The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “He is not.” Tassilo of Tresckow lifted up and displayed a pouch with an embroidered coat of arms showing a red deer’s antler on a field of gold he had taken from the strongbox.

  “Indeed,” admitted Buko. “The Bibersteins’ arms. Which one is she?”

  “The taller, older one.”

  “Ha!” The Raubritter clutched his sides. “Then we shall finish the day on a pleasant note indeed and make up for our losses. Hubert, tie her up and put her in front of you on your horse.”

  “I predicted it,” Huon of Sagar said, spreading his arms. “This day has given you a fresh chance to make fools of yourselves. Not for the first time do I wonder, Buko, whether you inherited your stupidity or acquired it.”

  “And you,” said Buko, ignoring the sorcerer, stood over the younger one, who was cringing and had begun to snivel. “You, lassie, wipe your nose and listen carefully. Sit here and wait for the pursuers. They might not have sent anyone after you, but they’ll certainly come after Lady Biberstein. You’ll tell the Lord of Stolz that the ransom for his young daughter will be… five hundred grzywna, or precisely five hundred times three score Prague groschen: a trifle for Biberstein. Sir Jan will be notified of the means of payment. Do you understand? Look at me when I’m talking to you! Do you understand?”

  The lass cringed even more but lifted her blue eyes towards Buko and nodded.

  “Do you really consider this a good idea?” Tassilo of Tresckow asked seriously.

  “Indeed. And that will suffice. We ride.”

  Buko turned to face Scharley, Reynevan and Samson.

  “You, however—”

  “We,” Reynevan interrupted, “would like to ride with you, m’Lord Buko.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We would like to accompany you,” Reynevan, staring at Fair Nicolette, was paying no heed to Scharley’s hissing or Samson’s face. “For safety. If you have nothing against it—”

  “Who said I don’t?” asked Buko.

  “Well, don’t,” said Notker of Weyrach pointedly. “Why should you? Wouldn’t it be better, given the circumstances, for them to be with us rather than behind us? They wanted, if I recall, to go to Hungary, so it’s on their way…”

  “Very well.” Buko nodded. “You will ride with us. To horse, comitiva. Hubert, guard the girl… And you, m’Lord Huon, why are you pulling a face?”

  “Think, Buko. Think.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In which Reynevan, instead of going to Hungary, goes to Castle Bodak in the Golden Mountains. He doesn’t know it, but he will only manage to leave there in omnem ventum.

  They travelled along the road to Bardo, quickly at first, often looking back, but soon slowed. The horses were weary and the state of the riders was far from good. Woldan of Osiny, face badly cut by the dented helmet, wasn’t the only man riding hunched over in the saddle, groaning. The others’ injuries, although not as spectacular, were clearly making themselves felt. Notker of Weyrach was grunting and Tassilo of Tresckow was holding his elbow against his belly, trying to find a comfortable position. Kuno of Wittram, grimacing as though he’d drunk Marseilles vinegar, was calling on the saints in hushed tones. Paszko Rymbaba was feeling his side, cursing, spitting on his hand and looking at the saliva.

  Of the Raubritters, only Buko appeared unharmed, or hadn’t been beaten up as severely as the others, or withstood pain better. Finally, growing bored of having to stop and wait for his comrades lagging behind, Buko decided to abandon the road and ride through the woods instead. Hidden among the trees they could ride slowly, with no risk that a search party would catch them up.

  Katarzyna of Biberstein—formerly Nicolette—did not make the slightest sound during the ride. Although her bound hands and position on Hubert’s saddle must have tormented and distressed her, the girl wasn’t moaning or uttering a word of complaint. She looked ahead apathetically, clearly resigned to her fate. Reynevan made several secretive attempts to communicate, but to no avail—she avoided eye contact and pretended not to notice his gestures. At least up until the crossing.

  They crossed the Nysa in the afternoon at a place that appeared shallow, but where the current was much more powerful than expected. Among the confusion, splashing, swearing and neighing of horses, Nicolette slid from the saddle and would have gone in were it not for Reynevan riding vigilantly beside her.

  “Be brave,” he whispered into her ear, lifting her up and hugging her to himself. “Be brave, Nicolette. I’ll get you out of this…”

  He found her small, slender hand and squeezed it. She reciprocated strongly. She smelled of mint and sweet flag.

  “Hey!” yelled Buko. “You! Hagenau! Leave her alone. Hubert!”

  Samson rode over to Reynevan, took Nicolette from him, picked her up like a feather and placed her in front of Hubert.

  “I’m not carrying her again, m’lord!” Hubert informed Buko. “The giant can take over.”

  Buko swore, but waved a resigned hand. Reynevan watched him with growing hatred. He didn’t particularly believe in the man-eating aquatic monsters meant to live in the depths of the Nysa in the region of Bardo, but he would have given much for one of those monsters to emerge from the turbid river and devour the Raubritter and his blood-bay stallion.

  “I have to honour you in one respect,” said Scharley, splashing beside him, in hushed tones. “One could never grow bored in your company.”

  “Scharley… I owe you…”

  “You owe me a great deal, I don’t deny it,” said the penitent, tugging at his reins. “But if you mean to offer an explanation, drop it. I recognised her. You were gawping at her during the tournament in Ziębice, and later she warned us that they would be lying in wait for you at Stolz. I imagine you are indebted to her in other ways, too. Did anyone ever prophesy that women would be the end of you? Or am I the first?”

  “Scharley—”

  “Don’t bother,” interrupted the penitent. “I understand. You are indebted and infatuated, ergo we’ll have to stick our necks out once again, and Hungary’s a long way off. Too bad. I’d just ask you to do one thing: think before you act. Can you promise me that?”

  “Scharley… I—”

  “Beware, quiet. They’re watching us. And spur your horse on or the current will take you!”

  Towards the evening, they reached the foot of Reichenstein in the Golden Mountains, the north-west end of the border chain of Rychleby and Jeseníky. They planned to rest and refresh themselves in a settlement lying by the small River Bystra that flowed down from the mountains, but the peasants there proved to be inhospitable—by not allowing the Raubritters to steal from them. Arrows showered at the Raubritters from the palisade defending the entrance, and the determined faces of free peasants armed with pitchforks and bardiches, didn’t invite them to demand hospitality from them. Who knows what would have happened in an ordinary situation, but now the injuries and fatigue were making themselves felt. Tassilo of Tresckow was the first to rein his horse around, followed by the usually quick-tempered Rymbaba, and Notker of Weyrach turned back without even tossing a coarse oath at the village.

  “Damned churls,” Buko of Krossig said, catching them up. “One ought, as my father did, to demolish their shacks and burn everything down to the ground at least once every five years. Otherwise they put on airs. Prosperity makes them conceited. And proud.”

  It had become overcast. Smoke drifted over from the village. Dogs barked.

  “The Black Forest’s ahead of us,” Buko warned from the head of the line. “Stay close together! Don’t fall behind. Keep watch on the horses.”

  The warning was treated seriously, because the Black Forest—a dense, wet complex of beeches, yews, alders and hornbeams—looked very grim. So grim it sent shivers down their spines. They felt at once an evil, slumbering somewhere in the thicket.

  The horses snorted and tossed their heads.

  And a bleached skeleton lying just at the side of the road didn’t look at all
out of place.

  Samson muttered softly.

  Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

  mi ritrovai per una selva oscura

  ché la diritta via era smarrita…

  “I can’t get it out of my head, that Dante,” he explained, seeing Reynevan’s look.

  “It’s extremely apt,” said Scharley with a shudder. “A lovely wood, goes without saying… To ride here alone… After dark…”

  “I advise against it,” said Huon of Sagar, riding over. “I strongly advise against it.”

  They rode up an ever-steeper hillside. The Black Forest ended, the beechwoods thinned out, limestone and gneiss grated under hooves, basalt clattered. Rocks with fantastic shapes grew out of the sides of the ravines. As dusk fell, it quickly grew dark as black clouds approached from the north in wave after wave.

  Hubert took Nicolette from Samson on Buko’s firm order. Furthermore, Buko, previously having ridden at the head, handed over the lead to Weyrach and Tresckow and remained close to the squire and the captive.

  “Dammit…” muttered Reynevan to Scharley, who was riding alongside. “I have to free her, but suspicions have clearly grown in his mind. He’s guarding her and watching us the whole time… Why?”

  “Perhaps,” Scharley replied quietly, and Reynevan realised in horror that it wasn’t Scharley at all, “perhaps he looked into your face? Which is a mirror of both your feelings and your plans.”

  Reynevan swore under his breath. It was already quite dark, but it wasn’t just the dusk that was to blame for his mistake. The white-haired mage had evidently used magic.

  “Will you turn me in?” he asked point-blank.

  “I shall not,” the magician replied after a moment. “But should you try anything stupid, I’ll stop you myself. You know I’m capable. So don’t do anything stupid, and when we arrive, we shall see—”

  “Arrive where?”

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My turn to ask a question. Why, don’t you know the rules of the game? Didn’t you play it at university? Quaestiones de quodlibet? You asked first. Now it’s my turn. Who is the giant you call Samson?”

  “My companion and comrade. And anyway, why don’t you ask him yourself? Hidden behind a magical disguise, of course.”

  “I’ve tried,” admitted the sorcerer without embarrassment, “but he’s cunning. He saw through it at once. Where did you come by him?”

  “In a Benedictine monastery. But if it’s quodlibet, it’s my turn now. What is the celebrated Huon of Sagar doing in a comitiva with Buko of Krossig, a Silesian robber knight?”

  “Have you heard of me?”

  “Who hasn’t heard of Huon of Sagar? And of Matavermis, the powerful spell that saved the fields by the Weser from locusts in the summer of 1412.”

  “There weren’t so many locusts,” Huon replied modestly. “And regarding your question… Why, I provide myself with room and board and an existence at a decent level. With a certain amount of sacrifice, naturally.”

  “Often regarding matters of the conscience?”

  “Reinmar of Bielawa.” The sorcerer surprised Reynevan with his knowledge. “The questions game isn’t a debate about ethics. But I shall answer: often, indeed. The conscience, however, is like the body—it can be toughened up. And it cuts both ways. Does the answer satisfy you?”

  “So much so that I have no further questions.”

  “Then I win.” Huon of Sagar spurred on his black horse. “And regarding the maiden… Keep a cool head and don’t do anything foolish. As I said, we shall see when we arrive. And we have almost arrived. In front of us is the Abyss. Farewell, then, for I have work to do.”

  They had to stop. The road winding up the steep slope vanished in the rocky scree caused by the hillside subsiding and disappeared into the chasm. The chasm was full of grey fog which prevented them from guessing the actual depth. On the other side, lights flickered in the greyness, where vague shapes of buildings showed faintly.

  “Dismount,” commanded Buko. “Master Huon, if you would.”

  “Hold the horses,” the mage said, standing at the edge of the precipice and raising his crooked staff. “Firmly.”

  He brandished the staff and shouted a spell that again sounded Arabic to Reynevan’s ear, as it had in Ścibor’s Clearing, but much longer, more intricate and complicated—in its intonation, too. The horses snorted and stepped back, stamping hard.

  There was a frigid gust and abruptly, an icy chill fell over them. The cold stung their cheeks, creaked in their noses, made their eyes water and penetrated their throats when they breathed in. The temperature dropped so suddenly, it was as though they were inside a sphere that was sucking up all the cold from the world.

  “Hold… the horses…” Buko covered his face with a sleeve. Woldan of Osiny groaned, holding his bandaged head. Reynevan felt his fingers gripping the reins going numb.

  All the cold that the sorcerer had gathered from around him, which until then had only been palpable, suddenly became visible and took the form of a white glow billowing above the precipice. The glow first sparkled with snowflakes and then turned a blinding white. There was a long-drawn-out, intensifying crack, a crunching crescendo which reached its climax in a glassy chord as plaintive as a bell.

  “Well, I’ll be—” began Rymbaba. And didn’t finish his sentence.

  A bridge lay across the precipice. A bridge of ice, sparkling and twinkling like a diamond.

  “Onwards.” Huon of Sagar seized his horse tightly by the reins close to the bit. “Let us cross.”

  “Will it hold?” asked Notker. “It won’t break?”

  “In time.” The mage shrugged. “It’s a very impermanent thing. Every moment of delay increases the risk.”

  Notker of Weyrach asked no further questions and pulled his horse hurriedly after Huon. Kuno of Wittram stepped onto the bridge after him, then Rymbaba. Horseshoes jingled on the ice, echoing glassily.

  Seeing that Hubert couldn’t cope with both his horse and Katarzyna of Biberstein, Reynevan hurried to help, but was beaten to it by Samson, who picked up the young woman. Buko of Krossig kept close by, eyes attentive and hand on his sword hilt. He smells a rat, thought Reynevan. He suspects us.

  The bridge, radiating cold, rang beneath the blows of hooves. Nicolette glanced down and groaned softly. Reynevan also looked down and swallowed. The fog covering the bottom of the ravine and the tops of spruces protruding from it were visible through the ice crystal.

  “Swifter!” Huon of Sagar urged from the front, as though he knew what was about to happen.

  The bridge creaked and began to whiten in front of their very eyes, losing its transparency. Spidery cracks ran in many places.

  “Make haste, make bloody haste,” Tassilo of Tresckow, who was leading Woldan, urged Reynevan. The horses being led by Scharley at the rear of the column snorted. The animals were becoming increasingly skittish, shying and stamping. And with every stamp on the bridge, more cracks and fissures appeared. The construction creaked and groaned. The first chips broke off and plummeted downwards.

  Reynevan finally found the courage to look beneath his feet and with immense relief saw rocks and boulders through the icy block. He had reached the far side. They all had.

  The bridge cracked, creaked and emitted a glassy groan, then shattered with a boom and exploded into a million shining fragments, tumbling noiselessly into the foggy chasm. Reynevan gasped aloud in a chorus of other gasps.

  “ ’E always does that,” said Hubert in hushed tones. “Master Huon, I mean. He just says it. There was nothing to fear, the bridge holds, it always collapses once the last man’s over, never mind how many cross. Master Huon likes to frighten people.”

  Scharley summarised Huon and his sense of humour with a well-chosen word. Reynevan looked around and saw a wall topped by crenellations, a gate with a rectangular watchtower over it, and a tower rising above it all.

  “Bodak Castle
,” explained Hubert. “We’re ’ome.”

  “You have somewhat arduous access to your home,” observed Scharley. “What do you do when magic lets you down? Sleep out in the open?”

  “Not at all. There’s another road over there, from Kłodzko. But that way’s much longer; believe me, we’d have to ride until midnight that way…”

  While Scharley was talking to the squire, Reynevan was exchanging looks with Nicolette. The girl looked frightened, as though only now—on seeing the castle—did she understand the gravity of her situation. For the first time, Reynevan thought his glance brought her relief and solace. A glance that said: Don’t be afraid. And bear up. I’ll get you out of here, I swear.

  The gate grated as it opened into a small courtyard. Buko of Krossig immediately swore at several servants, accusing them of idling, and drove them to work, ordering them to take care of the horses, armour, bathhouse, food and drink. He expected everything right away, briskly, at the double.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” said the Raubritter, “to my patrimonium. To Castle Bodak.”

  Formosa of Krossig must have been a beautiful woman once, for like most comely women she had changed with age into a hideous old hag. Her figure, once compared no doubt to a young birch tree, now brought to mind an old broomstick. Her skin, probably once resembling a peach’s, was now dry and blotchy, stretched over her bones like leather on a shoemaker’s last, causing her rather prominent nose to become horribly haggish. In Silesia, women were drowned in rivers and ponds as witches for much shorter and much less hooked noses.

  Like most formerly beautiful women, Formosa of Krossig obstinately failed to notice or accept the fact that the springtime of her life was gone for ever, and that winter was coming. It was particularly noticeable in the way she dressed. Her entire costume, from the lurid pink slippers to the outlandish pillbox, the delicate white wimple, the muslin couvrechef, the clinging indigo dress, the pearl-encrusted girdle, the scarlet brocade surcote—everything would have been better suited to a younger woman.