The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “She’s quite unlike a Biberstein,” she declared, eyeing the girl appraisingly. “Quite unlike. Skinny waist, small behind. Since the Bibersteins married into the Pogarells, their daughters have been bigger-arsed. They also inherited snub noses from the Pogarells, and this one has a straight nose. She’s tall, indeed, like Sędkowice women, and Sędkowice blood is also intermingled with the Bibersteins’. But Sędkowice women have dark eyes while hers are blue…”

  Nicolette’s lips began to tremble. Reynevan clenched his fists and teeth.

  “The Devil take it!” Buko tossed a gnawed rib onto the table. “What is she, a mare at a horse fair?”

  “Quiet! I’m only looking, and if I find anything surprising, I comment. For example, she’s not so young, must be approaching eighteen. Why then, I wonder, isn’t she yet married? Flawed, perhaps?”

  “What do I care for her flaws? Am I considering marriage with her?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” Huon of Sagar looked up from his goblet. “Marry her, Buko. Raptus puellae is a much less serious crime than kidnapping for ransom. Perhaps the Lord of Stolz will forgive you if you bow before him with her as your wedded wife. He couldn’t very well break his son-in-law on the wheel.”

  “Well, son?” Formosa smiled haggishly. “What do you think?”

  Buko looked first at her, then at the wizard, and his eyes were cold and evil. He said nothing and played with his goblet for a long time. The cup’s distinctive shape betrayed its origin; the scenes from the life of Saint Adalbert engraved on the rim left no doubt. It was a chalice, probably stolen during the famous Whitsuntide raid on the custodian of the Głogów Collegiate.

  “To that, m’Lord Sagar,” the Raubritter finally drawled, “I’d gladly say: wed her yourself. But you may not, for you are a priest. Unless the Devil you serve has freed you of celibacy.”

  “I could marry her,” Paszko Rymbaba, face flushed with wine, suddenly announced. “I am fond of her.”

  Tassilo and Wittram snorted and Woldan chortled. Notker of Weyrach looked on seriously, though his tone belied his expression.

  “Absolutely,” he mocked. “Wed her, Paszko. A connection with the Bibersteins is favourable.”

  “Damn you,” burped Paszko. “Am I their inferior? An impoverished nobleman? A skartabellat? Rymbaba sum! I’m a son and grandson of the Pakosławs. When we were lords in Greater Poland and Silesia, the Bibersteins were still in Lusatia, squatting with beavers in the mud, chewing bark from the trees and unable to utter a word in a human tongue. I’m wedding her and that’s that—what is there to lose? All that’s left is to send someone to my father. I cannot proceed without a paternal blessing…”

  “There’ll even be somebody to marry you,” Weyrach continued to mock. “We hear that m’Lord Sagar is a priest. He could marry you right now. Couldn’t he?”

  The wizard didn’t even look at him, appearing only to be interested in the Westphalian black pudding.

  “It would be the done thing to ask the interested party,” he finally said, “Matrimonium inter invitos non contrahitur—marriage requires the agreement of both of the betrotheds.”

  “The interested party,” snorted Weyrach, “is silent, and qui tacet, consentit—silence gives consent. And we may ask the other parties, why not. I say, Tassilo? Do you wish to get hitched? Or perhaps you, Kuno? Woldan? And you, m’Lord Scharley, why so silent? One in, all in! Who else has the will to become, excuse the expression, a nupturient?”

  “Perhaps you yourself?” Formosa of Krossig tilted her head. “What? Sir Notker? For it’s high time, I gather. Don’t you want her for your wife? Doesn’t she please you?”

  “She does, to be sure.” The Raubritter smiled lecherously. “But marriage is the tomb of love, for which reason I opt that we simply fuck her in turn.”

  “It is time, I see,” said Formosa, standing up, “for the ladies to leave the table in order not to hinder the gentlemen in their jokes and japes. Come, wench, you have no business here, either.”

  Nicolette stood up meekly and walked away dragging her feet, stooping, head lowered, lips trembling and eyes shining with tears.

  It was all a pretence, thought Reynevan, clenching his fists beneath the table. All her daring, all her spirit, all her resolution was just deceit. How weak, frail, forlorn is the fair sex, how reliant on us men they are. How absolutely dependent on us.

  “Huon,” Formosa called back from the door. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

  “I’m coming now.” The wizard stood up. “I’m too exhausted by the idiotic chase through the forests to listen any longer to idiotic conversations. I wish the company a peaceful night.”

  Buko of Krossig spat on the floor.

  The departure of the sorcerer and the womenfolk was the sign for even more raucous merriment and heavy drinking. The comitiva roared for more wine and the wenches bringing the drinks suffered the routine pats, gropes, pinches and pokes and ran back to the kitchen flushed and sobbing.

  “Let’s wash down the food!”

  “May we prosper!”

  “Good health!”

  “Cheers!”

  Paszko Rymbaba and Kuno of Wittram, arms around each other’s shoulders, began to sing. Weyrach and Tassilo of Tresckow joined in.

  Meum est propositum in taberna mori,

  ut sint vina proxima morientis ori;

  Tunc cantabunt letius angelorum chori:

  Sit Deus propitius huic potatori!

  Buko of Krossig was hideously drunk. With each glass he became—paradoxically—increasingly sober, from one toast to the next progressively gloomy, grim and pale. He sat glumly, clutching the chalice, keeping a close watch on Scharley through narrowed eyes.

  Kuno of Wittram beat a rhythm on the table with his mug and Notker of Weyrach did likewise with the hilt of his misericord. Woldan of Osiny was rocking his bandaged head, mumbling incoherently. Rymbaba and Tresckow were roaring.

  Bibit hera, bibit herus,

  bibit miles, bibit clerus,

  bibit ille, bibit illa,

  bibit servus cum ancilla,

  bibit velox, bibit piger,

  bibit albus, bibit niger…

  “Hoc! Hoc!”

  “Buko, my brother!” Paszko staggered and fell on Buko’s neck, wetting him with his whiskers. “Good health! Let’s make merry! Why, it’s my damn betrothal to Lady Biberstein. I’m fond of her! Soon, by my troth, I’ll invite you to the wedding and then the christening, and then we’ll make merry!”

  Hey, long live my dear pole

  That fits just right in the hole…

  “Be vigilant,” Scharley hissed at Reynevan, exploiting the opportunity to the full. “I think we should soon make ourselves scarce.”

  “I know,” Reynevan whispered back. “If anything happens, flee with Samson. Don’t wait for me… I must get the girl. And go to the tower…”

  Buko shoved Rymbaba away, but Paszko went on.

  “Don’t worry, Buko! Why, Lady Formosa was right, you fucked up, kidnapping Biberstein’s daughter. But I’ve solved that problem. Now she’s my betrothed, soon my bride, it’s cut and dried! Ha, ha, why, I’m rhyming like a poet. Buko! Let’s drink! Let’s make merry, hurrah, hurrah! Hey, long live my dear pole…”

  Buko shoved him away again.

  “I know you,” he said to Scharley. “I thought so in Kromolin and now I’m certain of the place and the time. Although you were dressed in a Franciscan habit then, I know your face, and I recall where I saw you. In Wrocław town square, in the year 1418, on that memorable July Monday.”

  Scharley didn’t reply but looked boldly straight into the Raubritter’s narrowed eyes. Buko turned the chalice over in his hands.

  “And you,” he shifted his angry eyes towards Reynevan, “Hagenau, or whatever you’re truly called, the Devil knows who you are, perhaps a monk or a priest’s bastard, perhaps Sir Jan of Biberstein also put you in the tower at Stolz for rebellion and sedition. I was suspicious of you as we rode. I saw the way
you stared at the wench and thought you were looking for an opportunity to avenge yourself on Biberstein by stabbing his daughter. What with your revenge and my five hundred grzywna, I’ve had my eye on you. Before you drew your blade, your head would have left your shoulders.

  “And now,” the Raubritter drawled, “I look at your face and wonder whether I’m mistaken. Perhaps you weren’t lying in wait for her, perhaps it was affection? Perhaps you want to rescue her, steal her from under my nose. So I ponder and the fury grows in me, wondering what kind of fool you take me for. My hand is itching to slit your throat, but I’m restraining myself. For the moment.”

  “Perhaps,” Scharley’s voice was absolutely calm, “perhaps we could call it a night? The day was full of wearying attractions, we’re all feeling it in our bones—why, just look, Sir Woldan has fallen asleep with his face in the sauce. I suggest we postpone further discussions ad cras.”

  “Nothing will be postponed ad cras,” snapped Buko. “I shall declare the banquet over in good time. Now drink, monk’s son, bastard, when they fill your cup. And you, too, Hagenau. How do you know it’s not your last drink? It’s a long and perilous road to Hungary. Who knows if you’ll get there? After all, as they say: a fellow doesn’t know in the morning what the evening will bring.”

  “Especially,” Notker of Weyrach added scathingly, “considering that Lord Biberstein will have sent riders out. He must be simply furious at his daughter’s kidnappers.”

  “Didn’t you mark what I said?” belched Paszko Rymbaba.

  “Biberstein is a trifle. When I’m marrying his daughter. When—”

  “Be quiet,” Weyrach interrupted him. “You’re drunk. Buko and I have found a better solution to the matter, a simpler method for dealing with Biberstein. So keep your absolutely redundant notions of marriage to yourself.”

  “But I’m fond of her… The betrothal… And the bedding ceremony… Hey, long live my dear—”

  “Shut your trap,” Weyrach said.

  Scharley tore his gaze away from Buko and looked at Tresckow.

  “Do you, Sir Tassilo,” he calmly asked, “approve of your companions’ plan? Do you also consider it excellent?”

  “I do,” replied Tresckow after a moment of silence. “However much I regret it. But that’s life. It’s your bad luck that you complete the puzzle so well—”

  “Very well, in fact.” Buko of Krossig interrupted him mid-sentence. “Couldn’t be better. The easiest to recognise among those who took part in the robbery are the ones without visors. Master Scharley. Lord Hagenau, who so dashingly drove the stolen carriage. And your giant servant isn’t especially forgettable, either. They’ll recognise those visages even on corpses. And they’ll be identified, incidentally, as corpses. It will be revealed who robbed the train. Who kidnapped Biberstein’s daughter—”

  “And who murdered her?” Scharley finished calmly.

  “And raped her.” Weyrach smiled lecherously. “Let’s not forget about the rape.”

  Reynevan sprang up from the bench but immediately sat down again, pinned by Tresckow’s powerful arm. At the same moment, Kuno of Wittram seized Scharley by the shoulders and Buko pressed a misericord to the penitent’s throat.

  “Is this fitting?” mumbled Rymbaba. “They came to our rescue—”

  “We must,” Weyrach cut him off. “Pick up your sword.”

  A trickle of blood oozed down the penitent’s neck from under the dagger’s blade. In spite of that, Scharley’s voice was calm.

  “Your plan won’t succeed. No one will believe you.”

  “Oh, but they will,” Weyrach assured him. “You’d be surprised what people believe.”

  “You won’t lead Biberstein up the garden path. Your heads will roll.”

  “Why threaten me, monk’s son?” Buko leaned over Scharley. “When you won’t live to see the dawn? You say Biberstein won’t believe it? Perhaps. Will my head roll? God’s will. But I shall still cut your throats. If only for gaudium, as that whoreson Sagar would say. I’ll finish you off now, Hagenau, if only to annoy Sagar, because you are a comrade, another sorcerer. But you, Scharley, let’s call it a settling of debts. Historical debts. For Wrocław, for 1418. The executioner beheaded the rebellion’s other ringleaders in Wrocław town square; you’ll meet your maker at Bodak, you bastard.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me a bastard, Buko.”

  “I shall do it a third. Bastard! What will you do about it?”

  Scharley didn’t manage to answer. The door crashed open and Hubert entered. To be more precise, Samson Honey-Eater entered. Using Hubert to open the door.

  In the complete silence that followed, broken only by the hooting of a tawny owl flying around the tower, Samson lifted the squire higher by his collar and trousers and threw him down at Buko’s feet. Hubert groaned loudly as he hit the floor.

  “This individual,” said Samson in the silence, “tried to strangle me with some reins in the stable. He claims it was on your orders, Lord Krossig. Can you explain that, m’lord?”

  Buko couldn’t.

  “Kill him!” he yelled. “Kill the harlot’s son! Have at him!”

  Scharley freed himself from Wittram’s grasp with a sinuous movement and elbowed Tresckow in the throat. Tassilo wheezed and released Reynevan, who punched Rymbaba with clinical precision in his bruised side, right where it hurt. Paszko howled and doubled up. Scharley jumped at Buko and kicked him hard in the shin. Buko fell to his knees. Reynevan didn’t see what happened next as Tassilo of Tresckow punched him powerfully in the nape of the neck and threw him onto the table. But he guessed, hearing the sound of a blow, the crunch of a nose breaking and a furious roar.

  “Don’t ever call me a bastard again, Krossig,” rang the penitent’s clear voice.

  As Tresckow grappled with Scharley, Reynevan tried to come to his aid but was unable to—Rymbaba, face twisted in pain, had grabbed him from behind and bent him over. As Weyrach and Kuno of Wittram fell on Samson, the giant seized a bench, pushed it into Weyrach’s chest, shoved Kuno, then knocked them both over and pinned them down. Seeing Reynevan struggling and kicking in Rymbaba’s bear hug, Samson dashed over and slapped Rymbaba in the ear with his open palm. Paszko scuttled sideways the length of the hall and slammed head first into the fireplace. Reynevan seized a tin vat from the table and clanged it down on Notker of Weyrach, who was trying to stand up.

  “The girl, Reynevan!” yelled Scharley. “Run!”

  Buko of Krossig sprang up from the floor, roaring, with blood streaming from his smashed nose. He tore a bear spear from the wall, wound up and threw it at Scharley. The penitent nimbly dodged and the spear merely grazed his arm. And skewered Woldan of Osiny, who had just woken up and was rising from the table, completely disorientated. Woldan flew backwards, slammed against the Flemish tapestry and slid down it, his head lolling on the shaft protruding from his chest.

  Buko bellowed even louder and lunged at Scharley with his bare hands, fingers splayed like a sparrowhawk’s talons. Scharley warded him off with one outstretched hand and punched him in his broken nose with the other. Buko howled and fell to his knees.

  Tresckow pounced on Scharley, Kuno of Wittram on Tresckow, Samson on Wittram, followed by Weyrach, Buko—streaming blood—and finally Hubert. They all struggled on the floor like a tableau of Laocoön and his sons. Reynevan saw none of that. He was racing up the steep steps of the tower.

  He came upon her outside a low door, in a place lit by a torch in an iron basket. She didn’t look at all surprised. It was as though she’d been waiting for him.

  “Nicolette…”

  “Aucassin.”

  “I am come—”

  He didn’t manage to say why he was come for a powerful blow knocked him to the ground. He lifted himself up onto his elbows, was hit again and fell.

  “I treat you with kindness,” panted Paszko Rymbaba, standing astride him. “I treat you with kindness and you thump me in the ribs? In my broken ribs? You bastard
!”

  “Hey, you! Big fellow!”

  Paszko turned around. And smiled in delight to see Katarzyna of Biberstein, the maiden he was fond of, to whom, he thought, he was already betrothed and with whom in his dreams he could already see himself coupled in the marriage bed. His dreams were a little premature, as it turned out.

  His would-be fiancée jabbed him in the eye with the heel of her hand. As Paszko grabbed his face, the girl hoisted up her cotehardie for greater ease of movement and kicked him hard in the crotch. Her would-be fiancé curled up, breathed in with a whistle, then howled like a wolf and dropped to his knees, cupping the family jewels in both hands. Nicolette lifted her gown even higher, revealing a pair of shapely thighs, leaped up to kick him in the side of the head, then spun around and kicked him in the chest. Paszko Pakosławic Rymbaba pitched over onto the spiral staircase and tumbled down, head over heels.

  Reynevan raised himself up to his knees. She stood over him, composed, not even breathing hard, breast barely heaving, with only her eyes, blazing like a leopard’s, betraying any excitement. She was pretending, he thought, only pretending to be afraid and intimidated. She hoodwinked everyone, myself included.

  “What now, Aucassin?”

  “Upstairs. Quickly, Nicolette.”

  She ran, bounding up the stairs like a mountain goat. He could barely keep up with her. I’ll have to make a thorough appraisal of my views regarding the weakness of the fair sex, he thought.

  Paszko Rymbaba tumbled all the way down to the bottom of the stairs and into the centre of the hall, almost under the table. He lay for a while, gasping for air like a carp in a net, then grunted, groaned and rocked his head back and forth, still holding his genitalia. Then he sat up.

  There was no one in the hall, not counting Woldan’s body with the bear spear plunged into his chest and Hubert, grimacing in pain, cradling one arm—clearly fractured—to his belly. The squire met Rymbaba’s eyes and nodded towards the door leading to the courtyard. Needlessly, because Paszko had already heard the noise, shouts and regular thudding coming from that direction.