Don Sera turned purple and started stammering elaborate excuses, lying the whole time. The now glum Don Tameo applied himself to the strong Estorian wine. And since, in his own words, he had “started in the morning the day before yesterday and hadn’t yet been able to stop,” when they left the house, he had to be supported from both sides.
The day was bright and sunny. Common folk thronged in the streets and alleys searching for things to gawk at, boys shrieked and whistled as they flung mud, pretty towns-women in bonnets peered out of the windows, and bustling servant girls looked at them bashfully with moist eyes. The general mood gradually started to improve. Don Sera very adroitly knocked down some peasant, and he almost died laughing as he watched the man flounder in a puddle. Don Tameo suddenly discovered that he had put his sword slings on backward, shouted “Stop!” and started spinning in place, trying to rotate inside the slings. Something flew off Don Sera’s waistcoat again.
Rumata caught a passing servant girl by her little pink ear and asked her to help Don Tameo put himself in order. A crowd of gawkers immediately gathered around the noble dons, giving the servant girl advice from which she turned completely crimson, while Don Sera’s waistcoat kept raining clasps, buttons, and buckles. When they finally moved on, Don Tameo began composing an addendum to his memorandum for all to hear, in which he indicated the need for the “noninclusion of pretty persons of the female persuasion to the category of peasants and commoners.”
This was when their way was blocked by a cart full of clay pots. Don Sera drew both swords and declared that going around some stinking pots was beneath the noble dons’ dignity, and that he would make his way through the cart. But as he was taking aim, trying to gauge where the wall of the house ended and the pots began, Rumata grabbed one of the wheels of the cart and turned it around, clearing the way. The gawkers, who had been watching the goings-on with delight, shouted a triple hurray for Rumata. The noble dons were about to move on, but a fat, gray-haired shopkeeper leaned out of a third-floor window and started to expound about the misdeeds of the courtiers, which “our eagle Don Reba will soon put an end to.” They had to stay and pass him the entire load of pots through his window. Rumata threw two gold coins with the profile of Pitz the Sixth into the last pot and handed it to the stunned owner of the cart.
“How much did you give him?” Don Tameo asked when they moved on.
“Not much,” Rumata replied offhandedly. “Two gold pieces.”
“By Holy Míca’s back!” exclaimed Don Tameo. “You are rich! Would you like me to sell you my Hamaharian stallion?”
“I’d rather win it in a game of dice,” Rumata said.
“You’re right!” Don Sera said and stopped. “Why don’t we play a game of dice?”
“Right here?” Rumata asked.
“Well, why not?” asked Don Sera. “I see no reason three noble dons shouldn’t play a game of dice wherever they like!”
At this point, Don Tameo suddenly fell down. Don Sera tripped over his feet and also fell down. “I completely forgot,” Don Sera said. “It’s time for us to report for guard duty.”
Rumata got them up and guided them, holding them by the elbows. He stopped by the gigantic, gloomy house of Don Satarina. “Why don’t we visit the aged don?” he asked.
“I see absolutely no reason why three noble dons shouldn’t visit the aged Don Satarina,” said Don Sera.
Don Tameo opened his eyes. “As servants of the king,” he proclaimed, “we must do our utmost to look to the future. D-Don Satarina is a relic of the past. Onward, noble dons! I must be at my post.”
“Onward,” Rumata agreed.
Don Tameo dropped his head on his chest and didn’t lift it up again. Don Sera, using his fingers to count, was reciting his amorous conquests. In this way, they got to the palace. In the guardroom, Rumata put Don Tameo down on a bench with relief, and Don Sera sat down at the table, carelessly pushed away a stack of orders signed by the king, and declared that it was finally time to drink some cold Irukanian wine. “Let the owner roll up a barrel,” he ordered, “and let those girls come over here”—he indicated the guards who were playing cards at the other table. The commander of the guard, a lieutenant of the company, came by. He spent a long time looking closely at Don Tameo and examining Don Sera; and when Don Sera asked him “Why have all the flowers withered in the mysterious garden of love?” decided that he probably shouldn’t send them to their posts. Let them lie about for now.
Don Rumata lost a gold piece to the lieutenant and talked to him about the new uniform sword slings and methods of sword-sharpening. Rumata mentioned in passing that he was planning to pay a visit to Don Satarina, who owned some antique grinding stones, and expressed deep disappointment upon hearing that the venerable noble had lost the last of his marbles: a month ago, he released all his prisoners, let go of his entire militia, and donated his considerable arsenal of implements of torture to the treasury. The 102-year-old man had declared that he intended to devote the rest of his life to good works, and now probably wouldn’t last long.
After saying good-bye to the lieutenant, Rumata left the palace and headed to the port. He walked along, skirting puddles and jumping over potholes full of scummy water, unceremoniously elbowing gawking commoners aside, winking at girls, who were apparently irresistibly struck by his appearance, bowing to ladies carried in chairs, exchanging friendly greetings with familiar noblemen, and pointedly ignoring the gray storm troopers.
He made a small detour by the Patriotic School. This school had been established two years ago through the efforts of Don Reba, for the purpose of preparing young oafs from the inferior gentry and merchant classes to become military and administrative personnel. It was a stone building of modern construction, without any columns or bas-reliefs, with thick walls, narrow windows that resembled embrasures, and semicircular towers flanking the main entrance. If necessary, the building could withstand an attack.
Rumata went up the narrow stairs to the second floor and, jingling his spurs on the stone, walked past the classes toward the office of the school procurator. Droning voices and choruses of shouts came from the classrooms. “Who is the king? His August Majesty. Who are the ministers? Faithful servants, knowing no doubts …” “… and God, our creator, said ‘I shall curse you,’ and curse them he did …” “… and if the horn sounds twice, scatter into pairs in chain formation, lowering your pikes at the same time …” “When the tortured faints, do not get carried away—the torture must cease …”
This is school, thought Rumata. The source of all wisdom. The pillar of the culture.
He pushed open the low, vaulted door without knocking and entered the office, which was dark and ice-cold, like a cellar. A tall man rushed out to greet him from behind a giant desk piled high with papers and canes for punishment—he was bald, with sunken eyes, dressed in a tight-fitting, narrow gray uniform with the insignia of the Ministry of the Defense of the Crown. This was the procurator of the Patriotic School, the highly learned Father Kin—a sadist and murderer who had become a monk, the author of A Treatise on Denunciation, which had attracted the attention of Don Reba.
Answering the flowery greeting with a curt nod, Rumata sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Father Kin remained standing, bent in an attitude of deferential attention. “Well, how’s it going?” Rumata asked affably. “Slaughtering some literates, educating others?”
Father Kin showed his teeth in a grin. “A literate is not the enemy of the king,” he said. “The enemy of the king is the literate dreamer, the literate skeptic, the literate nonbeliever! Whereas here we—”
“All right, all right,” said Rumata. “I believe you. What have you been scribbling? I read your treatise—a useful book, but a stupid one. How did that happen? Shame on you. Some procurator!”
“I do not endeavor to impress with my mind,” Father Kin answered with dignity. “All I have sought is to be of service to the state. We do not need smart people. We need loyal people. And we??
?”
“All right, all right,” Rumata said again. “I believe you. So are you writing anything new or not?”
“I’m planning to submit an essay to the ministry about a new state, modeled on the Region of the Holy Order.”
“What’s this?” Rumata said in surprise. “You want us all to become monks?”
Father Kin clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Allow me to explain, noble don,” he said fervently, licking his lips. “It’s not about that at all! It’s about the basic tenets of the new state. The tenets are simple, and there are only three of them: blind faith in the infallibility of the laws, unquestioning obedience to these laws, and also everyone vigilantly watching everyone else.”
“Hmm,” said Rumata. “But why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“You really are stupid,” Rumata said. “All right, I believe you. Where was I? Oh yes! Tomorrow you will get two new instructors. Their names are Father Tarra, a very venerable old man who works in, what’s it called … cosmography, and Brother Nanin, also a trustworthy man, who is knowledgeable about history. These are my people, so treat them with respect. Here’s money for the pledge.” He threw a clinking pouch onto the desk. “Your share is five gold pieces. Understood?”
“Yes, noble don,” Father Kin said.
Rumata yawned and looked around. “Well, I’m glad you understood,” he said. “For some reason, my father was very fond of these people and left me instructions to set them up in life. You’re a learned man—can you explain to me why a noble don would have such affection for a literate?”
“Maybe some special services?” proposed Father Kin.
“What are you talking about?” Rumata asked suspiciously. “On the other hand, why not? Yes … a pretty daughter or sister … You have no wine here, of course?”
Father Kin spread his hands apologetically.
Rumata picked up one of the papers off the desk and held it in front of his eyes for some time. “‘Refacilitation …’” he read out loud. “What wisdom!” He dropped the page onto the floor and got up. “Make sure that your pack of scholars doesn’t bother them. I’ll pay a visit sometime, and if I find out …” He put his fist underneath Father Kin’s nose. “All right, all right, don’t be scared, I won’t do anything.”
Father Kin giggled deferentially. Rumata nodded to him and headed for the door, scraping the floor with his spurs.
On the Street of Overwhelming Gratitude he went into a weapons shop, bought new scabbard rings, tried out a couple of daggers (threw them at the wall, weighed them in his hand—didn’t like them), then sat down on the counter and had a conversation with Father Hauk, the owner. Father Hauk had sad, gentle eyes and small, pale hands stained with ink. Rumata debated with him a little about the merits of the poems of Zuren, listened to an interesting commentary on the line “As a wilted leaf falls on my soul …” and asked him to read him something new. Then, as he was leaving, having sighed with the author over the inexpressibly sad verses, he recited “To be or not to be?” in his translation into Irukanian.
“Holy Míca!” cried the inflamed Father Hauk. “Whose poetry is this?”
“Mine,” said Rumata, and left.
He went into the Gray Joy, drank a glass of sour Arkanarian brew, patted the hostess’s cheek, and deftly used one of his swords to flip the table of the usual informer, who was gawking at him with empty eyes. Then he walked over to a far corner and tracked down a shabby bearded man with an inkwell around his neck. “Hello, Brother Nanin,” he said. “How many petitions have you written today?”
Brother Nanin smiled shyly, showing small, decayed teeth. “There aren’t many petitions written nowadays, noble don,” he said. “Some people think that asking is pointless, while others expect that in the near future they’ll be able to take without asking.”
Rumata leaned down to his ear and explained that he’d arranged things with the Patriotic School. “Here are two gold pieces,” he concluded. “Buy some clothes, get yourself in order. And try to be more careful—at least for the first couple of days. Father Kin is a dangerous man.”
“I’ll read him my Treatise on Rumors,” said Brother Nanin cheerfully. “Thank you, noble don.”
“What won’t a man do in memory of his father!” said Rumata. “Now tell me where to find Father Tarra.”
Brother Nanin stopped smiling and started blinking in confusion. “There was a fight here yesterday,” he said. “And Father Tarra had a bit too much to drink. And then he’s a redhead … They broke his rib.”
Rumata grunted in vexation. “What rotten luck!” he said. “Why do you all drink so much?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to resist,” Brother Nanin said sadly.
“True,” said Rumata. “Well, here are two more gold pieces. Take good care of him.”
Brother Nanin caught Rumata’s hand and bent down toward it. Rumata stepped back. “Now, now,” he said. “That’s not one of your best jokes, Brother Nanin. Good-bye.”
The port smelled like nowhere else in Arkanar. It smelled of saltwater, rotten pond scum, spices, tar, smoke, and old salted meat; the taverns reeked of cooking, fried fish, and stale beer. The humid air was thick with swearing in many languages. Thousands of strange-looking people thronged on the piers, in the narrow alleys between the warehouses, and by the taverns: disheveled sailors, pompous merchants, sullen fishermen, dealers in slaves, dealers in women, painted girls, drunken soldiers, some dubious individuals hung with weapons, and outlandish vagrants with gold bracelets on their dirty paws. Everyone was agitated and angry. By the order of Don Reba, it had already been three days since a single ship, or a single canoe, had been allowed to leave port. Gray troopers were toying with their rusty butcher’s axes by the docks—spitting occasionally, brazenly and gloatingly glancing at the crowd. On the detained ships, big-boned, copper-skinned people dressed in furry animal skins and copper caps were crouching in groups of five or six—barbarian mercenaries, worthless in close combat but terrifying like this, at a distance, due to their enormously long blowpipes that fired poison darts. And beyond the forest of masts, motionless on the open sea, loomed the long war galleys of the Royal Navy. From time to time they emitted red jets of flame and smoke, making the sea blaze up—burning petroleum for intimidation.
Rumata passed the customs office, where sullen sea dogs huddled in front of the locked doors, vainly waiting for permission to set sail, and pushed his way through the clamorous crowd, from which you could buy just about anything, from slave women and black pearls to drugs and trained spiders. He came out by the piers, looked askance at the row of bloated corpses in sailor’s jackets laid out in the sun for public display, and taking a detour through a junk-filled vacant lot, entered the reeking alleyways on the outskirts of the port. It was quieter here. Half-naked girls dozed in the doors of the squalid dens, a drunken soldier with his pockets inside out was lying facedown and bleeding at an intersection, and suspicious figures with the pale faces of the night crept along the walls.
This was the first time Rumata had been here during the day, and initially he was surprised that he didn’t attract attention; the bleary eyes of all the passersby looked either past him or seemingly through him, although they did move aside and give way. But as he was rounding a corner, he happened to turn around and had time to notice a dozen varied heads—male and female, long-haired and bald—instantly retracting into doorways, windows, and alleys. Then he became cognizant of the strange atmosphere of this vile place, an atmosphere not of hostility or danger but of some unsavory, greedy interest.
Pushing a door open with his shoulder, he entered one of the dens, where an old man with the face of a mummy was dozing behind a counter in a gloomy little hall. The tables were empty. Rumata silently approached the counter and was about to flick the old man’s long nose when he suddenly realized that the sleeping old man wasn’t sleeping at all but was examining him carefully through his half-closed eyelids. Rumata threw a coin on the counter, and th
e old man’s eyes immediately shot open. “What would the noble don like?” he asked briskly. “Weed? Snuff? Girls?”
“Drop it,” said Rumata. “You know exactly why I come here.”
“Why, it’s the noble Don Rumata,” exclaimed the old man in a tone of extraordinary surprise. “I did think something looked familiar …”
After saying this he lowered his eyelids again. Everything was clear. Rumata walked around the counter and squeezed through a narrow door into a tiny adjacent room. Here it was cramped and dark, and the stuffy air had a sour reek. A wizened old man in a flat black cap stood behind a tall desk in the middle of the room, bent over some papers. An oil lamp flickered on the desk, and the only things visible in the gloom were the faces of the people sitting motionless by the walls. Rumata, keeping a hand on his swords, also groped for a stool by the wall and sat down. This place had its own laws and its own etiquette. No one paid any attention to the newcomer; if a man came here, then that was how it should be, and if it wasn’t how it should be, he would disappear in the blink of an eye. And you’d never find him, even if you searched the world over. The wizened old man diligently scratched his stylus against the paper; the people by the wall sat motionless. From time to time, one or another of them would sigh deeply. Unseen flytrap lizards ran up and down the walls with a light pitter-patter.
The motionless people by the walls were the chiefs of the robber bands; Rumata had long known some of them by sight. These dull beasts weren’t worth much in and of themselves. Their psychology was no more complicated than that of the average shopkeeper. They were ignorant, merciless, and had a way with knives and short cudgels. The man behind the desk, on the other hand …
His name was Waga the Wheel, and he was the all-powerful, uncontested head of all the criminal forces of the Land Beyond the Strait, which stretched from the Pitanian marshes to the west of Irukan to the maritime borders of the Mercantile Republic of Soan. He had been damned by all three official churches of the empire for his excessive pride, for he called himself the younger brother of the reigning monarch of Arkanar. He had at his disposal a night army numbering in the tens of thousands of men and a fortune totaling hundreds of thousands of gold pieces, and his agents had penetrated the inner sanctums of the state apparatus. During the last twenty years, he had been executed four times, each time attracting a large crowd of people; the official story was that he was currently languishing in three of the darkest dungeons of the empire at the same time, and Don Reba had repeatedly issued decrees “concerning the outrageous spread of legends by state criminals and other malefactors about the so-called Waga the Wheel, who in reality does not exist and is therefore legendary.” The same Don Reba had, according to rumors, summoned several barons with strong militias and offered them a reward: five hundred gold pieces for Waga dead and seven thousand for Waga alive. In his time, Rumata himself had spent a considerable amount of gold and effort to make the acquaintance of this person. Waga inspired an extreme disgust in him but was occasionally immensely useful—literally irreplaceable. Furthermore, Waga really interested Rumata as a scientific specimen. This was a most curious exhibit in his collection of medieval monsters, a personage who apparently had absolutely no past.