They did so and made pallets for themselves out of straw at the foot of the pillar with the Greek letter scratched on it. They had barely completed the task when Brother Tranquillus appeared, this time in the company of several other monks in habits with a double cross. The guardians of Christ’s tomb had brought a steaming cauldron, but only allowed the patients of the tower to approach it with their bowls after a choral rendition of the Pater noster, Ave, Credo, Confiteor and Miserere. Reynevan still hadn’t grasped that this was the beginning of a ritual he would be observing for a long time. A very long time.

“The Tower of Fools,” he said, looking vacantly at the stuck-on remains of millet at the bottom of his bowl. “In Frankenstein?”

“That is correct,” confirmed Scharley, picking his teeth with a straw. “The tower is part of the Hospice of Saint George, run by the canons of the Holy Sepulchre from Nysa. Outside the town walls, by the Kłodzko Gate.”

“I know. I walked beside it. Yesterday. I think it was yesterday… How did we end up here? Why do they take us for mentally ill?”

“Somebody must have analysed our recent antics.” The penitent snorted with laughter. “No, my dear Cyprian, I was joking, we aren’t so fortunate. It isn’t just the Tower of Fools, it’s also—temporarily—an Inquisition prison because the local Dominican gaol is being rebuilt. Frankenstein has two town prisons, one in the town hall and the other by the Crooked Tower, but they’re always overcrowded. Which is why people arrested on the orders of the Holy Office are put here, in the Narrenturm.”

“That Tranquillus,” Reynevan went on, “treats us as though we’re insane.”

“Professional bias.”

“What about Samson?”

“What, what?” Scharley snorted. “They looked at his face and let him go. Ironic, eh? They let him go, taking him for an idiot, and banged us up with the nutters. To be honest, I don’t bear a grudge, I only blame myself. They wanted you, Cyprian, and no one else. The significavit only mentioned you. They locked me up because I resisted, broke a few noses, and a few kicks also found their targets. Had I kept calm, like Samson… Just between us,” he finished after a moment of silence, “I’m pinning all my hopes on him, trusting he’ll think of something and get us out. And fast. Otherwise… Otherwise, we might have problems.”

“With the Inquisition? But what will they accuse us of?”

“The problem isn’t what they accuse us of.” Scharley’s voice was extremely gloomy. “The problem is what we confess to.”