Hard to Be a God by Arkady Strugatsky

angry, shrill neigh, and they heard energetic swearing with a strong Irukanian accent. In the doorway appeared Don Gug, the Chamberlain of His Grace the Duke of Irukan, fat, ruddy, with a dashing upturned mustache, a smile from ear to ear, and merry little eyes underneath the chestnut curls of his wig. And once again, Rumata was about to jump upand hug him, because this was actually Pashka, but Don Gug suddenly assumed a formal posture, an expression of cloying sweetness appearing on his plump-cheeked face. He bent slightly at the waist, pressed his hat to his chest, and pursed his lips. Rumata briefly glanced at Alexander Vasilievich—but Alexander Vasilievich had disappeared. On the bench sat the Chief Justice and Keeper of the Great Seals, his legs apart, his left hand on his hip, and his right hand holding the hilt of his gilded sword.
    â€œYou’re very late, Don Gug,” he said in an unpleasant voice.
    â€œA thousand apologies!” cried Don Gug, smoothly approaching the table. “I swear by the rickets of my duke, there were completely unforeseen circumstances! I was stopped four times by the patrols of His Majesty the King of Arkanar, and I got into two fights with various boors.” He gracefully lifted his left hand, wrapped in a bloody rag. “By the way, noble dons, whose helicopter is that behind the house?”
    â€œThat’s my helicopter,” Don Condor said crossly. “I don’t have time for roadside brawls.”
    Don Gug smiled pleasantly, sat down on the bench, and said, “Well, noble dons, we’re forced to acknowledge that the highly learned Doctor Budach mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the Irukanian border and the Territory of Heavy Swords—”
    Father Cabani suddenly tossed in his bed. “Don Reba,” he said thickly, without waking up.
    â€œLeave Budach to me,” Rumata said in despair, “and try to understand what I’m saying …”

Chapter 2
    R umata started and opened his eyes. It was already light out. There was a commotion in the street underneath his window. Someone, probably a military man, was shouting, “Scum! You’ll lick this dirt off with your tongue!” (Good morning, thought Rumata.) “Silence! By Holy Míca’s back, you’ll make me lose my temper!” Another voice, rough and hoarse, mumbled that this was the sort of street where a man ought to watch his step. “In the morning it rained, and God knows when they paved it last …” “He dares tell me what to do!” “You should let me go, noble don, don’t hold on to my shirt …” “He dares order me around!” There was a ringing crack. This was apparently the second slap—the first had woken Rumata up. “You shouldn’t hit me, noble don,” someone mumbled below.
    A familiar voice—who could it be? Probably Don Tameo. I should let him win back his Hamaharian nag today. I wonder if I’ll ever know much about horses. Although we, the Rumatas of Estor, have never known much about horses, we’re experts in military camels. Good thing there are almost no camels in Arkanar. Rumata stretched, cracking his back, groped for a twisted silk cord by his head, and pulled on it a few times. Bells started jangling in the depths of the house. The boy is gawking at the scene outside, of course, thought Rumata. I could get up and dress myself, but that’ll only breed rumors.
    He listened to the profanity outside the window. What a powerful language! It has incredible entropy. I hope Don Tameo doesn’t kill him. In recent years, certain enthusiasts in the Guard had announced that they reserved only one sword for noble battle, and used their other blades specifically for street trash—which, thanks to Don Reba, had really proliferated in glorious Arkanar. Although Don Tameo isn’t one of those enthusiasts, Rumata thought. Our Don Tameo is a bit of a coward,