The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “Take it, my son, take it,” interrupted the canon with a condescending smile. “I’ve already told you on other occasions that an informer must receive payment. One most despises those who inform for nothing. For idealistic reasons. Out of fear. Out of anger and envy. I’ve told you before: Judas deserves contempt less for his betrayal and more for doing it so cheaply.”

  The afternoon was bright and warm, a pleasant change after several days of rainy weather. The spire of Mary Magdalene’s Church and the roofs of houses gleamed in the sun. Gwibert Bancz stretched. It had been freezing at the canon’s. The chamber was in shade, the walls were cold.

  Aside from his premises in the chapter house on Cathedral Island, Provost Otto Beess had a house in Wrocław in Shoemakers Street, not far from the town square, where he usually received people whose visits ought to go unnoticed, and Gwibert Bancz’s was one of those. So Gwibert Bancz decided to make use of the opportunity. He didn’t feel like going back to the island, for it was unlikely the bishop would need him before Vespers, and from Shoemakers Street it was a short distance to a certain beer cellar he knew just past the Poultry Market. He could spend some of the money he had received from the canon there. Gwibert Bancz firmly believed he was ridding himself of sin by ridding himself of the money.

  Nibbling a pretzel purchased at a stall he had just passed, he took a shortcut by ducking into a narrow alley. It was quiet and deserted there; so deserted that rats, alarmed by his appearance, scurried away from his feet.

  Hearing the rustle of feathers and the flapping of wings behind him, he looked back and saw a large wallcreeper perching ungainly on a frieze above a bricked-up window. Bancz dropped the pretzel, stepped back and recoiled.

  Before his very eyes, the bird slid down the wall, scraping it with its claws. It became blurred. Grew in size. And changed shape. Bancz wanted to scream but not a sound emerged from his constricted throat.

  Where the wallcreeper had been a moment before, now stood the knight the seminarist knew. Tall, slim, black-haired, dressed in black, with the piercing eyes of a bird.

  Bancz opened his mouth again, and again could utter nothing except a soft croak. The Wallcreeper moved fluidly towards him. Now quite close, he smiled, winked and pursed his lips, blowing the seminarist a very erotic kiss. Before the seminarist knew what was happening, he glimpsed the flash of a blade as he was stabbed in the belly and blood spurted onto his thighs. He was stabbed a second time in the side, the knife crunching on his ribs. His back slammed against the wall as a third blow almost pinned him to it.

  Before Bancz could find it in himself to yell, the Wallcreeper leaped forward and slit open his throat with a sweeping slash.

  Some beggars found the corpse curled up, lying in a black puddle. Before the town guard appeared, merchants and stallholders had sped over from the Poultry Market.

  A ghastly, choking, gut-wrenching air of dread hung above the scene of the crime.

  A dread so terrible that while the crowd waited for the guard to arrive, no one dared to steal the pouch protruding from the victim’s slashed-open mouth.

  “Gloria in excelsis Deo,” intoned Canon Otto Beess, lowering his touching palms and bowing his head before the altar. “Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…”

  The deacons stood on either side, joining him in song with hushed voices. Otto Beess continued to celebrate the Mass, mechanically, routinely, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te,

  glorificamus te, gratias agimus tibi…

  The seminarist Gwibert Bancz has been murdered. In broad daylight, in the centre of Wrocław. And Bishop Konrad, who dropped the investigation into the murder of Peterlin of Bielawa, will also likely drop the investigation into his secretary’s murder. I don’t know what’s happening here. But one needs to take care of one’s own safety. Never, under any circumstances, give a pretext or opportunity, and never allow oneself to be taken by surprise.

  The singing soared up to the high vault of Wrocław Cathedral.

  Agnus Dei, Filius Patris, qui tollis peccata mundi,

  miserere nobis;

  Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem

  nostram…

  Otto Beess knelt down before altar.

  I hope, he thought, crossing himself, I hope that Reynevan made it to… That he’s safe now. I truly hope…

  Miserere nobis…

  The Mass continued.

  Four horsemen galloped over the crossroads, beside a stone cross, one of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and belated contrition. The wind howled, the rain lashed down and mud splashed up from hooves. Kunz Aulock swore, wiping water from his face with a wet glove. Stork of Gorgowice echoed him still more crudely under his dripping hood. Walter of Barby and Sybek of Kobylagłowa didn’t even feel like swearing. Let’s ride as quickly as possible, they were thinking, to any old tavern, into the warm and dry for a mug of mulled ale.

  Mud splashed from the horses’ hooves, muddying the already muddied, cloaked figure huddled by the cross. None of the riders paid the figure any attention.

  And nor did Reynevan raise his head.

  Chapter Nine

  In which Scharley makes an appearance.

  The prior of Strzegom Carmelite priory was as thin as a skeleton; his complexion, dry skin, carelessly shaved stubble and long nose made him resemble a plucked heron. When he looked at Reynevan, he squinted, and when he resumed reading the letter from Otto Beess, he brought the letter close up to his nose. His bony blue hands trembled relentlessly and pain kept contorting his mouth. The prior was by no means an old man, but Reynevan had seen this illness before, which ate its victim away like leprosy—but invisibly, from the inside. An illness against which all medicines and herbs were powerless, against which only the most powerful magic was effective. Even if someone knew how to treat it using magic, they didn’t, because times were such that once the patient was cured, they were liable to denounce the physician.

  Clearing his throat, the prior shook Reynevan out of his reverie.

  “Only for this one thing did you await my return, young man?” he asked, picking up the Wrocław canon’s letter. “Four whole days? Aware that the subprior has full authority during my absence?”

  Reynevan limited himself to a nod. Reference to the condition of handing the letter directly to the prior was so blatantly obvious, it didn’t bear mentioning. As regards the four days spent in the village near Strzegom, there was no point mentioning them, either—they had passed God knew when, like in a dream. For Reynevan, the time since the tragedy in Balbinów felt like a dream. He was numb, distracted and befuddled.

  “You waited,” the prior stated a fact, “to hand me the letter in person. And do you know what, young fellow? It is very good that you did.”

  Reynevan didn’t comment this time, either. The prior returned to the letter, bringing it up almost to his very nose.

  “Oh, yes,” he finally said in a slow, drawling voice, raising his eyes and squinting. “I knew the day would come, when the reverend canon would remind me of my debt and demand repayment. With usurious interest—which, incidentally, the Church forbids the collection of. Young fellow, do you believe unreservedly in what the Church, our mother, demands?”

  “Yes, Reverend Father.”

  “A commendable virtue. Especially today. Especially in a place like this. Do you know where you are? Do you know what this place is? Apart from a priory?”

  Reynevan did not reply.

  “You either don’t know,” the prior guessed from the silence, “or are adroitly pretending not to. For this is a house of penance, with which you may also be unfamiliar or pretend to be so. Thus, shall I tell you: it is a prison.”

  The prior fell silent, folded his hands together and looked intently at his interlocutor. Reynevan, naturally, had guessed the priory’s purpose some time before but had kept it to himself. He didn’t want to spoil the Carmelite’s pleasure that conducting a conver
sation like this was clearly giving him.

  “Do you know,” continued the monk, “what His Excellency the canon deigns to ask of me in this letter?”

  “I do not, Reverend Father.”

  “Your ignorance partially excuses you. But because I know, nothing can excuse me. In the process, if I refuse the request, my own wrongdoing will be excused. What do you say to that? Doesn’t my logic rival that of Aristoteles?”

  Reynevan didn’t reply and the prior fell silent. After a while, he used a candle to set light to the canon’s letter, turned it over to allow the flame to catch hold and tossed it onto the floor. Reynevan watched the paper curl up, blacken and crumble. And thus, my hopes crumble to ash, he thought. Besides, they are untimely, senseless and vain. So, perhaps it’s better things happened this way.

  The prior stood up.

  “Go to the hosteller,” he said briefly and dryly. “Have him give you food and drink, then afterwards hasten to our church where you’ll meet the one you are meant to meet. Orders will be issued; you’ll both be able to leave the priory without any hindrance. Canon Beess stressed in his letter that the two of you will embark on a long journey to distant places. I’ll add that it’s very good the journey will be long. It would, in fact, be a great error not to go far enough away. And return too soon.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency—”

  “Don’t thank me. And if it occurs to one of you to seek my blessing before you set off, please give up that thought, too.

  The vittles at the priory were indeed like prison food. Reynevan, however, was still too distressed and apathetic to notice. Furthermore, he was simply too hungry to turn his nose up at salted herring, kasha without grease and beer which differed from water only in its colour, and then only slightly. Or perhaps it was actually a fast day? He couldn’t remember.

  So, he ate briskly and hungrily, which the old hosteller observed with evident satisfaction, no doubt used to much less enthusiasm from his guests. Scarcely had Reynevan dealt with the herring than the smiling monk gave him another, plucked straight from a barrel. Reynevan determined to exploit that show of friendship.

  “A veritable fortress, this priory of yours,” he said with his mouth full. “No wonder, either, for I know what purpose it serves. But I see no armed guards. Have none of the monks performing penance ever escaped?”

  “Oh, my son, my son.” The hosteller shook his head at Reynevan’s naive obtuseness. “Escape? But why? Don’t forget who’s performing penance here. Penance will one day be over for each of them. And although none of the men here is doing penance pro nihilo, the end of it erases their guilt. Nullum crimen, everything returns to normal. But an escapee? He would be an outlaw till the end of his days.”

  “I see.”

  “Good, for I’m not permitted to talk about it. More kasha?”

  “With pleasure. And these penitents, for what misdeeds, I wonder, are they in here for?”

  “I’m not permitted to say.”

  “Oh, I’m not asking about specific cases, just in general terms.”

  The steward cleared his throat and glanced around apprehensively, no doubt aware that in the house of penance, even the kitchen walls, hung with frying pans and garlic, might have ears.

  “Oh,” he said softly, rubbing his hands, oily from herrings, on his habit. “They are doing penance for diverse things, my son, for diverse things. They are mainly sinful priests and monks, men whose vows bore down too heavily on them. Imagine it yourself: vows of obedience, humility, poverty, abstinence and moderation… As they say: plus bibere, quam orare. And a vow of chastity, regrettably…”

  “Femina,” guessed Reynevan, “instrument diaboli?”

  “If it were only femina…” The steward sighed, raising his eyes. “Oh, boundless sins, boundless, it cannot be denied. But here there are graver matters—much graver… But I’m not permitted to talk about that. Eaten your fill, my son?”

  “I have. Many thanks. It was delicious.”

  “Come whenever you wish.”

  Inside the church, it was extremely gloomy. The glow of candles and the light from the narrow window fell only in the region of the altar itself, the tabernacle, the crucifix and a triptych depicting the Lamentation. The rest of the chancel, the entire nave, the wooden galleries and the choir stalls were plunged in murky semi-darkness. Perhaps it’s intentional. Reynevan couldn’t rid himself of the thought. Perhaps it’s so that during prayers, the penitents can’t see each other’s faces and don’t guess at other men’s sins and offences. And compare them with their own.

  “I’m here.”

  The deep, resonant voice that boomed from an alcove hidden between the choir stalls had a depth of gravity and dignity. But it was probably only an echo from the domed vault, moving around the stone walls. Reynevan moved closer.

  A picture of Saint Anne with the Virgin Mary on one knee and Jesus on the other towered over the confessional, which exuded a faint aroma of incense and linseed oil. The painting was lit by a cresset, which had the effect of plunging the surroundings into an even dimmer gloom, hence Reynevan could only see the outline of the man sitting inside the confessional.

  “So, I ought to thank you for the chance of regaining my freedom of movement,” said the man, setting off more echoes. “Thus, I thank you. Although it seems to me that a certain Wrocław canon is the person I ought to be more grateful to, perhaps? And an event that took place… Well, say it for form’s sake, so I can be completely certain I’m talking to the right person. And that this isn’t a dream.”

  “The eighteenth of July, 1418.”

  “Where?”

  “Wrocław. The New Town…”

  “Of course,” confirmed the man a moment later. “Of course, it was Wrocław. Where else, if not there? Very well. Now come closer and assume the required position.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Kneel.”

  “My brother has been killed,” said Reynevan, not moving, “and my life is threatened. I’m being pursued and must flee. But first I have to take care of a few things, and settle a few scores. Father Otto assured me you’d be able to help me. You and no other, whoever you are. But I have no intention of kneeling before you… How should I address you? Father? Brother?”

  “However you like. Uncle, if you wish. I couldn’t care less.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes. I told you: my brother’s been killed. The prior said we can get out of here. So, let’s leave this sorrowful place. And on the way I’ll tell you what needs doing. You’ll know enough, but nothing more.”

  “I asked you to kneel.” The echo of the man’s voice rumbled still more deeply.

  “And I told you: I have no intention of confessing to you.”

  “Whoever you are,” said the man, “you can choose one of two ways. One leads to me, on your knees. The other leads through the priory gate. Without me, naturally. I’m not in anyone’s pay, laddie, nor a thug hired to take care of your affairs and settle your scores. It is I, take careful note, who decides how much and what information I need. In any case, it is all about mutual trust. You don’t trust me, so how am I to trust you?”

  “The fact that you’re leaving prison is down to me,” Reynevan snapped back pugnaciously. “And Father Otto. Take note of that and don’t get too big for your boots. It’s not me but you who is facing a choice. Either leave with me or rot in here. The choice—”

  The man interrupted him by knocking loudly against the wood of the confessional.

  “You ought to know that hard choices are nothing new to me,” he said a moment later. “You act arrogantly, thinking it daunts me. Earlier this morning, I knew nothing of your existence, and later this evening, if needs be, I’ll forget about it. I repeat—for the last time—either make your confession as an expression of trust, or be gone. Make haste with your choice, for it’ll soon be Sext, and they strictly observe the liturgy of canonical hours here.”

  Reynevan clenched his fists, fighting the overw
helming urge to turn and leave, go out into the sunshine, fresh air, greenery and open space. He finally swallowed his pride. Common sense prevailed.

  “I don’t even know if you are a priest,” he stammered out, kneeling on the polished wood.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Reynevan could hear something like mockery in the man’s voice. “All I care about is a confession. Don’t expect absolution.”

  “I don’t even know what to call you.”

  “The world knows me by many names,” came back the voice from behind the grille, softly but clearly. “Since I have the chance to be reintroduced into the world, I ought to choose something… Willibald of Hirsau? Or perhaps, hmm… Benignus of Aix? Or perhaps… perhaps… Master Scharley? What do you think, laddie: Master Scharley? Very well, don’t make faces. Simply Scharley. All right?”

  “Very well. Let’s get on with it, Scharley.”

  Barely had the massive hasp and staple lock of the Carmelite priory in Strzegom slammed behind them, barely had the two men put some distance between themselves and the beggars by the gate, barely had they entered the shadows of the roadside poplars, than Scharley astonished Reynevan.

  The recent penitent and prisoner, a moment earlier intriguingly enigmatic, dour and silently dignified, now suddenly roared with Homeric laughter, leaped like a stag, threw himself down among the weeds and for a moment rolled around on his back like a colt, yelling and laughing by turns. Finally, before the eyes of the dumbfounded Reynevan, his former confessor turned a somersault, sprang up and directed an extremely insulting gesture at the gate with his right hand. The gesture was supported by a long litany of tremendously indecent curses and invective. Several applied to the prior personally, several to the Strzegom priory, several to the Carmelite Order in general, and several had a universal dimension.

  “I never judged it was so hard in there,” said Reynevan, calming his horse, which had been startled by Scharley’s performance.