Free Hard to Be a God by Arkady Strugatsky

rather win it in a game of dice,” Rumata said.
    â€œYou’re right!” Don Sera said and stopped. “Why don’t we play a game of dice?”
    â€œRight here?” Rumata asked.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOnward,” 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, skirtingpuddles 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 …”