“Your father doesn’t like you using such language?”
Jolanda snorted. “Goddamn poot can burn in hell, he tries to tell me how to talk. No, he’s sore for the obvious reason.”
“Which is…” Lijsbet’s hazel eyes were sparkling in the shadow of her wimple, little licks of auburn flame wantonly curling out to frame her face. Again, Jolanda found herself wondering just what was going on behind the girl’s pale, pretty face—was she merely angling for gossip, or after some bigger, more elusive catch?
“You ever meet the man likes to get called a poot? Or anything else but your strongly handsomeness?” Not a bad save—not the best, but not the worst, either. Sander might insist that nobody cared, that two men could even be married-like, down in France, but then Sander was a moron six days out of seven and Jolanda had overheard enough in her day to know that wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted getting out lest you have your head busted open. Even Sander, for all his noise about not giving a toss who knew what wax he liked dipping his wick in, kept things as close to quiet as he was capable, being a raving fool and all.
“Do you really have a sword?” Lijsbet asked. The girl seemed to possess the attention span of a spastic puppy. “What do you do with it?”
“Got a couple,” said Jolanda, happier to be on such topics. “My main one’s made of Spanish steel, long as my arm. Call it my Tongue, for a laugh, and ’cause it bothers Jan, my giving the weapons names. Says he’s the only… ah, never mind the why of it. The other sword, my Tooth, is dull on the sides and tip—use that for practice, since the weight is good. Fucks up my sparring mates something awful. Broke two arms and twice as many fingers with it, training.”
“No!” cried Lijsbet. “Whose arms? Whose fingers?”
“Jan’s arm the once, and all of the fingers on a couple of occasions. He’s the one who taught me to go for the hand holding the sword, you get the chance, but wasn’t too happy to find me a quick study!”
“Has he ever hurt you? Practicing?”
“Sure.” Jolanda held up her purple left hand, her right easily holding the basket with its light load of amylum and leeks. “See the white line there on the palm? And the way the pinky lists out halfway down? That was two different times. Got scars on my shoulders and arms, and you felt around in my hair you’d find all sorts of hills and valleys from that brute’s beatings. We’re out in the courtyard near everyday there’s not rain.”
“Whoa,” said Lijsbet, impressed. She stopped walking and Jolanda paused as well, and Lijsbet set down her basket to take her mistress’s hand and inspect the scars. “Didn’t know noblewomen did that. Any women, really.”
“Do anything I want,” said Jolanda, pulling her hand away and resuming her pace. It had gotten later than she’d thought, and lest Drimmelin need some of their shopping for that night’s supper they had best hurry. “Who’s going to make me spend all day weaving? Jan? I don’t think so.”
“I suppose not,” said Lijsbet, her laden basket held in both hands. “Seems to give you your own berth, does the graaf. Lucky. Most ladies like you’d either be married off by now, or have your mother—”
“That’s enough talk for now,” said Jolanda, hoping it came across as hard as she intended. The servant needed to learn to shut her goddamn mouth once in a while. They were being followed, Jolanda was sure of it, a man about a block behind them taking his sweet time going wherever he was going, which, ever since Grote Markt Square, seemed to be the same destination as theirs.
“Right, sorry,” muttered Lijsbet, casting her eyes down. Jolanda didn’t reply, moving even faster toward the Varkenmarkt—she might just be imagining that the creeper was actively following them, but the sooner she was done with the shopping and headed home, the sooner she would know for sure.
The chops were as pink as the sunset over the new harbor, with only a faint, algaelike patina on the ends of the bones. Lijsbet commented on this verdigris before a final price was set, and as a result they got off lightly with the lamb. As with any meat, its worth wouldn’t be known for several hours after it was eaten, but it certainly shone prettily enough in the fading light. Most of the carts were being wheeled away and the stalls taken down as they left the market, and Jolanda sighed. Whoever creeper had been shadowing them had evidently cleared off, Varkenmarktstraat empty in both directions, and now she had no more excitement to reflect on than a supper with Jan, Wurfbain, and their lawyer, Laurent. Ugh.
“I am sorry for talking too much,” said Lijsbet quietly. “I’m… well, I really like being in your house. I’m not used to that. Not used to really, I mean, really, liking the lady I work for. So I ran off at the gob. Won’t happen again.”
Jolanda sighed again. “We’ll see how much you like it in a few weeks. Jan’s awful, and, well, I’m not so good at this, either. Talking with people, I mean. Or anything, really, other than beating on him with a piece of metal every chance I get. Everything else… I dunno. But I want you to talk all you want, Lijsbet, so long as you don’t take it too sore whenever I tell you to shut it. Which I will. Sometimes I just like the quiet.”
“Yeah, of course, absolutely,” Lijsbet said enthusiastically. “And I think you’re wonderful at talking! Truly, never met a lady like you—you’re great!”
“Shit,” said Jolanda, smiling to see how similar their long shadows appeared on the lane before them. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” said Lijsbet. “And you’re better than the rest. Don’t have a stick up… well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you!”
“I guess not,” said Jolanda. “Here, let’s trade baskets, mine’s light as down.”
Lijsbet protested, but Jolanda soon wrested it from her. It was a fucking heavy thing. Small wonder the servant was lustrous with sweat despite the chill of the evening—Jolanda would have to make sure the girl didn’t overexert herself in her desire to impress.
“Can I ask you something, about the arms?” said Lijsbet as they turned on Voorstraat, and Jolanda felt a mug or two of her goodwill slosh out. Just like that, this slattern was going to ask about the purple? Too goddamn cheeky… “You said you broke two while practicing with your Tooth-sword, but then only mentioned the graaf—who was the other person you hurt?”
“What?” Jolanda said, though she knew what Lijsbet was talking about—it had simply caught her off-guard. “Oh, aye—it was Simon Gruyere.”
“Who’s he?” asked Lijsbet.
“A dashing youth of better looks than luck,” said a patch of shadow as it broke from an alley between the houses bordering the lane. The shadow wore a greasy-looking hooded cloak, which it pushed back to reveal a bad-toothed smile and a stubbly chin. Simon Gruyere wasn’t a bad-looking man, if you went in for the poncey sort. Jolanda didn’t. Not anymore, at least.
“Simon.” Jolanda nodded, stepping around the bowing man to continue homeward. “How’s the life of a son of Dordrecht?”
“Improved by your, uh,” Simon began walking backward to keep up with Jolanda, dropping painfully obvious glances at Lijsbet as he went. “Presence, Lady Jo, improved by your presence. Might I have the honor of escorting you home?”
“Nope,” said Jolanda. Simon fishing for an invitation inside was just what she needed, on top of Wurfbain and Laurent—how did every annoying acquaintance show up on the same day? Never rained a little in Dordt, that was a fact.
On the other hand, Wurfbain positively hated that Sander associated with the very noble whom he had disenfranchised by pretending to be Jan Tieselen, Laurent didn’t like being polite to those he’d legally mauled, and Lansloet clearly felt nervous having his former master visit his old house, even for a short duration… And besides all that, Simon wasn’t such a bad sort. Jolanda stopped short, and Simon almost slipped in a puddle as he paused his retreat. “Simon, were you at the market?”
“Which market, dear lady?” Simon batted his eyes at her. Was he drunk? Better than his simply being stupid, she supposed, but a combination of the two seem
ed most likely.
“This the letch was giving me the eye?” Jolanda asked Lijsbet, who was biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh and shaking her head. The girl couldn’t have the faintest idea why Simon was trying to toady himself, let alone so blatantly, but was delighting in it nevertheless. Jolanda held out her basket and said, “If you’re going to follow us about, at least offer to carry these before we’re within sight of the house. Lazy poot.”
“Madame,” Simon said, “I assure you I would never—”
“Take our baskets, Simon, and I’ll see that you’re fed.”
Simon displayed his jacked-up teeth and offered Jolanda a cocked-eyebrow expression that was likely meant to be enticing but instead came off as insane, like an otter trying to seduce an otterhound. Jolanda’s basket weighed down both of his arms, and he looked pleadingly between her and Lijsbet’s proffered load. Jolanda was merciless. A basket at the end of each taut arm, Simon stumbled up the street after the two young women.
“Lijsbet, that is Simon.” Jolanda made sure to enunciate clearly since he was behind her. “He used to live in our house.”
“Oh,” said Lijsbet. “Was he the old master’s dogsbody?”
Simon gave a stricken cry but did not otherwise interrupt. Jolanda decided that she really liked Lijsbet. Her good mood restored, she slowed her pace—partly out of pity for Simon, and partly to delay her return to the house where Wurfbain and Laurent waited.
“Nay,” said Jolanda. “Simon is my cousin. He stewarded our estate following the death of my great-uncle, the late Graaf Tieselen, until my father and I arrived to claim our birthright. Simon and his older brother were very reasonable about the handover, despite their somehow being unaware of our existence prior to our arrival—we had to find out about old uncle’s death years after it happened, and from a third party, since our dear blood relations were somehow entirely ignorant to us.”
“How wonderful you’re all reunited,” said Lijsbet, looking back to Simon. “You must have been chuffed to meet your cousins!”
“The emotion.” Simon gasped. “Cannot. Be described.”
“Now we let him live in one of our warehouses,” said Jolanda. “His brother was too proud to accept the invitation, but not our Simon. He earns his keep by scaring off the rats that swim over from that island of garbage just outside the walls, where the water’s going back down.”
“A ratman!” said Lijsbet. “I never would’ve guessed it!”
“The smell gives it away,” confided Jolanda. “You’ll notice a faint rodentlike aroma whenever Simon—”
“Enough!” cried he, and they turned to see him beet-faced and sweaty, the baskets set on the cobbles beside him. “Enough!”
“Enough what, Cousin?” Jolanda flicked her lashes at him in imitation of his own affectation.
“Enough…” Simon panted, and then the passion left him, his shoulders slumping. “Not enough, rather. Not enough time. Not enough time to join you for supper after all. I must away, and—”
“Nonsense,” said Jolanda, going to his side and picking up her basket in one hand. She hooked her free arm through Simon’s, and was pleased to see Lijsbet doing the same without being prompted. The three resumed the walk home, Simon now grinning to have a young woman on each elbow. God help the fellow, he really did smell like rats. “A lovely evening, is it not?”
“Lovely,” agreed Lijsbet.
“Most lovely, Cousin,” said Simon. “What are we having?”
“Sheep for the sheepheads, and—” Jolanda began, but whatever barb she was going to follow her opening with was lost as an unexpected wave of frigid air broke on her back, stirring her veil around her face and distracting her from idle taunts. Even as the breeze fell away, its chill soaked through her heavy gown like seawater, and she felt the deep, unmistakable sensation of being watched. Much as she wanted to stop and look behind her, she marched on, refusing to give in to the impulse. She wasn’t some desperate animal, to always be checking over her shoulder; she wasn’t Sander, for the sake of all the saints—she was the Lady Jolanda Tieselen returning home with her handmaid and her cousin, and so she walked on, head held high, and tried to ignore the shiver trickling down her spine.
II.
Hobbe had been sour as kitten piss soup about Simon Gruyere crashing their supper, but Sander was glad to have his warehouseman drop in, as it enabled him to schedule a matter of urgent business that was long overdue. Made the rest of the night tolerable, even with all the paper-signing and business-plotting that were endemic to Laurent’s visits. He was the lawyer, sure, so that was to be expected, but listening to Hobbe and Laurent blather on about whatever document they’d put in front of Sander to stamp and sign was the worst part of being a merchant—the best part of being one was what he’d had a word with Simon about, a very particular appointment out at the Tieselen warehouse…
“Got the bastard!” crowed Sander, triumphantly pumping his crossbow in the air. “Like eating crates, you cunny-licking vermin? How you like that bit of ash wood, asshole?! How! Do! You! Like! It?!”
“I would hazard,” said Simon with the air of a man not quite ready to commit himself to a popular opinion, “that he does not care for it. Just a thought.”
The rat writhed, as well it fucking might, but then, beyond all laws of man and God and rodent, somehow righted itself and began crawling through the mud, the sheaf of the quarrel protruding from its back. As the rat jerkily dragged itself along, the arrowhead emerging from its guts left a trench in the muck, the channel streaked with black blood.
This miraculous escape presented a serious problem, as all of that asshole’s rat friends would go into hiding if Sander charged across the mudflat to retrieve the wretched rodent. But then if he didn’t, the fucker would get away. Beyond the obvious problem of being down both a rat and a quarrel, there was a deeper, darker possibility: what if the wounded rat became some symbol of resistance to his verminous kin? What if he became their king, and led a murine insurrection against the good men of Dordt? What if he—
—Split apart at the neck as Simon’s bolt struck him dead-on, ending his pretensions of rattish glory. Sander grinned at Simon, who saluted him with his still-vibrating crossbow, and Sander had to stifle the impulse to kiss the man hard on the mouth. Simon didn’t go in for that, which was total bullshit—the man acted like the pootiest neuker Sander had ever met, but made it clear as well water he only went with girls. Still, a good friend was better than a lover in some ways; safer, too. For all the clouds of ill wind they’d had to fan away to get comfortable around each other after Sander displaced the younger noble in the Tieselen chain of inheritance, now they were all right, were Sander and Simon. Or rather, Jan and Simon.
Point was, Simon knew without being told when to hold off on putting another bolt in a stuck rat and when to tap it twice, knew when to pass the bottle and when to pull the rag on a new one—Sander had no stomach for the sand at the end of a wine. Sander very much did have a taste for being outside in good weather with Simon, lounging on the end of the dock and picking off the rats that swarmed through Trash Island.
Trash Island was, well, an island of trash. It was formed where the currents of the River Maas and the tides of the meer conspired to bring all manner of drift together into a massive rotting mound right outside the city walls. As the sheepheads had done a bang-up job reclaiming some of the flooded countryside surrounding Dordrecht, the garbage heap was now accessible by foot, when the tides were out—the inland sea retreated to the south, the river proper lay just to the north, and here they were on a strip of tideland between the two. Almost hard to believe, wide as the mudflat was, that every night this place became a single expanse of dark, unbroken water as Maas and meer, man and wife, were reunited.
Sander had, at Hobbe’s prompting, built a second Tieselen warehouse out here, where no honey-handed officials could lay tax on the wine coming in and out of the ledgers. More than one of said grubby grabbers had tried to talk Sander out of
it, had told him it would be too risky to build on the mud until it was further drained, and too expensive to try. When that hadn’t dissuaded him, they’d appealed to the reasonable fear of breakers any merchant in that sunken place harbored, the concern that outside Dordrecht’s walls the Tieselen warehouse would be vulnerable to freshwater pirates. Better an honest thief than a city taxman, Sander had told them, and now, half a year out, the worst that had happened was the odd headache arising from juggling the logistics of the tides—a warehouse that was only accessible by boat half the time was a tricky affair to manage.
And yet, a highly profitable one—the old Graaf Tieselen had sold off most of his farmland around the family seat in Oudeland to get his wine importation business in the water, and while the neighboring graafs and hertogs who had snapped up the property had considered him mad to give up solid land for airy schemes, the landholder-turned-merchant had enjoyed the last laugh. Or rather, he would have, if he hadn’t drowned along with thousands of his countrymen when the Saint Lizzy Day Flood had taken the Groote Waard. Sander was laughing that figurative laugh, was the more accurate view of things, and laughing all the harder since this city-free warehouse had established delivery timetables with guild-run ships in Rotterdam and beyond—really drawing in the groots now.
Other Dordt entrepreneurs had followed the Tieselen model, so there were now several other stilt-raised warehouses poking out of the tidal flat like a pack of giant wooden waterbugs. On this side of the city walls, though, there was little else—brown marsh when the moon took out the waters, and brown shallows when she brought them back in, far as the unsquinted eye could see. There wasn’t even the odd dead tree to pierce the flatness, just Trash Island and a lot of mud.
Simon kept house and guard of the stores, only rowing his dinghy into the city to pick up Sander for a rat hunt, or to retrieve supplies. And probably visit whores and his brother Braem, sure, but what he did in his own time was his own business, so long as no meer bandits made off with the wine and no rats made off with the packing hay.
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