The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “Bastards.” Reynevan ground his teeth. “Why aren’t they being punished? Why won’t God flog them, send down an angel for them with a whip?”

  “Who knows?” The goliard sighed in the cheesy darkness. “Who knows?”

  Eagle Owl, angry and red in the face, rode over to Wolfher, said something quickly, then pointed towards the mill and the bridge. Few words were needed. The Stercza brothers spurred their mounts and galloped across the courtyard in the opposite direction, between the shacks, towards a ford across the river. Behind them raced Eagle Owl, Haxt and the sneezing Rotkirch, eyes fixed ahead.

  “Good riddance!” Paszko Rymbaba spat after them.

  “They smelled a rat!” said Woldan of Osiny, laughing dryly.

  “A tiger.” Markwart of Stolberg corrected him knowingly. He had been standing closer and heard what Eagle Owl had said to Wolfher.

  “I wouldn’t be going out just yet,” said the goliard from the darkness.

  Reynevan, who was almost hanging from the knotted rope, stopped.

  “I’m in no danger now,” he assured him. “But you take heed. People are burned at the stake for what you were reading.”

  The goliard drew closer, so the slit with moonlight shining through it lit up his face. “There are things worth risking your life for. You are well aware of that, Master Reynevan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, you know well enough.”

  “I know you,” gasped Reynevan. “I’ve seen you before—”

  “You have, m’lord, at your brother’s home in Powojowice. But better not talk about it. Garrulousness is a perilous foible nowadays. ‘Many a man has cut his own throat with his own flapping tongue,’ as—”

  “Urban Horn says,” Reynevan completed the sentence, surprising himself with his own shrewdness.

  “Ssh,” hissed the goliard. “Careful with that name, m’lord.”

  The Sterczas had indeed fled the settlement in a strange panic, as though the Devil were on their heels. That sight improved Reynevan’s mood a great deal. But when he saw who they were running from, it all made sense.

  A man with a square jaw and shoulders as wide as a cathedral door, dressed in a sumptuous and richly gilded suit of Milanese armour, rode at the head of a troop of knights and mounted bowmen. The knight’s horse, huge and black, was also armoured, its face protected by a chanfron, its neck by a criniere made of lames.

  Reynevan mingled among the Kromolin Raubritters, who meanwhile had swarmed out into the yard. No one apart from Samson noticed him or paid him any attention. Scharley was nowhere to be seen. The Raubritters were buzzing around like a swarm of wasps.

  Two men flanked the knight in Milanese armour: a helmetless youngster as pretty as a maiden, and a swarthy beanpole with sunken cheeks. They were both wearing full plate armour and riding fully armoured mounts.

  “Hayn of Czirne,” said Otto of Glaubitz in admiration. “Do you see that Milanese armour he’s wearing? By the Devil, it’s easily worth forty grzywna.”

  “The youngster on the left is Fryczko of Nostitz,” panted Wencel of Hartha. “And the one on the right is Vitelozzo Gaetani, an Italian…”

  Reynevan gasped slightly. All around, similar gasps, puffs and soft oaths could be heard, testifying that not only he had been shocked by the appearance of one of the most famous and feared Silesian Raubritters. Hayn of Czirne, Lord of Nimmersatt Castle, enjoyed the worst possible reputation, and his name not only aroused terror in merchants and peaceful folk, but also begrudging respect in his fellow bandits.

  Meanwhile, Hayn of Czirne had stopped his horse before the senior knights. He dismounted and walked over, spurs jingling and armour clanking.

  “Lord Stolberg,” he said in a deep bass. “Lord Barnhelm.”

  “Lord Czirne.”

  The Raubritter looked back, as though checking to see that his foot soldiers had their weapons to hand and the bowmen their crossbows at the ready. Once certain, he rested his left hand on his sword hilt and his right on his hip. He stood with legs apart and raised his head.

  “I’ll be brief, for I do not have time to talk long,” he thundered. “Somebody attacked and robbed some Walloons, colliers from the mine in Golden Hill. I have decreed that the Walloons from Golden Hill are under my care and protection. So hear this and heed it: if any of you villains had a hand in it, you should own up now, because if you don’t and I catch you later, I’ll flay you alive, knight or not.”

  It was as though a black cloud had covered Markwart of Stolberg’s face. The Kromolin Raubritters murmured. Fryczko of Nostitz and Vitelozzo Gaetani didn’t move, just sat on their horses like two iron statues. But the crossbowmen in the entourage bent their bows, ready for action.

  “Suspicion for this misdeed,” continued Hayn of Czirne, “falls to a large degree on Kunz Aulock and Stork of Gorgowice, so hear this, too, and heed it: if you conceal those thieving bastards in Kromolin, you’ll be sorry. It is well known,” Czirne went on, ignoring the growing murmur among the knights, “that those whoresons Aulock and Stork are in the pay of the Sterczas, the brothers Wolfher and Morold, knaves and blackguards both. Our paths have crossed in the past, but now they have overstepped the mark. If the matter with the Walloons turns out to be true, I’ll disembowel the Sterczas. And while I’m at it, anyone who thinks to hide them.

  “And one more thing, last but by no means any less grave, so listen carefully. Lately, mercatores keep being found cold and stiff, the victims of some evil design. The matter is strange and I think not to go into it, but I shall tell you this: the Fuggers’ Augsburg Company is paying me for protection. So if anything happens to one of the Fuggers’ mercators and it turns out one of you is responsible, then may God have mercy on his soul. Understand? Understand, you dogs?”

  Among the growing furious rumbling, Hayn of Czirne suddenly drew his sword, whirling it around with a whistle.

  “And if anyone opposes what I just said, or thinks that I lie, if it might not be to someone’s liking, then step forward!” he roared. “We shall settle the matter with iron forthwith. Come on! I’m waiting. Dammit, I haven’t killed anyone since Easter.”

  “Your behaviour is unseemly, Lord Hayn,” Markwart of Stolberg said calmly.

  “What I said does not apply to you, honourable Lord Markwart, or you, noble Lord Traugott, nor any of the senior knights. But I know my rights. I can challenge anyone from the crowd.”

  “I simply say it’s not elegant,” replied Markwart of Stolberg. “Everybody knows you, m’lord. You and your sword.”

  “What then?” snorted the brigand. “Am I to dress as a wench, like Lancelot of the Lake did, so as not to be recognised? I said I know my rights. And they know them, this gang of shitheads with shaking calves.”

  The Raubritters murmured. Reynevan saw fury drain the blood from Kottwitz’s face and heard Wencel of Hartha gnashing his teeth. Otto of Glaubitz seized his sword hilt and made a movement as though he were about to step forward, but Jaśko of Łubnia grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Don’t,” he muttered. “No one has ever crossed swords with him and lived.”

  Hayn of Czirne brandished his great sword again and paraded back and forth, spurs clanking.

  “Well, fart-churners?” he thundered. “Will no one step forward? Do you know what I think you are? I think you’re wankers! Will anyone challenge me? Will anyone dare to call me a liar? What, no one? Then all of you, to the last man, are twats and fuck-faces. And a general shame to the knighthood!”

  The knight-robbers murmured louder and louder, but Hayn appeared not to notice it.

  “I see only one man among you,” he continued, pointing, “Bożywoj of Lossow over there. Indeed, I cannot comprehend what he is doing among a gathering of such cunts. He must have gone to the dogs himself, urgh, shame and disgrace.”

  Lossow straightened up, crossed his arms over the lynx emblazoned on his chest and stared back fearlessly with a steady gaze. His calm clearly infuriated Hayn of Czirn
e. The brigand flushed and stood with arms spread wide.

  “Goat shaggers!” he roared. “Arseholes! I’m challenging you. Can you hear me, shitty-britches? Who will face me? On foot or mounted, right now, right here, on this field! With sword or battleaxe, choose your weapons! Perhaps you, Hugo of Kottwitz? Or you, Rymbaba, you shit?”

  Paszko Rymbaba leaned over and seized his sword, baring his teeth under his moustaches. Woldan of Osiny grabbed his shoulder and sat him back down with a powerful hand.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he hissed. “Do you have a death wish? No one can match him.”

  Hayn of Czirne chuckled as though he had heard. “Will no one come forward? Is no one brave enough? As I thought! Cowards, the lot of you.”

  “Well, fuck you!” yelled Ekkehard of Sulz, suddenly stepping forward. “Big mouth! Dickhead! Fart-face! Step onto the field!”

  “I’m standing on it,” Hayn of Czirne replied calmly. “What arms will we choose?”

  “This!” said Sulz, raising a handgonne. “You’re proud, Czirne, for you’re a decent swordsman and worthy axeman. But the new is coming—this is the modern world! Equal chances! Let’s shoot at each other!”

  Among the uproar that arose, Hayn of Czirne went over to his horse and returned a moment later with a gun. While Ekkehard of Sulz had an ordinary handgonne, a simple iron pipe on a stick, Czirne’s was an artistically made harquebus, with an angular barrel set in a carved oaken stock.

  “Let it be firearms, then,” he announced. “Mark out the lists.”

  Things moved quickly. Two finish lines were demarcated using spears stuck in the ground, marking a distance of ten paces between an avenue of flaming torches. Czirne and Sulz stood facing one another, each with a gun under one arm and a smouldering fuse in the other hand. The Raubritters stood aside, out of the line of fire.

  “Raise your weapons!” Notker of Weyrach, who had assumed the role of herald, lifted a mace. “Aim!”

  The opponents bent forward, positioning the fuses at the height of their firearms.

  “Fire!”

  For a while, nothing happened. All was silent save for the fuses hissing and showering sparks around as a stink of black powder emanated from the priming pans. It looked as though it would be necessary to stop the duel in order to prime the guns again. Notker of Weyrach was already preparing to give the sign when Sulz’s handgonne went off unexpectedly with a flash, a tremendous bang and a cloud of noxious smoke. Those standing closest heard the whistle of the ball, which missed the target and flew in the direction of the latrine. At almost the same moment, Hayn of Czirne’s harquebus spat fire and smoke. With better effect. The ball struck Ekkehard of Sulz in the chin and tore off his head. A fountain of blood gushed from the neck of the advocate of the anti-Hussite crusade; the head slammed against the wall of the barn, fell and rolled across the field, finally coming to rest in the grass, its dead eyes watching the dogs as they sniffed it.

  “Bugger,” Paszko Rymbaba said into complete silence. “That probably can’t be stitched back on.”

  Reynevan had underestimated Samson Honey-Eater.

  He hadn’t even managed to saddle his horse in the stable when he felt eyes burning on the back of his neck. He turned around and stood like a pillar of salt, holding the saddle in both hands. He swore, then shoved the saddle vigorously onto the horse’s back.

  “Don’t condemn me,” he said, pretending to be completely preoccupied with the harness. “I have to follow them. I wanted to avoid farewells. Or actually farewell discussions that would have been a waste of time and achieved nothing except unnecessary strife. I thought it would be better…”

  Samson, leaning against the lintel, folded his arms on his chest and said nothing, but his expression was more than eloquent.

  “I must go after them,” Reynevan blurted out after a moment of tense hesitation. “I cannot do otherwise. Understand me. I won’t get a chance like this again. Providence—”

  “Sir Hayn of Czirne brings many associations to my mind, too,” said Samson, “but I wouldn’t call any of them providential. Ah well, I understand you. Though I can’t say it comes easy.”

  “Hayn of Czirne is the Sterczas’ enemy. The enemy of Kunz Aulock. My enemies’ enemy and thus a natural ally for me. Owing to him, I may have the chance to avenge my brother. Don’t sigh, Samson. It’s neither the time nor the place for another discussion ending with the conclusion that revenge is a futile, senseless thing. My brother’s murderers not only peacefully walk the Earth but are also hunting me, threatening me with death and tormenting the woman I love. No, Samson. I won’t flee to Hungary, leaving them here in their pride and triumph. I have the opportunity, I have an ally, I’ve found an enemy of my enemies. Czirne announced that he’d disembowel the Sterczas and Aulock. Perhaps it’s futile, but I want to help him do it and be there when he does. I want to watch him disembowel them.”

  Samson said nothing. And Reynevan marvelled once again at how much thoughtfulness and wise concern his dull eyes and chubby idiot’s face could express. And how much mute but evident reproach.

  “Scharley…” Reynevan stammered, tightening the girth. “It’s true that Scharley helped me, did plenty for me. Why, you were a witness, more than once. But no matter how often I brought up the subject of revenge against the Sterczas, he always refused, mocking me at the same time and treating me like a stupid boy. He even makes fun of Adèle, endlessly trying to dissuade me from going to Ziębice!”

  The horse stamped and snorted, as though Reynevan’s agitation was affecting it. Reynevan breathed out and calmed down.

  “Tell him not to bear me a grudge, Samson. Dammit, I’m not ungrateful, I’m aware how much he’s done for me. But I think the best way of repaying him is by going. He said himself: I’m the biggest risk. It’ll be easier for him without me. For both of you…”

  He fell silent.

  “I’d like you to come with me, but I won’t ask you to. It would be base and dishonest of me. What I mean to do is risky. You’ll be safer with Scharley.”

  Samson said nothing for a long time.

  “I won’t try to dissuade you from your plans,” he said finally. “Nor will I expose you—as you so elegantly put it—to strife and time-wasting. I’ll even refrain from sharing my opinion regarding the sense of the enterprise. I don’t want by any means to make things even worse and burden you with pangs of conscience. But be aware, Reinmar, that by leaving, you are thwarting my hopes of a return to my own world and my own form.”

  For a long time, Reynevan said nothing.

  “Samson,” he said at last. “Tell me—truthfully, if you are able—are you really…? Is what you said about yourself—”

  “Ego sum, qui sum,” Samson interrupted gently. “I am who I am. Let’s spare each other the farewell confessions. They achieve nothing, excuse nothing and change nothing.”

  “Scharley is a worldly wise and resourceful fellow,” Reynevan said quickly. “You’ll see, he’ll doubtless manage to contact somebody in Hungary who—”

  “It’s time you left. Go, Reinmar.”

  The entire valley was blanketed in thick fog. Fortunately, it was low-lying, right by the ground, so there was no risk—at least not for the moment—of getting lost. It was clear which way the highway ran, for it was marked by a row of crooked willows, wild pear trees and hawthorn bushes protruding from the white shroud. Far away in the dark, a small, indistinct, dancing light—the lamp of Hayn of Czirne’s troop—flickered and indicated the way.

  It was very cold. When Reynevan crossed the bridge over the Jadkowa and entered the fog, he felt as though he were lowering himself into icy water. Oh well, he thought, it is September after all.

  All in all, by reflecting light, the white sea of fog spreading all around offered decent visibility to the sides, but Reynevan rode in complete darkness and could barely see his horse’s ears. Paradoxically, it was darkest on the highway itself, in the avenue of trees and dense bushes. More than once, the bushes’ outlines w
ere so evocatively demonic that the young man shuddered out of terror and involuntarily yanked at the reins, frightening his already timid steed. Each time, he rode on, laughing to himself at his own fearfulness. How on earth can one be afraid of bushes?

  Two bushes suddenly barred his way, a third caught the reins and a fourth pressed what could only have been a spear blade to his chest.

  Hooves stamped and the odour of horses and human sweat intensified around him. A flint and steel clanged, sparks showered around and lamps flared up. Reynevan squinted and leaned back in the saddle as one was shoved almost right into his face.

  “Too pretty for a spy,” said Hayn of Czirne. “Too young for a paid killer. But appearances can be deceptive.”

  “I am—”

  He broke off and cowered in the saddle as something hard struck him in the back.

  “For now, I decide what you are,” stated Czirne coldly, “and what you are not. For example, you’re not a corpse torn apart by crossbow bolts lying in a ditch. For the moment, thanks to my decision. Now be quiet, because I’m thinking.”

  “What is there to think about?” asked Vitelozzo Gaetani. He spoke fluent German, but his sing-song accent gave away his Italian heritage. “Slit his throat and be done with it. And let’s go, because it’s cold and I want to eat.”

  In the rear, hooves thudded and horses snorted.

  “He’s alone,” said Fryczko of Nostitz, whose young, pleasant voice gave him away. “He’s not being followed.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive,” repeated Czirne.

  White steam belched from his horse’s nostrils. Czirne rode up close, very close, until their stirrups touched. He was at arm’s length. With horrifying lucidity, Reynevan realised why. Czirne was testing him. Provoking him.

  “And I still say we slit his throat,” repeated the Italian in the dark.

  “Slit his throat, slit his throat,” said Czirne, losing his temper. “Everything’s simple to you people. And then my confessor will keep on at me, gnaw away at me, reproach me that it’s a deadly sin to kill without reason, for you need to have an important reason to kill. Every confession, he grumbles on at me, a reason, a reason, there must be a reason. I’ll end up whacking the knave over the head with a mace, for impatience is a reason, too, isn’t it? But for the time being, let’s do as he instructed me at confession. Well, laddie, tell us who you are,” he said, addressing Reynevan, “and we’ll see if there’s a reason to kill you, or if we need to come up with one.”