Free Hard to Be a God by Arkady Strugatsky Page B

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 findout …” 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.
    â€œHoly Míca!” cried the inflamed Father Hauk. “Whose poetry is this?”
    â€œMine,” 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.”
    â€œI’ll read him my
Treatise on Rumors,”
said Brother Nanin cheerfully. “Thank you, noble don.”
    â€œWhat 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?”
    â€œSometimes it’s hard to resist,” Brother Nanin said sadly.
    â€œTrue,” 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, paintedgirls, drunken soldiers, some