The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “Perhaps they be,” he grunted ominously. “And perhaps they bain’t…”

  “They bain’t, they bain’t,” a smiling Scharley assured them. “Didn’t you know? Those two have been caught, and the bounty’s been paid.”

  “Methinks you’re a-lyin’.”

  “Leave go of my sleeve, fellow.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  The penitent looked him in the eyes for a moment. Then threw him off balance with a hard shove and spun to kick him in the shin just below the knee. The shepherd dropped to his knees and Scharley broke his nose with a short punch from above. The peasant grabbed his face and blood gushed through his fingers, decorating the front of his smock with a vivid patch.

  Before the peasants had overcome their surprise, Scharley snatched Friend Gamrat’s stick from him and struck him in the temple with it. Friend Gamrat’s eyes rolled up and he slumped into the arms of the peasant behind him, whom the penitent also walloped. Scharley spun around like a top, aiming blows to every quarter.

  “Flee, Reinmar!” he yelled. “Run for it!”

  Reynevan dug his spurs into the horse’s side, jostling the throng, but didn’t manage to get away. The peasants leaped on him like dogs from both sides and grabbed the harness. He struck out feverishly with his fists, but they dragged him from the saddle. He fought as hard as he could, kicking like a mule, but blows were raining down on him, too. He heard Scharley’s furious yelling and the dry crack of the ash staff falling on skulls.

  The peasants overwhelmed Reynevan and pinned him down. The situation was desperate. He was no longer fighting a band of peasants, but a terrible many-headed monster, a hydra with a hundred legs and a hundred fists, slippery with filth and stinking of muck, urine and rancid milk.

  Over the cries of the mob and the swoosh of blood in his ears, he suddenly heard battle cries, thudding and neighing, and the ground trembled from the pounding of horseshoes. Bullwhips whistled, cries of pain resounded, and the many-armed beast smothering him disintegrated. The peasants—a moment earlier meting out violence—were now on the receiving end. The horsemen rampaging around the clearing ran them down and thrashed them mercilessly with their whips. Some of the peasants fled into the trees, but none avoided being struck.

  Things soon quietened down a little. The horsemen were calming their snorting horses and combing the battlefield, looking for anyone they could still thrash. It was quite a colourful company. It was obvious at once that it was a party to be respected rather than joked with, not only from their apparel and gear, but also from their faces, which even a mediocre physiognomist would have found little difficulty classifying as shady and thuggish.

  Reynevan stood up. And found himself face-to-face with a dapple-grey mare, on which sat a stout, fair-haired woman in a man’s doublet and beret, flanked by two riders. A pair of piercingly shrewd hazel eyes looked out from beneath the plume of bee-eater’s feathers adorning the beret.

  Scharley, who appeared not to have suffered any serious injuries, stood alongside and discarded the remains of his ash staff.

  “By the spirits,” he said. “I don’t believe my eyes. But this is no mirage—it’s the Honourable Dzierżka Zbylut in the flesh. The proverb is apt: it’s a small world…”

  The dapple-grey mare shook its head, jangling the rings on its bit. The woman patted its neck in silence, measuring the penitent up and down with her piercing gaze.

  “You’ve let yourself go, Scharley,” she finally said. “And your hair’s a little grey these days. Greetings. And now let’s get out of here.”

  They were sitting at a table in a large, whitewashed corner room at the back of the inn. One window looked out onto an orchard, some crooked pear trees, blackcurrant shrubs and hives droning with bees. The other window gave onto a paddock filling up with horses which were being gathered into a herd. Among the hundred or more steeds prevailed heavily built Silesian dextrarii, bred for heavy cavalry. There were also castellans, Spanish-blood stallions, Greater Poland lance horses and small cobs and nags. Among the thudding of hooves and neighing could be heard the cries and curses of grooms and stable boys, and the shady-looking men from the escort.

  “You really have let yourself go,” repeated the woman with the hazel eyes, “and silver threads have appeared in your hair since last I saw you.”

  “What to do?” answered Scharley with a smile. “Tacitisque senescimus annis. Though the years only enhance your beauty and charm, Lady Dzierżka Zbylut.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up. And don’t ‘lady’ me, because I’ll feel like some old dowager. And I’m not Zbylut any longer. When old Zbylut died, I went back to my maiden name, Dzierżka of Wirsing.”

  “I remember now,” Scharley said, nodding. “Zbylut of Szarada did indeed depart this life, may God keep him in His care. When was it, Dzierżka?”

  “It’ll be two years this Holy Innocents’.”

  “How time flies. In the meanwhile, I was—”

  “I know,” she interjected, and cast a piercing glance at Reynevan. “You still haven’t introduced your companion.”

  “I am…” Reynevan hesitated for a moment, finally deciding that the Knight of the Cart might be both tactless and risky with regard to Dzierżka of Wirsing. “I am Reinmar of Bielawa.”

  The woman said nothing for a moment but continued to stare at him.

  “Indeed,” she finally drawled. “It’s a small world. Would you like some beer soup, boys? They serve excellent beer soup here. I have it whenever I visit. Would you like to try some?”

  Scharley’s eyes lit up. “Naturally, I would. Thank you, Dzierżka.”

  When Dzierżka of Wirsing clapped her hands together, servants appeared immediately and busied themselves. Judging by the alacrity with which they came running, Reynevan surmised that she must be a regular guest here, known to have florins to spend. A moment later, the food arrived and he and Scharley were slurping soup, fishing out lumps of white cheese with lindenwood spoons, quickly but rhythmically to avoid clashing them together in the large bowl. Dzierżka tactfully kept silent, watching them and nursing a mug sweaty from the cold beer inside it.

  Reynevan sighed deeply. He’d not eaten a hot meal since the lunch with Canon Otto in Strzelin. Meanwhile, Scharley was staring at Dzierżka’s beer so meaningfully that he was soon brought a mug dripping with froth.

  “Where is God leading you, Scharley?” she finally said. “And why are you brawling with peasants in forests?”

  “We’re on a pilgrimage,” the penitent lied light-heartedly, “to Our Lady of Bardo, to pray for the betterment of this world, and were attacked without reason. Verily, the world is full of wickedness, and you’ll sooner meet a rogue on the highway than an abbess. That rabble attacked us entirely without cause, led by the sinful urge to do evil. But we forgive our trespassers—”

  “I hired some peasants to search for a runaway colt.” Dzierżka interrupted his flow. “I don’t deny they are loathsome brutes, but later they were telling stories about some men being hunted and a bounty—”

  “The delusions of idle and shallow minds,” said the penitent, sighing deeply. “Who can fathom them?”

  “You were locked away to do penance, weren’t you?”

  “I was.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.” Scharley didn’t twitch. “Tedium. One day like the next. Over and over. Matutinum, Laudes, Prime, Terce, then rumpus-pumpus with Brother Barnabus, followed by Sext, Nones, then Barnabus, Vespers, collationes, Compline, and Barnabus—”

  “Will you stop dissembling!” Dzierżka interrupted him again. “You know what I mean, so tell me: did you escape? Are they after you? Is there a bounty on your head?”

  “O God, deliver me!” Scharley appeared hurt by the implication. “I was released. No one is after me—I’m a free man.”

  “Of course, I keep forgetting,” she retorted with a sneer. “But if you say so, I’ll believe you. And if so… that truth leads to a simple conclusion.”r />
  Scharley raised his eyebrows above the spoon he was licking, suggesting curiosity. Reynevan squirmed anxiously on the bench. Rightly, as it turned out.

  “It leads to the simple conclusion,” repeated Dzierżka of Wirsing, scrutinising him, “that the honourable young Sir Reinmar of Bielawa is the object of the hunt and the pursuit. The fact that I didn’t guess it at once, young man, is because you rarely lose out in such matters if you count on Scharley. Oh my, you’re perfectly matched, perfectly—”

  She suddenly sprang up and rushed over to the window.

  “Hey, you!” she yelled. “Yes, you, you sodding prick! Strike that horse again and I’ll have it drag you around the paddock!”

  “Forgive me,” she said, returning to the table and folding her arms under her heaving bosom, “but I have to keep an eye on things. As soon as my back’s turned, they get up to no good, the wastrels. Where was I? Oh, yes. You’re a perfect match, you buffoons.”

  “So you know all about it?” Reynevan asked.

  “I’ll say! Folk talk of nothing else. Kyrie-eleison and Walter of Barby are racing around the highways, while Wolfher of Stercza is combing Silesia with five men, asking questions, making threats… Even so, you’re fretting needlessly, Scharley, and you, laddie. You’re safe with me. I don’t care about your amorous adventures or family feuds; the Sterczas are no flesh and blood of mine. Unlike you, Reinmar of Bielawa. It may surprise you to learn that we are related—don’t gape—for I’m de domo Wirsing, from the Wirsings of Reichwalde. And the Wirsings of Reichwalde are related to the Nostitzes through the Zedlitzes. And, after all, your grandmother was a Nostitz.”

  “That’s true,” said Reynevan, overcoming his astonishment. “Why, m’lady, you’re well versed in familial connections—”

  “I know a thing or two,” she cut him off. “I knew your brother, Piotr, well. He was a friend of my husband’s. He supped oft with us at Skałka and used to ride horses from our stud.”

  “You speak in the past tense, m’lady,” said Reynevan, his face darkening. “So you know…”

  “I do.”

  Dzierżka of Wirsing interrupted the lengthening silence. “Accept my heartfelt sympathies,” she said, and her expression confirmed her sentiments. “The events at Balbinów are a tragedy for me, too. I knew and liked your brother. I always esteemed his good sense, his sober views, the fact that he never played the upstart lordling. No two ways about it—my Zbylut learned some gumption thanks to Peterlin. He stopped swaggering, saw how the world really works and began to breed horses. Piotr was his model, building a dyeing works and a fulling mill, making money and ignoring what other knights might say about it. And soon he was a true lord, powerful and wealthy, and the noblemen disdaining him bowed and scraped as long as he was gracious enough to lend them cash—”

  Reynevan’s eyes flashed. “Peterlin used to lend money?”

  “I know what you suspect,” Dzierżka looked at him keenly, “but it’s doubtful. Your brother only lent money to people he knew and trusted. One can upset the Church with usury. Peterlin added some interest, not even half what the Jews ask, but it’s difficult to defend oneself against denunciation. And regarding your suspicions… While it’s true there’s no shortage of people prepared to murder for unpaid debts, the people your brother lent money to weren’t that kind. So you’re barking up the wrong tree, kinsman.”

  “No doubt.” Reynevan pursed his lips. “There’s no point looking for new suspects. I know who killed Peterlin and why. I have no doubt in that regard.”

  “Then you’re in a minority,” said the woman coldly, “because most people do.”

  Another silence followed, interrupted once again by Dzierżka of Wirsing. “Folk are talking about it,” she repeated. “But it would be highly unwise, even downright foolish, to resort hastily to feuds and revenge on the basis of rumour. I say that in case by some chance you’re not making for Our Lady of Bardo at all, but have quite different plans and designs.”

  Reynevan pretended he was utterly absorbed by a stain on the ceiling. Scharley’s expression was as innocent as a newborn baby’s.

  Dzierżka kept her hazel eyes on both of them.

  “But regarding Peterlin’s death, there are doubts,” she continued a moment later, lowering her voice, “and grave ones. Because a strange plague is abroad in Silesia, a mysterious pestilence that falls on tradesfolk and merchants, and not even noblemen are unscathed. People are dying mysterious deaths…”

  “Sir Bart,” Reynevan muttered under his breath. “Sir Bart of Karczyn…”

  “Sir Bart, indeed.” She nodded. “Then there’s Tomasz Gernrode, master of the leatherworkers’ guild from Nysa, and Herr Fabian Pfefferkorn, a lead merchant from the Niemodlin trading company. And most recently, barely a week ago, Mikołaj Neumarkt, a Świdnica cloth mercator. A veritable pestilence…”

  “Let me guess,” Scharley spoke up. “None of them died of smallpox. Or old age.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’ll guess further: not without reason do you have a larger escort than usual, consisting of particularly heavily armed thugs. Where did you say you were going—?”

  “I didn’t. I only mentioned the matter so you would understand how serious it is. So you would understand that what’s happening in Silesia, with the best will in the world, can’t be attributed to the Sterczas. Nor can Kunz Aulock be blamed for it, because it began well before the young Master of Bielawa was caught in bed with Lady Stercza. You’d do well to remember that. I have nothing more to add now.”

  “You’ve said too much not to finish,” Scharley said without lowering his eyes. “Who’s killing the Silesian merchants?”

  “If we knew,” Dzierżka of Wirsing’s eyes flashed dangerously, “they wouldn’t be doing any more killing. But fear not, we’ll find out. And you stay away from it—”

  “Does the name Horn mean anything to you?” interrupted Reynevan. “Urban Horn?”

  “No,” she replied, and Reynevan knew at once she was lying. Scharley shot him a glance that told him not to ask any more questions.

  “Stay away from it,” repeated Dzierżka. “It’s a dangerous matter. And you have—if one is to believe the rumours—enough worries of your own. Folk are saying that the Sterczas are determined to catch you. That Kyrie-eleison and Stork are hunting you like wolves, that they’re on your trail. And finally, that Sir Guncelin of Laasan has offered a bounty for two rascals—”

  “Rumours,” interrupted Scharley. “Gossip.”

  “Perhaps. Still, such things have led many a man to the gallows, so I’d advise you to steer clear of the highways. And instead of Bardo, where you claim to be heading, I’d suggest you choose another, more distant town. Like Pressburg, for example. Or Esztergom. Or even Buda.”

  Scharley bowed respectfully. “Sound advice,” he said, “and thanks for that. But Hungary is far, far away, and lacking a horse, I have to walk—”

  “Don’t beg, Scharley. It doesn’t suit you— Bugger!”

  She sprang up again, rushed over to the window and hurled more insults at a man handling a horse carelessly.

  “Let’s go outside,” she said, adjusting her hair, her bosom heaving. “If I don’t supervise them myself, the whoresons will cripple those colts.”

  “A nice little herd,” said Scharley once they were outside. “Even for the Skałka stud. There’s a pretty penny to be made if you sell it.”

  “Fear not.” Dzierżka of Wirsing gazed at her horses in delight. “Castellans are in demand, cobs, too. Noblemen forget their miserliness where horses are concerned. You know what it’s like: every man wants to be proud of his horse and his entourage on an expedition.”

  “What expedition is that?”

  Dzierżka cleared her throat and looked around. Then grimaced.

  “For the betterment of this world.”

  “Oh,” guessed Scharley. “The Czechs.”

  “Better not to talk about that too loudly.” The horse trader grimaced
even more. “The Bishop of Wrocław is said to be coming down hard on the local heretics. Many towns I passed had gibbets creaking with hanged men, often accompanied by the smoking embers from burnings.”

  “But we’re not heretics. So why should we be afraid?”

  “Where stallions are being gelded,” said Dzierżka, “it’s best to keep an eye on your own balls.”

  Scharley didn’t comment. He was busy watching some soldiers pulling a wagon covered in a black, tarred tarpaulin from a shed. A pair of horses was harnessed to the wagon. And then, urged on by a fat sergeant, the soldiers carried out a large iron-bound chest and slid it under the tarpaulin. Finally, a stout individual in a beaver calpac and a cape with a beaver collar emerged from the inn.

  “Who’s that?” Scharley asked, his curiosity piqued. “An Inquisitor?”

  “Almost,” replied Dzierżka in hushed tones. “He gathers taxes.”

  “What taxes?”

  “A special tax, for the war against heretics.”

  “Czech heretics?”

  “Are there any others?” Dzierżka grimaced again. “And the tax was approved by the lords in the Frankfurt Reichstag. Anyone with a wealth of over two thousand guilders has to pay one guilder, anyone with less—half a guilder. Every squire from a noble family has to give three guilders, a knight five and a baron ten. All clergymen have to pay five from every hundred of their annual stipend, priests without stipends—two groschen…”

  Scharley grinned, showing his white teeth.

  “All the priests declared a lack of stipend, no doubt. Led by the aforementioned Bishop of Wrocław. But four burly men were needed to lift the casket, and I counted eight in the escort. It surprises me that such a hefty load is being guarded by such a small number.”

  “The escort changes along the route,” explained Dzierżka. “The knight whose estate they’re passing through supplies the men. That’s why there are so few at this moment.”

  “I understand. Oh well, Dzierżka, it’s time to say goodbye. Thank you for everything.”

  “You can thank me in a moment, after I’ve had my men prepare you a little horse so you won’t have to jog alongside your companion’s mount, and will have a chance when they catch up with you. Just don’t think it’s out of charity and the goodness of my heart. You can pay me back on a suitable occasion. Forty Rhenish guilders. Don’t give me that look—it’s a bargain! You ought to be grateful.”