Hard to Be a God by Arkady Strugatsky Page B

circlet off. You said it’s a sin …”
    Rumata laughed happily, pulled the circlet off, put it on the table, and covered it with a book. “It’s the eye of God,” he said. “Let it be closed.” He lifted her up in his arms. “It’s very sinful, but when I’m with you, I don’t need God. Right?”
    â€œRight,” she said very softly.

    By the time they sat down to eat, the roast meat was cold, and the wine, which had been taken out of the icebox, was warm. Uno came by and, treading softly as he had been taught by old Muga, walked along the wall lighting lamps, though it was still light out.
    â€œThis is your servant?” Kira asked.
    â€œNo, he’s a free boy. A fine boy, only very stingy.”
    â€œMoney doesn’t grow on trees,” Uno observed without turning around.
    â€œSo you still haven’t bought new sheets?” asked Rumata.
    â€œWhat for?” the boy asked. “The old ones will do.”
    â€œListen, Uno,” Rumata said. “I can’t sleep an entire month on the same sheets.”
    â€œHa,” the boy said. “His Majesty does it for half a year without a murmur.”
    â€œAnd the oil,” Rumata said, winking at Kira. “The oil in the lamps. What is it, free?”
    Uno stopped. “But my master has a guest,” he finally said firmly.
    â€œSee how he is!” said Rumata.
    â€œHe’s nice,” Kira said seriously. “He loves you. Let’s take him with us.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Rumata said.
    The boy asked suspiciously, “Take me where? I’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œWe’ll go,” Kira said, “where all the people are like Don Rumata.”
    The boy thought for a moment and said scornfully, “What, heaven for the highborn?” Then he snorted derisively and shuffled out of the study, dragging feet in battered shoes.
    â€œA good boy,” she said. “Grumpy like a bear cub. He’s a nice friend.”
    â€œAll my friends are nice.”
    â€œWhat about Baron Pampa?”
    â€œHow do you know about him?” Rumata asked in surprise.
    â€œYou never talk about anyone else. That’s all I ever hear about—Baron Pampa this and Baron Pampa that.”
    â€œBaron Pampa is a very good friend.”
    â€œHow can a baron be a good friend?”
    â€œI mean that he’s a very good man. Very kind and merry. And very much in love with his wife.”
    â€œI’d like to meet him. Or are you ashamed of me?”
    â€œNo, I’m not ashamed. It’s just that he’s a good man, but he’s still a baron.”
    â€œOh …” she said.
    Rumata pushed his plate away. “Do tell me why you were crying. And why you came here alone. Is this the time to be running around the streets alone?”
    â€œI couldn’t manage at home. I’ll never go home. Can I be a servant here? For free.”
    Rumata chuckled through the lump in his throat.
    â€œFather copies confessions every day,” she continued with quiet desperation. “And the paper they are written on is all covered in blood. He gets them at the Merry Tower. Oh, why did you ever teach me to read? Every evening, every evening … copying transcripts of tortures—and drinking. So awful, so awful! ‘You know,’ he says, ‘Kira, our neighbor the calligrapher taught people to write. Who do you think he is? He revealed during torture that he’s a wizard and Irukanian spy. Who,’ he says, ‘am I supposed to believe now? I learned to write from him myself,’ he says. And my brother comes home from the patrol more drunk than beer itself, hands covered in dried blood. ‘We’ll kill them all,’ he says, ‘until the twelfth generation.’ He interrogates father about why he’s literate … Today, he and his buddies dragged some man into the house. They beat him up, splattered