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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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
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
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