The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The charcoal burners fled. And alerted the village. Angry knights had also been known to burn down villages.

  A fierce argument was indeed raging in the charcoal burners’ clearing. Buko of Krossig was yelling so loudly that he frightened the horses being held by the pages. Paszko Rymbaba was gesticulating, Woldan of Osiny was fulminating and Kuno of Wittram was calling on the saints as his witnesses. Scharley was keeping fairly calm. Notker of Weyrach and Tassilo of Tresckow were trying to reconcile the feuding parties.

  The white-haired mage was sitting on a nearby tree stump displaying contempt.

  Reynevan now knew what the argument was about. Samson had filled him in as they fled their pursuers, and he was dumbfounded.

  “I don’t understand…” he said when he had calmed down. “I don’t understand why you decided to do something like that!”

  Samson turned towards him. “So you’re saying that had it been one of us, you wouldn’t have made any attempts to rescue us? Not even desperate ones?”

  “No, of course not. But I don’t understand how—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to explain to you,” interjected the giant, quite forcefully for him. “But you keep interrupting me with your outbursts of righteous indignation. Just listen. We found out they were taking you to Stolz Castle to kill you soon after. Scharley had spotted the tax collector’s black wagon earlier, so when Notker of Weyrach unexpectedly happened along with his comitiva, the plan suggested itself.”

  “To help them rob the tax collector in exchange for help in freeing me?”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself. That was the agreement. And when Buko of Krossig found out about the venture, most probably because of someone’s wagging tongue, he had to be included, too.”

  “And now we’re in it.”

  “We are,” Samson calmly agreed.

  They were. The discussion in the charcoal-burners’ clearing was becoming so fierce that for some of the parties, Buko of Krossig in particular, words were no longer enough. The Raubritter walked over to Scharley and seized the front of his jerkin in both hands.

  “Say it’s been called off one more time,” he wheezed furiously, “and you’ll regret it. What are you telling me, vagrant? Perhaps you think that I have nothing better to do than waste time traipsing through forests hoping for some spoils. Don’t tell me it was in vain, because my hands are itching to—”

  “Calm down, Buko,” Notker of Weyrach said placatingly. “Why resort to force before we’ve tried to work this out? But you, Master Scharley, if I may say so, have behaved poorly. It was agreed that you would track the tax collector from Ziębice, that you would inform us which route he would take and where he would stop. We waited for you. It was a collaborative venture. And what did you do?”

  “When I asked for your help in Ziębice,” said Scharley, smoothing down his clothes, “when I paid for that help with profitable information and an offer of assistance, what did you tell me? That you might help to free Reinmar of Hagenau—and I quote—‘if we feel like it,’ but I won’t even get a bent penny of the loot from the attack on the tax collector. Is that your idea of a collaborative venture?”

  “It was about your companion. And freeing him—”

  “And he is free. He freed himself, through his own inventiveness. It ought then to be clear that I no longer need your help.”

  Weyrach folded his arms as the Raubritter knights started shouting again. Buko of Krossig silenced them with a vigorous gesture.

  “This was all about saving his skin, wasn’t it?” he asked through clenched teeth, pointing at Reynevan. “And now that he’s free, Master Scharley, are you telling us that the contract’s null and void? Consider this, Master Scharley: if keeping your friend’s skin intact is so dear to you, I can soon violate that intactness! So don’t you dare tell me that the contract has been cancelled now that your companion is safe, since right here in this clearing, within my reach, the two of you are far from bloody safe!”

  “Calm down.” Weyrach raised a hand. “Restrain yourself, Buko. But you, Master Scharley, moderate your tone. Your companion is now liberated? Lucky you. You no longer need us, you say? We need you even less, know that. Begone, if that be your will—after first thanking us for the rescue. Had we not saved your arses last night, your troubles wouldn’t have ended with sore ears. So before we part, simply tell us which way the tax collector and his wagon went and then begone, may the Devil take you.”

  Scharley cleared his throat and bowed slightly, not to Buko and Weyrach, but towards the mage who was still sitting on the tree stump, looking on indifferently. “I thank you for your help last night. Without mentioning that barely a week has passed since we saved the arses of Lords Rymbaba and Wittram near Lutom. Thus, we are even. Unfortunately, I do not know which way the tax collector went. We lost his party’s trail in the afternoon of the day before yesterday. And since we met Reinmar just before dusk, we lost interest in the tax collector.”

  “Restrain me!” yelled Buko of Krossig. “Restrain me before I fucking kill him! Did you hear that? He lost the trail. He lost interest in the tax collector. He lost interest in a thousand fucking grzywna! Our thousand grzywna!”

  “What thousand?” Reynevan blurted out without thinking. “There wasn’t a thousand. There was… only… five hundred…”

  He very quickly understood what a grave error he had just committed.

  Buko of Krossig drew his sword so swiftly that the grinding of the blade in the scabbard still hung in the air as the blade touched Reynevan’s throat. Scharley had barely taken half a step before the blades of Weyrach and Tresckow—drawn just as quickly—met his chest. The blades of the remaining men stopped Samson and held him in check. All traces of rude good humour vanished as though blown away by the wind. The Raubritters’ evil, cruel, narrowed eyes left no doubt that the weapons would be used. And used without the slightest scruple.

  The mage sighed and shook his head, but his expression was blank.

  “Hubert,” Buko of Krossig said slowly to one of the pages, “take a strap, tie a noose in it and toss it over that branch. Don’t move, Hagenau.”

  “Don’t move, Scharley,” Tresckow parroted as the other men’s swords pushed harder against Samson’s chest and throat.

  Without removing the sword-point from Reynevan’s throat, Buko moved closer and looked him in the eyes. “So there wasn’t a thousand, but five hundred grzywna on the tax collector’s wagon. You knew it, so you also know which way it went. You have a simple choice, laddie: you either sing or swing.”

  The Raubritters rode hard, forcing a frenzied pace. They didn’t spare the horses. Whenever the terrain permitted, they spurred them on to a gallop and raced as fast as they could.

  It transpired that Weyrach and Rymbaba knew the area and led them via shortcuts.

  They had to slow when the final shortcut exited through the soggy marsh in the valley of the Budzówka, a left-bank tributary of the Kłodzko Nysa. Only then did Scharley, Samson and Reynevan have the chance to exchange a few words.

  “Don’t try anything stupid,” Scharley warned quietly. “And don’t try to get away. The two behind us have crossbows and are keeping a close watch on us. Better to ride obediently with them—”

  “And take part in a robbery,” Reynevan finished with a sneer. “Indeed, Scharley, knowing you has led me a long way. To become a brigand—”

  “Let me remind you,” interrupted Samson, “that we did this to save your life.”

  “Canon Beess,” added Scharley, “instructed me to guard and protect you—”

  “And turn me into an outlaw?”

  “It’s thanks to you,” the penitent replied sharply, “that we are heading for Ścibor’s Clearing. It was you who revealed to Krossig where the tax collector would stop and he didn’t even have to rough you up much. Had you resisted more resolutely, you would now be an honest hanged man with a clear conscience. I believe you’d have felt better about that—”

>   “A crime is always—”

  Scharley snorted, looked away and spurred his horse.

  Fog was rising from the bog as it sagged and squelched under the horses’ hooves. Frogs croaked, bitterns boomed and wild geese gaggled. Ducks quacked anxiously and took off, splashing water. Something large, probably an elk, was cracking branches in the backwoods.

  “What Scharley did,” said Samson, “he did for you. You wrong him with your condemnation.”

  “A crime…” Reynevan cleared his throat, “is always a crime. Nothing can justify it.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Nothing. One cannot—”

  “Do you know what, Reynevan?” For the first time, Samson manifested something like impatience. “Go and play chess. That will be to your taste—black here, white there and all the fields square.”

  “How do you know I was meant to be murdered at Stolz? Who told you?”

  “A masked young woman, swathed tightly in a cloak, came to us at the inn during the night, escorted by armed servants. Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  Samson left it at that.

  Even from a distance, it was apparent that there wasn’t a living soul in Ścibor’s Clearing. The Raubritters immediately gave up the stealthy approach they had planned and galloped into the clearing, thudding, stamping and yelling. Which only frightened some rooks feasting beside a fireplace ringed with stones.

  The troop split up and ferreted about among the shacks. Buko of Krossig turned around in the saddle and fixed Reynevan with a dangerous look.

  “Let him be,” Notker of Weyrach said. “He wasn’t lying. Somebody clearly made a stop here.”

  “There was a wagon,” said Tassilo of Tresckow, riding closer. “Look, wheel tracks.”

  “The grass was dug up by horseshoes,” Paszko Rymbaba reported. “There were plenty of horses!”

  “The ash in the campfire is still hot,” announced Buko’s page, Hubert, a fellow advanced in years. “Mutton bones and pieces of turnip strewn around.”

  “We’re too late,” Woldan of Osiny concluded gloomily. “The tax collector stopped here then moved on. We came too late.”

  “Clearly,” snapped Buko. “Assuming the youth didn’t lie to us. For I don’t like the look of him, that Hagenau. Who pursued you in the night, boy? Who set those bats on you? Who—”

  “Drop it, Buko,” Weyrach interrupted again. “You keep changing the subject. Go on, comitiva, ride around and search for tracks. We need to decide what to do next.”

  The Raubritters split up again, some of them dismounting to search the huts. To Reynevan’s slight surprise, Scharley joined in the hunt. The white-haired mage, however, ignoring the commotion, spread out a sheepskin, sat down on it and removed a loaf of bread, a strip of dried meat and a wineskin from his saddlebags.

  “M’Lord Huon,” said Buko, frowning, “don’t you consider it meet to aid in the search?”

  The mage took a sip of wine and a mouthful of bread.

  “I do not.”

  Weyrach snorted. Buko swore under his breath. Woldan of Osiny rode over.

  “Difficult to glean anything from these tracks,” he said without being asked. “All I know is that there were plenty of horses.”

  “We knew that already,” said Buko, glaring at Reynevan evilly. “But I’d rather know some details. Were there many men with the tax collector? And who were they? I’m talking to you, Hagenau!”

  “A sergeant and five soldiers,” mumbled Reynevan. “Aside from them—”

  “Aye? Speak! And look me in the eye when I ask you a question!”

  “Four Friars Minor…” Reynevan had already decided to refrain from mentioning Tybald Raabe, and after a moment’s consideration broadened his decision to omit Hartwig of Stietencron and his plain daughter also. “And four pilgrims.”

  “Mendicant friars and pilgrims,” said Buko, his lip curled to reveal his teeth. “Riding iron-shod horses? Eh? Something doesn’t add—”

  “He isn’t lying.” Kuno Wittram trotted over and threw down a piece of knotted cord at their feet. “It’s white,” he announced. “Franciscan!”

  “Bugger.” Notker of Weyrach frowned. “What happened here?”

  “Whatever happened, happened.” Buko slapped his hand against his sword hilt. “What do I care? I want to know where the money is! Can anyone tell me? Master Huon of Sagar!”

  “I am eating.”

  Buko swore.

  “Three paths lead from the clearing,” said Tassilo of Tresckow, “and there are tracks on all of them. It’s impossible to say which way the tax collector went.”

  “If he went anywhere,” Scharley said, emerging from the bushes. “I believe he didn’t. I believe he’s still here.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?” Tassilo asked.

  “By using my wits.”

  Buko of Krossig swore crudely. Notker of Weyrach restrained him with a gesture and looked pointedly at the penitent.

  “Speak, Scharley. What have you found? What do you know?”

  “You didn’t want to give us a share of the spoils, gentlemen,” the penitent said, raising his head imperiously, “so don’t make me into a tracker. I know what I know. It’s my business.”

  “Just wait till I…” Buko growled furiously, but Weyrach restrained him again.

  “Not long since,” he said, “neither the tax collector nor his money interested you. And now suddenly you’re wanting a share of the loot. Something must have changed. I wonder what.”

  “A great deal. If we’re lucky enough to get our hands on the loot now, it won’t be by attacking a tax collector. Now we’ll be retrieving it by robbing the robbers. I’ll gladly join in with that, because I judge it moral to rob stolen loot from robbers.”

  “Be clearer,” Weyrach said.

  “He can’t,” said Tassilo of Tresckow. “Everything is clear.”

  The small lake hidden among the trees and surrounded by a swamp, though pretty, stirred feelings of unease and even anxiety. The surface was like pitch—black, still and undisturbed by any life. Although the tops of the spruces reflected in the water were swaying slightly in the wind, the surface sheen wasn’t disturbed by the tiniest ripple. The only movement in the lake was caused by little bubbles of gas rising up from the depths through water thick with brown algae, slowly spreading and bursting on the oily, duckweed-covered surface, from which dry, forked trees stuck out like skeletal hands.

  Reynevan shuddered. He had guessed what the penitent had discovered. They’re lying in the mud, he thought, at the very bottom of that black abyss. The tax collector. Tybald Raabe. The pimply Lady Stietencron with her plucked eyebrows. And who else?

  “Look,” pointed Scharley. “There.”

  The marsh sagged beneath them as their feet squeezed water out of the spongy carpet of moss.

  “Somebody tried to cover the tracks,” Scharley said, “but it’s still clearly visible which way they dragged the bodies. Look here, there’s blood on the leaves. And here. Blood everywhere.”

  “That means…” Weyrach rubbed his chin. “That someone—”

  “That someone attacked the tax collector,” Scharley calmly finished his sentence, “did away with him and his escort and sank the bodies here, in the lake, weighed down with stones from the campfire. If one were to examine the campfire carefully—”

  “Very well,” Buko cut him off. “And the money? What about the money? Does it mean…”

  “It means,” Scharley looked at him with faint indulgence, “exactly what you think. Assuming you think.”

  “That the money was plundered?”

  “Bravo.”

  Buko said nothing for some time, all the while growing redder and redder.

  “Fuck!” he finally roared. “God! You see, but thunder not? It’s come to this! Decency has collapsed, virtue has perished, goodness has died! They plunder, rob and steal everything! Everything! Thieves at every turn! Swine! Scoundrels! Knaves!”

/>   “Rogues, by the cauldron of Saint Cecilia, rogues!” chimed in Kuno of Wittram. “O Christ, why don’t you put a plague on them!”

  “They hold nothing sacred, the whoresons!” roared Rymbaba. “Why, the money the tax collector was carrying was for a worthy cause!”

  “Indeed. The bishop was collecting it for a war against the Hussites…”

  “If that is so,” mumbled Woldan of Osiny, “perhaps it’s the Devil’s work? The Devil is siding with the Hussites, so the heretics may have summoned his help. Or the Devil may have decided to spite the bishop himself… Jesus! The Devil, I tell you, was capering here—hellish forces were at play. Satan killed the tax collector and the others.”

  “And what about the five hundred grzywna?” Buko frowned. “Did he take it to Hell?”

  “He did,” said Woldan. “Or turned it into shit. There have been such cases.”

  “He may have turned it into shit,” said Rymbaba, nodding. “There’s plenty of it over there, behind those huts.”

  “The Devil may also have sunk the money in that pond,” added Wittram, pointing. “It’s no use to him.”

  “Hmm…” muttered Buko. “He may have sunk it, you say? Perhaps then—”

  “Not a chance.” Hubert guessed at once what Buko was thinking and about whom. “Not a chance! I’m not going in there for anything, sire.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Tassilo of Tresckow. “I don’t like the look of that lake, either. Urgh! Never mind five hundred, not even five hundred thousand grzywna would get me in there.”

  Something living in the lake must have heard him, because as though in confirmation, the tarry-black water of the lake churned up, effervesced and boiled with a thousand huge bubbles. A foul, disgusting stench erupted and permeated the air.

  “Let’s get out of here…” gasped Weyrach. “Let’s go…”