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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]