“I saw the remains of fires behind Saint Wojciech’s.”
“Two heretics burned in all,” the Hospitaller said with a shrug. “Over the last three Sundays. In Brother Schwenckefeld’s time, there would have been twenty. Actually, a third will be burned any moment. The Reverend has caught a sorcerer. Apparently one of the Devil’s own. As we speak, he is undergoing a painful interrogation.”
“At the Dominican priory?”
“In the town hall.”
“Is Hejncze present?”
“He is, surprisingly.” The Teutonic Knight’s smile was a foul thing.
“This magician, who is he?”
“Zachary Voigt, an apothecary.”
“In the town hall, you say, Brother?”
“I do.”
Grzegorz Hejncze, interim Inquisitor for the Wrocław Diocese, was very young. The Wallcreeper wouldn’t have given him more than thirty years, which made them the same age. When the Wallcreeper entered the town-hall cellar, the Inquisitor was taking his meal. Sleeves rolled up, he was enthusiastically wolfing down kasha and pork straight from the pot. In the light of torches and candles, the scene was harmonious: the rib vaulting, oaken table, crucifix, candlesticks festooned with wax, colourfully glazed earthenware vessels—all combined to create a pleasant ambience.
The mood was utterly destroyed, however, by the piercing cries and howls of pain coming at regular intervals from a deeper crypt, the passage leading to which was illuminated, like the gates of Hell, by the crimson flickering of flames.
The Wallcreeper stopped by the steps and waited. The Inquisitor went on eating. Only when he had eaten everything, down to the very bottom of the pot, did he raise his head. The bushy joined eyebrows above sharp eyes lent him seriousness and made him look older than he was.
“You work for Bishop Konrad, don’t you?” he asked, recognising him. “Lord…”
“Lord Grellenort,” the Wallcreeper reminded him.
“Indeed.” Grzegorz Hejncze reticently gestured for the serving wench to clear the table. “Birkart of Grellenort, the bishop’s confidant and advisor. Sit down, please.”
The victim being tortured in the crypt wailed, screaming wildly and inarticulately. The Wallcreeper sat down. The Inquisitor wiped some traces of grease from his chin.
“I understand that the bishop has left Wrocław? He is travelling?”
“As you say,” replied the Wallcreeper.
“No doubt to Nysa? To visit Lady Agnieszka?”
The Wallcreeper didn’t react even with a flicker of his eyelid at the mention of the bishop’s latest lover, which was a closely guarded secret. “His Eminence doesn’t usually inform me of such details. Neither do I enquire. Whoever pokes his nose into bishops’ affairs risks losing it. And my nose is dear to me.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I have only the health of His Eminence in mind, not gossip. For Bishop Konrad is not in the first flush of youth and ought to avoid an excess of feverish vexations… Indeed, barely a week has passed since he honoured Ulrika of Rhein with his presence. Not to mention his visits to the Benedictine sisters… Are you surprised, m’lord? It is an Inquisitor’s job to know such things.”
A scream reverberated from the crypt, then broke off, passing into wheezing.
“It is an Inquisitor’s job to know such things,” repeated Grzegorz Hejncze. “Hence, I know that Bishop Konrad is not journeying around Silesia just to visit married women, young widows and nuns. Bishop Konrad is preparing another raid on the Broumov lands. He is trying to persuade Přemysl of Opava and Sir Albrecht of Kolditz to join him, and to gain the armed assistance of Sir Půta of Častolovice, the Starosta of Kłodzko.”
The Wallcreeper neither commented nor lowered his eyes.
“Bishop Konrad does not appear to be concerned,” continued the Inquisitor, “that King Sigismund and the imperial princes have decided on a different course of action, in order to avoid the errors of previous crusades by forming alliances and confederations, gathering resources and winning over the Moravian lords. And to refrain from military confrontations until they are fully prepared.”
“His Eminence Bishop Konrad,” the Wallcreeper interrupted the silence, “does not need to rely on the imperial princes, for he is their equal in Silesia—if not their superior. The good King Sigismund, meanwhile, appears busy. As the bulwark of Christianity, he is amusing himself fighting the Turks on the Danube. Or perhaps he’s trying to forget other beatings, like the one he received three years ago from the Hussites at Německý Brod and his subsequent flight from the battle. But as he’s in no hurry to launch another expedition to Bohemia, he’s clearly not yet forgotten that humiliation. So, as God sees, the responsibility of striking fear into the heretics is being left to Bishop Konrad. For as Your Excellency knows: si vis pacem, para bellum.”
“I also know that nemo sapiens, nisi patiens,” said the Inquisitor, steadily returning the Wallcreeper’s gaze. “But enough of that. I had several issues to discuss with the bishop. A few questions. But since he is journeying… Too bad. Because I don’t imagine I can count on you to answer those questions, can I, Lord Grellenort?”
“That all depends on the questions Your Reverence deigns to ask.”
The Inquisitor said nothing for a moment, as though waiting for the person being tortured in the crypt to scream again.
“It concerns the spate of unexplained murders occurring in Silesia of late…” he said, when the screaming had subsided once more. “Sir Albrecht of Bart, murdered near Strzelin. Sir Piotr of Bielawa, killed somewhere near Henryków. Sir Czambor of Heissenstein, stabbed to death in Sobótka. The merchant Mikołaj Neumarkt, attacked and killed on the Świdnica highway. The merchant Fabian Pfefferkorn, murdered on the very steps of Niemodlin collegiate church. The bishop must have heard about them. As have you.”
“This and that has reached our ears,” the Wallcreeper acknowledged indifferently. “Neither I nor the bishop have concerned ourselves unduly with it. Since when is a murder such a sensation? People never stop killing each other. Instead of loving their neighbours, people hate each other and are liable to send them to meet their Maker for any old thing. Everybody has enemies, and there’s never a shortage of motives.”
“You read my thoughts,” Hejncze declared, equally indifferently. “The same thing applies to these unexplained murders. Apparently, there’s no lack of either motives or enemies on whom suspicion quickly falls, be it neighbourly wrangles, or marital infidelity, or family feuds. You think you have the guilty within reach and that everything’s clear. Then you examine the case more closely and nothing is clear. And that’s what is sensational about these murders.”
“Is that all?”
“No. There is in addition the astonishing skill of the criminal—or criminals. In every case, the attacks occurred suddenly, literally out of the blue as they were all carried out at noon.”
“Interesting.”
“Now you begin to see why these murders are so sensational.”
“Something else is fascinating,” repeated the Wallcreeper, “which is that you don’t recognise the words of the psalm. Doesn’t ‘from the arrow that flieth in the day’—a sagitta volante in die—mean anything to you? An arrow striking like lightning, a bolt from the blue bearing death? The destruction that wasteth at noonday doesn’t remind you of anything? I am indeed surprised.”
“So, a demon.” The Inquisitor brought his hands with fingertips touching to his lips, but didn’t manage to entirely hide a sarcastic smile. “A demon is roaming around Silesia committing crimes. A demon and a destroying arrow. Well, well. Incredible.”
“Haeresis est maxima, opera daemonum non credere,” the Wallcreeper retorted at once. “Is it fitting that I, an ordinary mortal, should have to remind the Papal Inquisitor about it?”
“It is not.” The Inquisitor’s gaze hardened and a dangerous tone entered his voice. “It is entirely unfitting, Lord Grellenort. Better that you concentrate on answering my questions than on
reminding me of things beyond your understanding.”
The agonised scream from the crypt was a meaningful counterpoint to his statement. But the Wallcreeper didn’t even flinch.
“I am not in a position to help, Your Reverence,” he declared coldly. “As I said, rumours about the murders have reached me, but the names of the alleged victims are unfamiliar. I don’t believe it would be worth asking His Eminence the Bishop about them, either, for he would answer as I have. And ask a question I wouldn’t dare to ask.”
“Oh, please do. You’re in no danger.”
“The bishop would ask: do those mentioned deserve the attentions of the Holy Office?”
“And the bishop would receive an answer,” replied Hejncze at once. “The Holy Office did have suspicio de haeresi regarding the aforementioned individuals. Suspicions of pro-Hussite sympathies and of yielding to heretical influences. Of contact with Czech apostates.”
“Aha. So they were scoundrels. If, then, they were killed, the Inquisition has no reason to mourn them. The bishop, knowing him, would undoubtedly have said one can only rejoice that somebody has already done the Office’s work.”
“The Office doesn’t like other people doing its work. That is how I would answer the bishop.”
“The bishop would respond that, in that case, the Office ought to act more efficiently and quickly.”
Another scream echoed from the crypt—this time much louder, more horrifying and lasting longer. The Wallcreeper’s thin lips contorted into a parody of a smile.
“Oh.” He gestured with his head. “Red-hot irons. Previously it was the standard strappado and screws on the fingers and toes, wasn’t it?”
“An irredeemable sinner,” replied Hejncze reluctantly. “Haereticus pertinax… But let us not get off the subject, m’lord. Be so kind as to repeat to His Eminence Bishop Konrad that the Holy Inquisition observes with growing displeasure that people with delations against them are dying in mysterious circumstances. People suspected of apostasy, of shady dealings and of conspiring with heretics. Those people are dying before the Inquisition manages to interrogate them. It looks as though somebody is trying to cover their tracks. And he who covers heresy’s tracks will find it difficult to defend himself against charges of heresy.”
“I’ll repeat it to the bishop word for word,” the Wallcreeper replied with a derisive smile. “But I doubt he’ll take fright. He isn’t the kind to. Like all Piasts.”
You would have thought, after the last yell, that the person being tortured couldn’t have screamed any louder or more horrifyingly. But you would have been wrong.
“If they don’t confess now,” said the Wallcreeper, “they never will.”
“You appear to have some expertise in this.”
“Not in practical terms, heaven forbid.” The Wallcreeper smiled hideously. “But one has read the accounts of various practitioners. I would particularly recommend the works of Jan Schwenckefeld to the attention of Your Young Reverence.”
“Indeed?”
“Absolutely. For Brother Jan Schwenckefeld rejoiced and was heartened whenever a mysterious hand put to death a scoundrel, a heretic or a heretic’s henchman. Brother Jan would give silent thanks to that mysterious hand and say a prayer for him. There was simply one less scoundrel and thus Brother Jan would have more time for other scoundrels. For he considered it right and proper for sinners to live in terror, to tremble in fear both day and night, uncertain of his life, as the Book of Deuteronomy demands.”
“Fascinating, m’lord, quite fascinating. I shall ponder it, be certain.”
“You claim,” the Wallcreeper said a moment later, “and the view has already been sanctioned by numerous Popes and Doctors of the Church, that sorcerers and heretics are acolytes in one monstrous sect, a mighty army acting according to a great plan, concocted by Satan himself, to topple God and seize control of the world. Why, then, do you so fervidly spurn the thought that in this fight, the other side of the conflict has also founded its own… secret organisation? Why don’t you want to believe that?”
“Because,” the Inquisitor calmly replied, “no Pope or Doctors of the Church have sanctioned that belief. God doesn’t need any secret organisations when He has us, the Holy Office. I have seen too many madmen claim to be divine instruments, acting in accordance with a divine mission.”
“I envy you. You have seen much. Who would have guessed, given Your Reverence’s youth.”
“Hence,” Hejncze was not swayed by the mockery, “when I finally get my hands on that flying arrow, that self-appointed demon and divine instrument, it will by no means end in martyrdom, which that person certainly hopes for, but incarceration in the Narrenturm. For the Tower of Fools is the place for idiots and lunatics.”
Boots scraped on the stairs to the crypt, from which no cries had been heard for a long time.
Soon after, a thin Dominican entered the room. He approached the table and made a deep bow, revealing a bald pate dotted with brown liver spots over the sparse garland of his tonsure.
“Well?” Hejncze asked with visible aversion. “Brother Arnulph? Did he finally confess?”
“Indeed.”
“Bene. For it was beginning to weary me.”
The monk raised his eyes. There was no aversion in them. Nor weariness. It was clear that the procedure in the crypt hadn’t tired or repulsed him in the slightest. On the contrary, it was apparent he would gladly begin again. The Wallcreeper smiled at his kindred spirit. The Dominican didn’t smile back.
“And?” the Inquisitor urged.
“The testimonies have been recorded. He revealed all, beginning with summoning and raising a demon, through theurgy and conjuration to tetragramation and demonomagy. He furnished the content and ritual of signing a pact. He described the persons he has seen during sabbaths and black masses… But did not reveal, in spite of our efforts, the place where the magical books and grimoires are concealed. But we forced him to give the names of people for whom he created amulets, including lethal ones. He also confessed that he had forced a virgin to acquiesce and then seduced her with the Devil’s help and the use of the Urim and Thummim—”
“What nonsense is this, Brother?” Hejncze thundered. “This nonsense about demons and virgins? What about contacts with the Czechs? The names of Taborite spies and emissaries? The locations of hidden weapons and propaganda materials? The names of recruits? The names of Hussite sympathisers!”
“He didn’t reveal any such thing,” stammered the monk.
“Then you will work on him again tomorrow,” Hejncze said, standing up. “Lord Grellenort—”
“Give me a little more of your time.” The Wallcreeper’s eyes flicked to the thin monk.
The Inquisitor dismissed the monk with an impatient wave. The Wallcreeper waited until he left.
“I would like to prove my goodwill,” he said. “On the understanding that it will remain a secret in the case of those mysterious murders, I would advise Your Reverence—”
“Just please don’t tell me that the Jews are to blame,” said Hejncze, still looking down and drumming his fingers on the table. “Using the Urim and Thummim.”
“I would advise the apprehension—and thorough interrogation—of two individuals.”
“Names.”
“Urban Horn. Reinmar of Bielawa.”
“The brother of that murdered man?” Grzegorz Hejncze frowned, but only for a moment. “Ah. No comment, no comment, Sir Birkart, because you’re liable once again to point out my lack of knowledge of the Bible, this time with regard to the story of Cain and Abel. So those two. Can I rely on this?”
“You can.”
For a moment, they glared at each other. I shall find both of them, thought the Inquisitor, and quicker than you think. I will do my utmost.
And I will do mine, thought the Wallcreeper, to make sure you don’t find them alive.
“Farewell, Lord Grellenort. May God be with you.”
“Amen, Your Reverence.”
Straight from the mould-stained wall, straight from the cracks between the bricks, a bird emerged. And immediately transformed itself into a man with black hair and clothes. Or rather, into a human-shaped form. For Zachary Voigt knew very well that it wasn’t a man.
“O, my Lord…” he grunted, writhing on the straw. “O, Prince of Darkness… Beloved Master… You are come! You didn’t abandon your faithful servant in his hour of need—”
“I must disappoint you,” said the black-haired man, stooping over him. “I am not the Devil. Nor an emissary of the Devil. The Devil has little interest in the fate of individuals.”
Zachary Voigt opened his mouth to scream, but only managed to croak. The black-haired man seized him by the temples.
“The hiding place of the treatises and grimoires,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I need that information. You won’t benefit from them now, and they will be very useful to me. By the way, I will save you from further torture and the stake. Don’t thank me.”
“If you’re not the Devil…” The magician’s eyes opened wide in horror as he lost control of himself. “Then you’ve come from… The other one? Oh, God…”
“I must disappoint you again,” replied the Wallcreeper. “He’s even less interested in the fate of individuals.”
Chapter Fifteen
In which it turns out that although the notions of “profitable art” and “artistic business” don’t have to be a contradiction in terms, even epoch-making inventions don’t easily find sponsors in the field of culture, nonetheless.
The Tower of Fools Page 24