straight.
âSo who was the bookworm?â Rumata asked.
âI donât know,â the cub said. âIt was the order of Father Zupic.â
âWell, what happened? You took him?â
âThatâs right! We took him!â
âThatâs good,â said Rumata. That really wasnât bad. There was still time. Nothing is more precious than time, he thought. An hour buys a life; a day is invaluable. âAnd what did you do with him? Stick him in the tower?â
âHuh?â the cub asked in confusion.
âIâm asking, is he now in the tower?â
The pimply mug spread into an uncertain grin. The giant roared with laughter. Rumata rapidly turned around. There, on the other side of the street, Father Haukâs corpse hung like a sack of rags from the crossbeam of a gate. A few ragged urchins, mouths wide open, gawked at him from the yard.
âIt isnât everyone who gets sent to the tower nowadays,â the giant rasped out amiably behind him. âWe do things quick nowadays. A knot by the earâand off you go.â
The cub giggled again. Rumata glanced at him blindly, and slowly crossed the street. The sad poetâs face was black and unrecognizable. Rumata looked down. Only the hands were recognizable, with their long, weak fingers, stained with ink.
Nowadays we donât pass away,
Weâre led away into darkness.
And even if anyone dares to
Wish that it were otherwise,
Powerless and incompetent,
He lowers his weak hands,
Not knowing where the dragonâs heart is.
And whether the dragon has one.
Rumata turned around and walked away. My good, weak Hauk ⦠The dragon does have a heart. And we know where it is. And thatâs the most frightening thing, my quiet, helplessfriend. We know where it is, but we canât destroy it without spilling the blood of thousands of frightened, hypnotized, blind people who know no doubts. And there are so many of them, hopelessly manyâignorant, isolated, embittered by perpetual thankless labor, downtrodden, not yet able to rise above the thought of an extra penny. And they cannot yet be taught, united, guided, saved from themselves. Far too early, centuries earlier than it should have, the gray muck has risen in Arkanar. It wonât meet with resistance, and all thatâs left is to save those few there is still time to save. Budach, Tarra, Nanin, maybe another dozen, maybe another two dozen.
But the very thought that thousands of othersâmaybe less talented but also honest and truly noble peopleâwere fatally doomed caused an icy chill in his chest and an awareness of his own vileness. Sometimes this awareness became so acute that his mind would become clouded, and Rumata could almost see the backs of the gray bastards illuminated by lilac flashes of gunfire, and Don Rebaâs eternally insignificant, pale visage contorted with animal terror, and the Merry Tower collapsing on itself. Yes, thatâd be sweet. That would be actual work. An actual macroscopic impact. But then ⦠Yes, they were right at the Institute. Then the inevitable. Bloody chaos in the country. The surfacing of Wagaâs night army, ten thousand thugs excommunicated by every churchârapists, murderers, and sadists; hordes of copper-skinned barbarians descending from the mountains and destroying everything that moves, from newborns to the aged; huge crowds of peasants and townspeople, blind with terror, fleeing to the forests, mountains, and deserts; and your supportersâmerry men, brave men!âripping open each otherâs bellies in a brutal struggle for power and for the right to control the machine gun after your inevitable violent death. And this absurd deathâfroma cup of wine served by your best friend, or from a crossbow bolt whistling toward your back from behind a curtain. And the horrified face of the one who will be sent from Earth to replace you, and who will find a country
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