Benedikt ran over to help. Together, getting in each other's way, they poked around with their hooks, huffing and puffing…

"I've got something here. Think I got him… Come on, you're younger, squat down and take a look… I can't quite get the hook in. It's him, right?"

Benedikt got down on his hands and knees and looked under the shelves-it was dark and there were all kinds of wisps and rags.

"I can't see anything… Kudeyar Kudeyarich, if you could just light it up!"

"I'm afraid to let him go… Come on, now, take the hook from me… Dammit… I can't figure out…"

Benedikt grabbed the hook; Father-in-law got on all fours, shone his light under the shelves. His joints creaked.

"There's so much dust… Can't see anything… Huge dust balls under here…"

Something jerked the hook, they heard the sound of clothes ripping. Benedikt jabbed and gave the hook a twist, but too late: tap tap tap-they could hear small steps running along the walls behind the shelves somewhere in the depths of the room.

"You let him get away, dammit!" cried Father-in-law in disappointment. "And I taught you, I taught you!"

"Why is it always me?… You were the one who hooked him by the clothes!"

"We should have squashed him. Where is he now?… Come on now, come out, Fyodor Kuzmich! Come out like a good boy!"

"No fair, no fair!" cried Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, from below.

"There he is! Come on!"

But Fyodor Kuzmich scurried away again.

"Don't try to catch me, I'm just a little guy."

"Stick him… Poke over here, that way!"

"Why are you so insistent?… Go away!" Fyodor Kuzmich squeaked from a third place.

"You're not nice!" he cried from a fourth.

Father-in-law looked all around, Benedikt looked around, his neck craned, his head bent. Something shuffled under the far shelf; he turned his head that way; something rustled under the shelves; with a soft, long leap Benedikt jumped. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the sounds better; so he closed his eyes and turned his head from side to side; if he could only push his ears back a bit more, it would be even better. His nostrils flared-he could find him by smell too, his smell went with him when he ran… There he is!

"There he is!" cried Benedikt, leaping and lunging at the spot. He turned his hook. There was a piercing squeal under the hook. "I've got him!"

Something burst. It was a soft sound, but distinct. Something tensed and then went limp on the hook. Benedikt turned it and pulled the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, out from under the shelf. So much fuss and bother for such a puny little body. Benedikt pushed back his hood and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He took a closer look. The backbone had broken; the head was twisted to one side, and the eyes had rolled back.

Father-in-law walked over and looked. He shook his head.

"The hook got dirty. It'll have to be boiled."

"Now what?"

"Clean him off it and throw him in a box or something."

"With my hands?"

"Why your hands? God forbid. Use a piece of paper. There's tons of paper around here."

"Hey, hey, don't tear up any books! I have to read them!"

"No letters here. Just a picture."

Father-in-law tore a portrait out of a book, rolled it up in a cone, stuck his hand in it, and cleaned Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, off the hook. Then he wiped off the hook.

"There you go," muttered Father-in-law. "No more tyranny allowed! It was just getting too darn fashionable!"

Benedikt was suddenly exhausted. His temples pounded. He wasn't used to bending down. He sat on a stool to catch his breath. There were a bunch of books laid out on the table. Well, that was it. Now everything was his. He opened one of them cautiously.

The trepidation of life, of all the centuries and races, Lives in you. Always. Right now. In all your hidden places.

Poems. He clapped the book shut and looked at another.

He who draws the darkest lot of chance Is not subject to the dance; Like a star drowned in the skies, In his place, a new star will arise.

More poems! Lord and Saints Almighty. How much there is to read! He opened a third book:

What kind of East do you favor?

The East of Xerxes, or of Christ the Savior?

A fourth book:

Is all quiet among our fair people? No. The Emperor's murdered, cast down. And there's someone now talking of freedom, On the square of the town.

It was all sort of about the same thing. The tyrant must have been putting a little collection together for himself. Benedikt opened the fifth book, the one from which Father-in-law tore a portrait that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, ruined:

Man suits all elements, every season. Tyrant, traitor, or the prison.

Father-in-law tore the book away from Benedikt and tossed it aside.

"Stop that nonsense! Now it's time to think about the State!"

"About the State? What about it?"

"What? You and I have carried out a coup, that's what. And he says: What about it? We have to put things in order."

Benedikt looked around the room: true, everything was topsy-turvy, the stools were upside down, the tables were all over, books lay every which way, having fallen off shelves while he and Father-in-law chased the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live. Everything was dusty.

"So what? Send over a bunch of serfs and they'll clean up."

"Now that just shows you're a real dimwit! Spiritual, spiritual order is what we need! And you keep fretting about earthly stuff! We have to write a decree. When you carry out a coup d'etat you always have to write a decree. Come on now, find me some clean bark. There ought to be some around here."

Benedikt rummaged around on the table, moving the books. He found a scroll that was nearly clean. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had only begun to write on it.

DECREE Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory-to-me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, and Seckletary, Academ-ishun, and Hero and Ship Captain and Handyman, and since I am constantly thinking day and night about the people, I decree:

– Now I've got a couple of free minutes, but the whole day was nonstop. - This is what else I thought up for the people's goo…

And then there were a bunch of lines and blotches: that's where he got scared.

"All right, then. Come on, let's get on with it. What have we got here?… Cross all that out. You write, your handwriting is better: Decree Number One."

DECREE NUMBER ONE 1. I am going to be the Boss now.

2. My title will be General Saniturion.

3. I will live in the Red Terem with twice as many guards.

4. Don't come any closer than one hundred yards, 'cause whoever does will get the hook right away no questions asked.

Kudeyarov

PS.

Henceforth and forever more the city will be called Kudeyar-

Kudeyarichsk. Learn it by heart.

Kudeyarov

Benedikt wrote it down.

"OK. Show me how it came out. 'Kudeyarov' needs to be bigger and with a curlicue. Cross it out. Rewrite it, so that the last name is in big letters, as big as a toenail. After the V twist it around in circles left and right, kind of like loops. There you go. That's it."

Father-in-law blew on the bark so it would dry; then he admired it.

"All right. What else should we do?… Write: Decree Number Two."

"Kudeyar Kudeyarich! You should decree more holidays."

"Ay ay ay! Your approach is so ungovernmental," said Father-in-law testily. "Has the decree been signed? It has! Did it take effect? It did! So you call me General Saniturion. Talk to me like you're supposed to. Who do you think you are?"

"And the extras? The attributes?"

"Ah, the attributes… attributes… Hmm… How about: 'Life, Health, Strength.' General Saniturion, Life, Health, Strength. Write it in there. All right. You need a title too… How about Deputy for Defense?"