"Betrayed! I have been betrayed! It was poison! Why?"

They dragged him back into the darkness. A man, clad in black, swiftly picked up the fallen curtain and arranged it again. The sudden silence was interrupted by sickening noises coming from behind the curtain--somebody was vomiting. Rumata understood.

"Where is Budach?" he asked harshly.

"As you can see, he's had a little accident," answered Don Reba, but he was clearly no longer as self-assured as he had been.

"Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes," said Rumata. "Where is Budach?"

"My dear Don Rumata," said Don Reba, wagging his head. He had collected himself again. "What do you want with Budach? Is he a relative of yours, perhaps? You've never even set eyes on him in your life until now."

"Listen to me, Reba," Rumata was enraged. "I'm not joking. If anything happens to Budach, you'll die like a dog. I'll strangle you with my own two hands!"

"Hardly," Don Reba said quickly. He was very pale.

"You're a fool, Reba. You're a master at intrigue, but you actually don't know your way around. You've never let yourself in for a game as dangerous as this one. And you don't even know it."

Don Reba bent over the table, his eyes like glowing coals. Rumata knew that he himself had never been in a situation as precarious as the present one. It was time to put the cards on the table; they would soon know who had the upper hand in the game. Rumata tensed his muscles, ready to spring. There was no weapon, be it spear or arrow, that could kill you instantly: the thought was written on Don Reba's face. And the old man with the hemorrhoids wanted to live. "What is it that you want?" he said in a whining voice. "We've had a nice little chat here . . . your Budach is alive. Alive and healthy. He'll even live to treat me one of these days. Just don't get excited."

"Where is Budach?"

"In the Tower of Joy."

"I need him!"

"So do I, Don Rumata."

"Listen to me, Reba," said Rumata, "don't provoke me. And stop pretending. You are afraid of me. And well you might be. Budach belongs to me, do you understand? To me!"

Now both were standing, facing each other. Don Reba's face was an alarming sight: He turned blue, his lips began to twitch feverishly and he mumbled to himself with little spurts of saliva coming from his mouth.

"You whippersnapper!" he hissed. "I'm not afraid of anybody! I can squash you like a leech!"

He wheeled around abruptly and pulled down a gobelin that had been hanging behind his back. A wide window appeared.

"There, have a look!"

Rumata went to the window. It opened onto the square in front of the palace. Dawn was approaching by now. The smoke of many fires rose into the sky. The square was dotted with corpses. In the center of the square was a black, unmoving rectangular mass. Rumata examined it more closely. It was a group of riders, lined up with amazing exactitude. They wore long black cloaks, black hoods that were pulled down over their eyes, black, triangular shields in their left hand--and long halberds in their right.

"If you please," said Don Reba with a rattling voice. He was trembling all over. "The valiant, martial children of the Lord our God--the cavalry of the Holy Order. They landed in the port of Arkanar during the night in order to crush the barbarian revolt of the nocturnal scoundrel Waga Koleso, who allied himself with the snooty merchants and storekeepers. The rebellion has been quelled. The Holy Order now rules over the city and the entire country whose name henceforth is the Arkanarian Province of the Holy Order..."

Instinctively, Rumata scratched the back of his neck. So, that's what it is! These are the people for whom the unfortunate shopkeepers have paved the way. What a coup! Don Reba was grinning triumphantly.

"We haven't properly met yet," he continued with the same rattling voice. "Allow me to introduce myself: Don Reba, representative of the Holy Order in the Arkanarian Province. Bishop and Councilor of War, servant of Our Lord!"

It isn't so surprising after all, thought Rumata. Wherever Graydom triumphs, the blackbirds will always seize power. Oh, you historians, to hell with you ... But he regained his composure, gripped his hands behind his back and began to rock back and forth on his heels.

"I am tired now," he said in an affected manner. "I want to sleep. I want to wash myself with warm water, to rinse off the blood and spit of your cut-throats. Tomorrow . . . that is to say, today . . . let's say, one hour after sunrise ... I'll come to your offices. The writ for Budach's release must be ready by then."

"Look, down there! Twenty thousand men!" shouted Don Reba pointing to the square below the windows. Rumata frowned.

"Not quite so loud, please," he said. "And just remember, Don Reba: I am absolutely certain that you are not a bishop. I know you through and through. You are nothing but a filthy traitor and a clumsy, cheap schemer . . ." Don Reba licked his lips; his eyes assumed a glassy stare. "I know no pardon. For any foul play, involving myself or any of my friends, you'll have to pay with your own life! I hate you, just remember that! I'll have to tolerate you, but you must learn in time to get out of my way. You understand?"

Don Reba smiled pleadingly and said quickly: "I have only one wish. I want you to be near me, Don Rumata. I cannot loll you. I do not know why, but I cannot do it!"

"You are afraid," said Rumata.

"All right, then, so I am afraid," said Don Reba. "Maybe you are the devil, maybe the Son of God. Who can tell? Maybe, on the other hand, you come from some faraway, powerful domain: People say they do actually exist. I won't even try peering down into the abyss that has swallowed you. My head begins to swim and I feel close to heresy. Yet, I can have you killed any time I want to. Now. Tomorrow. Yesterday... Do you understand that?"

"I am not interested in any of that," said Rumata.

"So? What does interest you?"

"Nothing at all," answered Rumata. "I simply want to have a good time. I am neither a devil nor a god, I am Chevalier Rumata of Estoria, a gay nobleman, a courtier, burdened with personal whims and prejudices, accustomed to be free in every respect. Bear that in mind, will you!"

Don Reba had himself well under control again. He dabbed his swollen face with a handkerchief and smiled pleasantly.

"I appreciate your stubbornness. After all, even you are striving toward some goal. And I respect these ideals, even if I fail to comprehend them. I am very happy that we had a heart-to-heart talk. Quite possibly sometime you will present your views to me more fully and, who knows, you might convince me that way to revise my own. All men are liable to make mistakes; that's a human failing. It may well be that I am the one who is making a mistake, that I am not striving toward those goals that would make it worthwhile to work as arduously and strenuously as I do now. I am a man of broad views, and I can well imagine that some day we will work together, standing shoulder to shoulder..."

"That remains to be seen," said Rumata and left the room. What a bootlicker!" he thought. Some collaborator he would make! Shoulder to shoulder... "

The city was shaken to the core by the unbearable terror. The blood-red morning sun illuminated a somber scene of empty streets, smoking ruins, shattered window shutters and doors. Bloody glass splinters glittered in the dust of the roads. Innumerable swarms of crows descended on the city as if it were a churchyard. Patrols of two to three riders, clad in black, trotted their horses across open places and at crossroads. They slowly tossed from side to side in the saddles. Everywhere could be seen wooden stakes, hastily rammed into the ground, with scarred bodies drooping over the embers of the pyre. The whole city gave the appearance that nothing alive had remained--except for the disgusting, screeching crows and the busy slaughterers in black.

Rumata was making his way through the city. Most of the time he kept his eyes closed. He was gasping for air, his bruised body hurting furiously.--Can these still be called human beings? Some are slaughtered openly in the streets while the others sit inside their houses, waiting obediently for their turn. And each one thinking: Who cares what happens, as long as it is not me--I'll escape. Cold-blooded bestiality of the slaughterers and cold-blooded obedience of the slaughtered. Stupid cold-blooded attitudes, that is the worst. Ten people will stand there paralyzed with fear and wait obediently until someone comes by and chooses a victim and cuts his throat in cold blood. The souls of these people are littered with filth, and each hour of obedient waiting will sully them further and further. Quite unintentionally, these homes, cringing with fear, will give birth to the vilest villains, informers, and murderers. Thousands of people who throughout all their lives will be wracked by fear and fright, will teach fear and fright to their own children, and these children in turn will teach their children.--I can't go on, Rumata kept repeating to himself. I am close to losing my mind and then I'll become like these people; it won't take much more before I finally stop understanding the reason for my being in this place ... I must gain perspective again, turn my back on all of this for a while, get some peace and quiet...

". . . At the end of the year of the Great Water--in the year X of the new era--the centrifugal processes rapidly gained ground in the old empire. By taking advantage of this future, the Holy Order which represented the interests of the most reactionary groups of the feudal society who tried with every means to bring to a halt the general decay . . ." But are you familiar with the stench of smoldering corpses at the stake? Do you know what it is like? Have you ever seen a naked woman, her belly slit open, wallow in the dusty road? Have you ever seen cities where human beings are silent and only crows can be heard? Yet, the still unborn boys and girls, who will be sitting before the dictascopes of the schools in the Communist Republic of Arkanar?

His chest bumped into something pointed and hard. He looked up and saw a black rider before him. A long spear with a broad, precisely toothed blade, pressed against his chest. The rider regarded him silently through the slits of his black hood. All the hood revealed were a thin-lipped mouth and a small chin. I must do something, thought Rumata. But what? Dismount him? No. The rider slowly drew back his right arm, readying his spear. This gesture reminded Rumata of what he had to do. Casually, he raised his left hand and pulled back his sleeve. An iron bracelet came to light; it had been handed to him before he had left the palace. The rider inspected the bracelet, lowered his weapon, moved aside to let Rumata pass. "In the name of the Lord," he said with a strange accent. "Blessed be His name," murmured Rumata. A short stretch farther on he passed another rider who was busily knocking down with his spear some elaborately carved figurines representing little devils from a roof ridge. On the second floor a fat face, distorted with fright, peeked out from behind half-lowered shutters--probably one of those shopkeepers who barely three days ago had enthusiastically hollered, "Hooray for Don Reba!" while waving his beer stein and listening with gusto and relish to the crunch, crunch, crunch of the Gray horde's hobnailed boots marching on the pavement. Oh, Graydom, Graydom... Rumata turned away.

But what is happening at home? he suddenly remembered, and he began to quicken his steps, almost running during the last stretch of the way. The house was unharmed. Two monks were sitting on the small stoop. They had pulled back their hoods, exposing their badly shaved heads to the sunlight. The moment they saw him, they stood up. "In the name of the Lord," both said in unison. "Blessed be His name," replied Rumata and demanded:

"What business have you to be here?" Both monks bowed and folded their arms over their stomachs. "Now that you have come we can leave," answered one of the monks. They descended the few steps and walked leisurely off, their crossed arms halfway hidden in their long sleeves. Rumata followed them with his eyes, remembering how many thousands of times he had seen these humble figures in then-long black habits, walking down the street. But then they did not use to drag the scabbards of long swords behind them in the dust. We goofed on this one. Oh, and now we goofed here, he thought. What a delightful pastime it had been for the noble dons to attach themselves to some lone monk, ambling down the road, and to tell each other naughty stories close to the monk's ears. And fool that I am, I pretended to be drunk, and would walk behind them, laughing out loud for joy because the country, at least, was not ravaged by religious fanaticism. But what else could we have done? Indeed, what else could we have done? "Who is it?" rang out a voice. "Open up, Mugu, it's me," said Rumata softly. The bolts clicked as they were pushed back; the door was Opened slightly, and Rumata squeezed himself through the narrow chink. Here in the entrance hall, all was as usual, and Rumata breathed a sigh of relief. Old Mugu with the silvery hair and perpetually wagging head relieved his master of his helmet and swords. "How is Kyra?"

"Kyra is upstairs," said Mugu. "She is fine." "Splendid," said Rumata while he unbuckled his belt. "And where is Uno? Why is he not here to welcome me?" Mugu took the belt.

"Uno is dead," he said in a calm, firm tone. "He is lying in the servants' room." Rumata closed his eyes. "Uno dead..." he repeated. "Who killed him?" Without waiting for an answer, he went into the servants' room. Uno's body lay on the table. He was covered with a sheet up to his waist. His hands were folded over his chest, his eyes wide open and his mouth distorted in a grimace. The servants surrounded the table, their heads bowed, listening to the murmurings of the monk who prayed in a comer. The cook was sobbing. Without taking his eyes off the boy, Rumata unbuttoned his collar.

"The dirty dogs," he said. "Oh, those filthy beasts!" He stumbled over something, went very close to the table, looked into the dead eyes, raised the sheet slightly, but dropped it again at once.

"Yes, too late," he said. "Too late. Hopeless. Oh, you bastards! Who killed him? The monks?"

He turned to the monk, seized him by the scruff of his neck, pressed him down to the ground and bent over his face.

"Who killed him?" he said. "Was it one of you? Speak up!"

"No, not the monks," spoke a calm voice behind his back. "The Gray soldiers did it."

For a while Rumata stared into the emaciated face of the monk, whose pupils slowly began to dilate. "In the name of the Lord," croaked the monk painfully. Rumata let him go, sat down on a bench at the boy's feet, and began to cry. He covered his face with his hands, cried, and listened to the quietly droning voice of Mugu. The old servant told that shortly after the second watch, there was knocking at the house door: "Open up, in the name of the King!" Uno called out not to open the gate, but then they were forced to open it after all when the Gray soldiers threatened to set the house on fire. They forced their way into the entrance hall, beat and bound the servants, then crept upstairs. Uno had been standing guard at the doors of the upstairs apartments; he started shooting with his crossbow. He had two bolts, and shot off both. The second arrow missed. The Gray soldiers threw their knives, and Uno fell. They dragged him down the stairs and were just about to kick him and hack him with their cleavers, when suddenly the black monks entered the house. They killed two Gray soldiers, disarmed the rest, tied ropes around their necks and dragged them out into the street.

Mugu fell silent But Rumata remained seated at the end of the table, his elbows resting on the table top at the feet of the dead boy. Slowly he rose to his feet, wiped his eyes dry with his sleeve, kissed the boy on his cold forehead. Then he walked upstairs, placing one foot in front of the other with great effort.

He was half dead with fatigue and exhaustion. Only with great effort did he reach the landing, and walk through the guest room to his bed; there, moaning, he fell face down on a pillow. Kyra hurried over to him. He was so exhausted that he could not even help her as she removed his soiled clothing. She pulled off his boots, cried over his swollen face, took off his uniform and the metalloplast shirt, and continued to weep quietly over his bruised body. Now, suddenly, he felt his bones aching, aching as if he had been bound on the torture rack. While Kyra washed his body with a sponge dipped in vinegar water, he panted and hissed through his teeth, without opening his eyes: "I could have killed him . . .He was standing right next to me ... Wrung his neck with my bare hands ... Is that a life, Kyra? Let's leave this place . . . After all, this is an experiment with me, and not with them." He did not even notice that he was speaking Russian. Kyra looked anxiously at his eyes, glassy with tears, and showered gentle kisses on his cheeks. Covering him with the mended sheets (Uno had not bought any new ones despite his master's urging) she ran downstairs to prepare some mulled wine for him. Moaning in physical and mental pain, Rumata crawled from his bed and staggered barefoot into the study. There he opened a secret drawer in his desk, rummaged in his medicine chest, and took several Sporamin tablets. When Kyra returned, bearing a steaming kettle on a silver tray, he was already back in bed. He felt the pain leave him, the din in his head quieten down and his body fill with new strength and energy. He drained the kettle and soon felt quite well again. Then he called Mugu and asked that his clothes be made ready.

"Don't go, Rumata," said Kyra. "Don't go! Stay here at home!"

"I must go, my darling!"

"I am afraid. Stay here... They'll kill you!"

"You don't say. Why should they kill me? They're all afraid of me, aren't they?"

She started to weep again, but quietly, as if she was afraid of annoying him. Rumata pulled her down on his lap and gently stroked her hair.

"The worst is over," he said. "And remember, we're going to leave this place..."

She calmed down and pressed her body against his. Mugu stood quietly next to them, patiently holding Rumata's trousers with the little golden bells.

"But before we leave, I have a lot to do here," continued Rumata. "Countless numbers of people have been killed this night. I must find out who is still alive and who has been slain. And I must help those who are still in danger."

"And who is going to help you?"

"Fortunate the man who thinks only of others . . . And besides, there are powerful people who will come to our assistance if necessary."

"I cannot think of others," she said. "You came home more dead than alive. I can see with my own eyes how they have beaten you. And Uno was beaten to death. Where were your powerful people when you needed them? Why did they not prevent all this slaughter? I do not believe you ... I do not believe..."

She tried to wrest herself free from his arms but he held her tight.

"It was unfortunate," he said. "This time they came a bit too late. But now they are watching us again and will protect us. Why don't you believe me today? You have always believed me. And didn't you see for yourself: I came home half dead, and now, just look at me!"

"I don't want to look at you," she said hiding her face. "I don't want to cry again."

"Oh, come, come! These scratches here? Nothing! The worst is over now ... at least for the two of us. But there are fine, upstanding people for whom the horror has not yet ended. And I must help them."

She sighed deeply, kissed his neck and freed herself gently from his embrace. "Come tonight," she begged. "Will you come?"

"You can count on it," he said firmly and smiled. "I'll be home even earlier than nightfall, and most likely not alone. I'll be back at dinner time."

She walked over to an armchair, sat down, clasped her hands around her knee, and watched Rumata getting dressed. As he put on his trousers with the bells he mumbled to himself in Russian; Mugu sat cross-legged on the floor before him and began to fasten the innumerable buckles and buttons. Rumata put a clean undershirt over his metalloplast shirt. Finally he said in a desperate tone: "Darling, please do understand me, I must go! What can I do?! It's simply out of the question for me to remain here!"

Suddenly she said pensively: "Sometimes I wonder why you don't beat me."

Rumata was just buttoning his shirt with the lacy frills; he froze with horror.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked perplexed. "How could anyone possibly want to beat you?"

"You are not only a good, a very good man," she continued without listening to him, "but you are also a strange man, almost like an archangel. When you are with me I feel very strong. Now, for example, I am strong. Sometime soon I shall ask you for something. Won't you tell me about yourself some day? Not now, only when all this is over-- will you do that for me?"

Rumata did not reply for a long time. Mugu handed him the orange-colored vest with the red ribbons. Rumata put it on with intense dislike and buckled up his belt.

"Yes," he said finally. "Someday I shall tell you everything, my darling."

"I'll wait till then," she said seriously. "But now you must leave. Don't let me detain you here any longer."

Rumata walked over to her and pressed his bruised lips tenderly on her soft mouth. Then he pulled the iron circlet from his wrist and held it out to her.

"Put this on your left arm," he said. "I doubt that they'll pay us another visit today . . . but in case they should turn up here just show them this iron bracelet."

She followed him with her eyes and he felt that she was mutely calling out after him.--I know, she is thinking: I do not know who you are, perhaps the devil or the Son of God, or maybe a man from legendary worlds across the seas, but one thing is certain. If you do not return I will die.

He was most grateful for her silence, for having to leave her now was somehow quite unusually hard for him. Like diving head first from a sunny, emerald-blue shore into an evil-smelling puddle.