The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  They left. In some haste. The boggy water squirted under their feet.

  “The robbery of the tax collector,” declared Tassilo of Tresckow, “if Scharley is not mistaken, judging from the tracks, happened last night or at dawn today. So if we apply ourselves a little, we might catch up with the robbers.”

  “But do we know which way they went?” grunted Woldan of Osiny. “Three paths lead away from the clearing. One towards the Bardo road. The second south, towards Kamieniec. And the third north, to Frankenstein. Before we set off after them, it would be worth knowing which of the three they took.”

  “Indeed.” Notker of Weyrach cleared his throat pointedly, looked at Buko and gestured with his eyes at the white-haired magician sitting nearby and scrutinising Samson. “Indeed, that would be worth knowing. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but perhaps one could use sorcery to that end, eh, Buko?”

  The mage certainly heard but didn’t even turn his head. Buko of Krossig ground out a curse.

  “Master Huon of Sagar.”

  “What?”

  “We’re searching for a trail. Perhaps you could help us?”

  “No,” replied the magician disdainfully. “I have no desire to.”

  “You have no desire to? Then why did you sodding come with us?”

  “For a breath of fresh air. And for some gaudium. I’ve had enough air but found no gaudium, so I’d gladly return home.”

  “We missed the opportunity for plunder!”

  “Well, that, if you don’t mind me saying, nihil ad me attinet.”

  “I support and feed you from plunder!”

  “You? Indeed?”

  Buko flushed furiously but said nothing. Tassilo of Tresckow cleared his throat softly and leaned over slightly towards Weyrach.

  “What’s the matter with that wizard?” he muttered. “Does he actually serve Buko of Krossig or not?”

  “He does,” Weyrach muttered in reply, “but via Lady Krossig. Hush, don’t say anything. It’s a sensitive subject…”

  “Is that the famous Huon of Sagar?” Reynevan asked Rymbaba in hushed tones.

  Paszko nodded and opened his mouth. Unfortunately, Notker Weyrach had overheard.

  “You are most inquisitive, m’Lord Hagenau,” he hissed, moving closer, “which doesn’t befit you or any one of your bizarre trio. All these difficulties are because of you. And you’ve given us bugger all help.”

  “That might soon change,” said Reynevan, straightening up.

  “Eh?”

  “You want to know which way the men who robbed the tax collector went? I shall show you.”

  If the Raubritters’ astonishment was great, it would be hard to find an apt phrase to describe Scharley’s and Samson’s expressions. Even the word “dumbfounded” sounds too weak. A flash of interest even appeared in Huon of Sagar’s eyes. The albino, who until then had looked at everybody—with the exception of Samson—as though they weren’t there, now turned the full weight of his attention on Reynevan.

  “You showed us the way to this clearing under threat of the noose, Hagenau,” drawled Buko of Krossig. “And now you help us willingly? Why the change?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Tybald Raabe. Stietencron’s ugly daughter. With their throats slit. At the bottom of the lake, in the mud. Black from the crayfish crawling all over them. And the leeches. And wriggling eels. And God knows what else.

  “That’s my business,” he repeated.

  He didn’t have to search long for what he needed. Rushes were growing in great tussocks at the edge of the swampy meadow. He added a stem of field mustard full of dry husks and tied up the bundle three times with a stalk of sedge in flower.

  One, two, three

  Segge, Binse, Hederich

  Binde zu samene…

  “Very good,” said the mage with a smile. “Bravo, young man. But I’m somewhat short of time and I’d like to return home as quickly as possible, so I’ll take the liberty—no offence—of helping a little. Just enough, as the poet said, to get things going.”

  He flourished his staff and described a quick circle with it.

  “Yassar!” he intoned gutturally. “Qadir al-rah!”

  The air trembled with the force of the spell, and one of the roads leading from Ścibor’s Clearing became brighter, friendlier, more inviting. It happened almost immediately, much more quickly than when using only a talisman, and the glow emanating from the road was much steadier.

  “That way.” Reynevan pointed, watching the Raubritters’ open mouths. “It’s that way.”

  “The road to Kamieniec.” Notker of Weyrach was the first to come to his senses. “Lucky for us. And for you, too, Master Huon, for it’s the same direction as your home, towards which you are hurrying. To horse, comitiva!”

  “It’s them,” reported Hubert, who had been sent ahead to scout, bringing his nervous horse under control. “It’s them, Sir Buko. They’re riding in a column, slowly, along the highway towards Bardo. About twenty men, some heavily armed.”

  “Twenty,” repeated Woldan of Osiny ponderously. “Hmmm…”

  “And what were you expecting?” said Weyrach, looking at him. “Who did you think slaughtered and sank the tax collector and his entourage, not counting the Franciscans and the pilgrims? Eh? Tom Thumb?”

  “The money?” Buko asked, getting to the point.

  “There is a carriage.” Hubert scratched his ear. “A strongbox…”

  “Lucky for us. That’s where they’re carrying it. So follow them.”

  “But are we certain,” asked Scharley, “that they are the ones?”

  “Master Scharley, when you say something…” Buko looked him up and down. “I’d rather you’d say we can count on you and your comrades. Will you help?”

  “And what will we receive of that recuperation?” Scharley looked up at the pine tops. “What do you say to an equal share, Lord Krossig?”

  “One share for the three of you.”

  “Agreed.” The penitent did not haggle, but seeing the looks of Reynevan and Samson added quickly:

  “But without fighting.”

  Buko waved a hand, then unfastened a powerful battleaxe with a wide blade on a slightly curved helve. Reynevan saw Notker of Weyrach check that his morning star was rotating freely on its handle.

  “Listen, comitiva,” said Buko. “Although most of them are probably milksops, there are twenty of them, so we must act wisely. We’ll proceed as follows: a furlong from here, I happen to know, the road crosses a bridge over a stream…”

  Buko wasn’t mistaken. The road indeed led over a small bridge, under which a stream flowed in a narrow but deep ravine hidden in a thicket of alder, noisily burbling over some boulders. Orioles sang and a woodpecker was drumming spiritedly on a tree trunk.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Reynevan, hidden behind some junipers. “I can’t believe it. I’ve become a brigand. I’m in an ambuscade…”

  “Sssh,” muttered Scharley. “They’re coming.”

  Buko of Krossig spat on his hand, gripped his battleaxe and lowered his visor.

  “Beware,” he grunted as though from the bottom of a cooking pot. “Hubert? Ready?”

  “Ready, m’lord.”

  “Everybody know what to do? Hagenau?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Colours flashed and armour glistened among the light birch wood behind some maples on the far side of the gorge. They could hear singing. They’re singing Dum iuventus floruit, thought Reynevan. A hymn with words by Pierre de Blois. We also sang it in Prague…

  “They’re cheerful, the varlets,” muttered Tassilo of Tresckow.

  “I’m also cheerful when I rob somebody,” snapped Buko. “Hubert! Attention! Prepare your crossbow!”

  The singing stopped suddenly. A servant in a hood appeared by the bridge, carrying a lance crosswise over his saddle. Behind him rode another three, wearing kettle hats, mail shirts and iron rerebraces, with crossbows slung across their backs.
They all rode slowly onto the bridge. Behind them came two knights armoured cap à pied, carrying lances set in holders by their stirrups. One of their shields displayed a coat of arms with a red step in a silver field.

  “Kauffung,” muttered Tassilo again. “What the hell?”

  Iron-shod hooves thudded on the bridge as another three knights rode onto it. Behind them rattled a barrel-like carriage upholstered in claret canvas pulled by a pair of cobs. A strongbox, escorted by more crossbowmen in kettle hats.

  “Wait,” muttered Buko. “Not yet… Just let the carriage cross the bridge… Not yet… Now!”

  A bowstring clanged and a bolt hissed. The horse under one of the lancers reared up, neighing piercingly, and fell down, knocking over one of the bowmen.

  “Now!” roared Buko, spurring his horse. “At them! Attack!”

  Reynevan struck his horse with his heels and galloped out of the juniper bushes. Scharley rushed out after him.

  A seething mass formed in front of the bridge as the battle raged. Rymbaba and Wittram had struck the rearguard of the train from the right, and Weyrach and Woldan of Osiny from the left. The forest was filled with yelling, the squealing of horses, clanking, rattling and the thudding of iron on iron.

  Buko of Krossig felled a servant carrying a lance and his horse with a blow of his battleaxe, and with a reverse swing carved open the head of a crossbowman trying to tighten his bow. Reynevan was spattered with blood and brain as he raced past. Buko twisted around in the saddle, stood up in the stirrups, smote powerfully, and his battleaxe cleaved open the spaulder of a knight with the step of the Kauffungs on his shield and almost cut off his arm. Tassilo of Tresckow flashed by at full gallop, knocking a page in a brigantine off his horse with a broad flourish of his sword. His way was blocked by an armoured man in a blue and white doublet, and they clashed with a clank of steel.

  Reynevan had reached the carriage. The driver looked on in disbelief at the crossbow bolt sticking up to its fletching in his groin. Scharley leaped forward from the other side, knocking him off the box seat with a vigorous shove.

  “Jump on,” he yelled. “And whip up the horses!”

  “Look out!”

  Scharley ducked under his horse’s neck. Had he delayed by a second, he would have been spitted on the lance held by a knight in full armour, with a black and gold chequerboard on his shield, charging from the bridge. The knight rammed Scharley’s horse, dropped his lance and seized a mace hanging from a sling, but wasn’t quick enough to smite the penitent on the crown. Notker of Weyrach came racing up at a gallop and slammed him over the sallet with his morning star with a great clang. As the knight swayed in the saddle, Weyrach took another swing and struck him again, this time in the middle of his cuirass, so hard that the spikes of the iron ball embedded in the metal, stuck fast. Weyrach released the handle and drew his sword.

  “Whip them up!” he roared at Reynevan, who meanwhile had clambered onto the box. “Ride on! Ride on!”

  From the bridge, a wild squeal sounded as a stallion in a colourful caparison shattered the railing, tumbling into the ravine with its rider. Reynevan yelled at the top of his voice and lashed the horses with the reins. The cobs leaped forward, the strongbox swayed and bounced, and to Reynevan’s great astonishment, a horrifying scream came from inside, behind a tightly sealed covering. There was no time for surprise, though. The horses galloped on and he had to struggle not to fall from the plank jumping about under his backside.

  A heavily armed man without a helmet sprang out at a gallop from the right and tried to grab the horses by the harness. Tassilo of Tresckow caught up with him and smote him with his sword. Blood splashed onto the cob’s flank.

  “Riiiiide!”

  Samson appeared from the left, armed only with a hazel withy, a weapon, as it turned out, entirely sufficient for the situation.

  The cobs, lashed across the rumps, set off at such a gallop that Reynevan was literally pressed against the backrest of the box seat. Still squeaking, the strongbox jumped and rocked like a boat on a rough sea. Reynevan, to tell the truth, had never been on the sea and had only seen a boat in paintings, but had no doubt that they must rock just like that.

  “Riiiiide!”

  Huon of Sagar appeared on the road on a dancing black horse, pointed towards a track with his staff and galloped down it himself. Samson dashed after him, pulling Reynevan’s horse behind him. Reynevan tugged on the reins and yelled at the pair.

  The track was rutted. The strongbox bounced, rocked and squealed. The sounds of the battle faded behind him.

  “It went quite well,” judged Buko of Krossig. “Only two pages dead. Quite satisfactory. So far.”

  Notker of Weyrach didn’t reply, just panted heavily, massaging a hip. Blood was dripping from his codpiece and a thin trickle crept down his cuisse. Tassilo of Tresckow was panting beside him, examining his left arm. His vambrace was missing and his couter was hanging, half torn-off and attached by one flange, but his arm looked intact.

  “And m’Lord Hagenau,” continued Buko, who looked unscathed, “M’Lord Hagenau drove the wagon beautifully. He acquitted himself splendidly… Oh, Hubert, are you in one piece? Ha, I see you’re alive. Where are Woldan, Rymbaba and Wittram?”

  “They’re coming now.”

  Kuno of Wittram removed his helmet and skullcap; his hair beneath it was curly and wet. The cut metal edges of the spaulder were sticking upright and the besague was completely bent.

  “Help,” he called, gulping air like a fish. “Woldan is wounded…”

  They dragged the wounded man from the saddle with difficulty, then pulled the severely dented, twisted and detached hounskull off his head.

  “Christ…” groaned Woldan. “I took a nasty whack… Kuno, have a look, is my eye gone?”

  “No, no,” Wittram reassured him. “You can’t see because you’re blinded by the blood…”

  Reynevan knelt down and immediately began to dress the wounds. Somebody was assisting him. He raised his head and met Huon of Sagar’s grey eyes.

  Rymbaba, standing beside him, grimaced in pain, rubbing a large dent on the side of his breastplate.

  “My rib’s broken, sure as anything,” he grunted. “I’m fucking spitting blood, look.”

  “Who gives a fucking shit what you’re spitting,” said Buko of Krossig as he removed the armet from his head. “Are they following us?”

  “No… We’ve knocked them about a bit…”

  “They’ll soon be after us,” Buko said with conviction. “Come on, we’ll empty the carriage. Let’s take the money and get out of here.”

  He went over to the vehicle and tugged at the wicker door trimmed with cloth. The door yielded, but only an inch, then closed again. It was apparent that somebody was holding it from the inside. Buko swore and tugged harder, eliciting a squeal from within.

  “What’s this?” said Rymbaba in amazement, grimacing. “Squeaking money? Perhaps the tax collector accepted payment in mice?”

  Buko gestured to him for help. The two of them tugged at the door with such force that it was torn right off, and along with it, the Raubritters pulled out the person holding it.

  Reynevan gasped. And froze open-mouthed.

  Because this time he had not the slightest doubt as to the person’s identity.

  Meanwhile, Buko and Rymbaba used knives to cut open the curtain and dragged a second girl from the fur-lined interior of the strongbox. Like the first, she was fair-haired, similarly dishevelled, dressed in a similar green cotehardie with white sleeves, perhaps just a little younger, shorter and plumper. It was the second, plumper one who was prone to squeal, and additionally began to sob when she was shoved onto the grass by Buko. The first one sat in silence, still gripping the carriage door and shielding herself with it as though it were a pavise.

  “By the staff of Saint Dalmatius…” gasped Kuno of Wittram. “What can this be?”

  “Not what we wanted,” Tassilo stated to the point. “Master Scharley was ri
ght. We ought first to have made certain of its contents and then robbed it.”

  Buko of Krossig emerged from the strongbox. As he flung down some garments and effects he had removed from it, his face expressed only too clearly the results of the search. Anyone uncertain of what Buko had found was soon convinced by a volley of obscene oaths. The expected five hundred grzywna were not in the strongbox.

  The girls drew close and hugged one another in fear. The taller one pulled her cotehardie all the way down to her ankles, noticing that Notker of Weyrach was staring lustfully at her shapely calves. The shorter one was snivelling.

  Buko gnashed his teeth and gripped his knife hilt so tightly, his knuckles were white. His expression was furious, and he was certainly in two minds. Huon of Sagar noticed immediately.

  “Time to face the truth,” he snorted. “You’ve botched it, Buko. You all botched it. It’s clearly not your day. Thus I advise you to head home. Quickly. Before another opportunity to make fools of yourselves arises.”

  Buko swore, this time echoed by Weyrach, and Rymbaba, and Wittram, and even Woldan of Osiny through his dressing.

  “What about the wenches?” Buko spoke as though only then noticing them. “Do we slay them?”

  “Or lay them?” Weyrach smiled lecherously. “Master Huon is right to a degree that this day has indeed turned out lousy, so perhaps we could at least finish it on a pleasant note? We’ll take the wenches, find a soft hayrick and take turns. What say you?”

  Rymbaba and Wittram chuckled, but rather hesitantly. Woldan of Osiny groaned through the blood-soaked linen. Huon of Sagar shook his head.

  Buko took a step towards the girls, who cowered and hugged each other more tightly. The younger of them sobbed.

  Reynevan seized Samson, who was already gearing up to intervene, by the sleeve.

  “Don’t you dare,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you dare touch her. Because the results might be disastrous for you. She’s a noblewoman and not just any noblewoman at that—she’s Katarzyna of Biberstein, the daughter of Jan of Biberstein, the Lord of Stolz.”

  “Are you certain, Hagenau?” asked Buko of Krossig, interrupting the long and pregnant silence that followed his announcement. “Perhaps you are mistaken?”