The Folly of the World

by Jesse Bullington

  “See, you’re wrong on him being a beggar, too,” said Sander defensively. It was one thing for a paragon of virtue like Sander to talk down to Simon, but quite another to have this bossy peacock running his gob about a good man. “Got him working at the warehouse for some time now.”

  “You what?” Hobbe seemed genuinely appalled, as though Sander had casually mentioned that he kept live eels in his bowels. “You two were quiet about that when last you let him dine here, with Laurent and myself!”

  “Well, he needed a place to stay after that hertog… what’s that big asshole’s name… Von Wasser, yeah, after Hertog Von Wasser kicked Simon out, he didn’t have no place to go, so I said he could stay in the loft out at the warehouse so long as he pitches in with the loading and all.”

  Hobbe’s stiff expression softened, and he laughed long and hard. “Well, I suppose it’s kinder to his pride than hiring him on as rat-catcher.”

  “Yeah, well.” Sander squirmed in his chair, trying like Christ tried to save the wretched not to let his emotion get the better of him. Not so long before, he had been ready to sort Simon with his own two fists, but that was in the past, and there was only so much piss a man could be expected to swallow from a conniving, condescending winesack like Hobbe before they drowned or spit it out, damn the consequences. Sander relaxed himself by imagining Hobbe’s stupid face bawling under an avalanche of fists. “Sure, Count, sure.”

  “In any event, this will be my last visit to the city until after Jacoba and her army have landed and the day’s won—I anticipate there being no small emotion directed at any convenient Hooks once the war begins, and it will take some time for her forces to make it all the way out here. Hard to storm an island, even with our preparations, something she knows well from experience.” Hobbe reached to the table and picked up a small, ivory-lined bell set beside the two glasses and wine jug. “I’ll just have Lansloet bring us a better vintage while we chat.”

  “Yeah, fine,” said Sander, his mind snagged on what Hobbe had said. Leaving town was not, come to it, a bad idea at all, what with a dead kid or two about to be discovered right next to his warehouse. If the Gruyere boys dug out the bodies and reported them while Sander was abroad, that would certainly prevent his being interrogated by the militia about the find—no, they’d deal with the whole mess while he was gone, and then when he came back he’d get the inevitable gossip on the affair, and maybe not even from nosy militiamen but old Eckert at the Horse, say, or Poorter Primm.

  “—the coming battle at least gives the Tieselen family quite the local economic advantage, with all your competitors off to fight. Obviously Dordrecht has supplied far less men and money than they might, were they better recovered from the flood, but as it stands, any Cod who can afford it will be there in the flesh,” Hobbe was saying, and Sander gave a knowing nod before realizing he might actually want to be abreast of whatever development Hobbe was on about.

  “How’s that, then?”

  “Gloucester, Jan, Gloucester,” said Hobbe, with obvious satisfaction that this further perplexed Sander. The name rang a bell, though a smaller one than that which had, at fucking last, succeeded in drawing Lansloet, whom Hobbe addressed as though the servant were one of his. Which, sure, he may well be planted by the count, or at least taking his coin in exchange for keeping eyes and ears on graaf and daughter; Sander wasn’t thick, he knew the score, he—“Something a bit stronger than this brine, Lansloet, and with a good dollop more honey.”

  “Sir,” said Lansloet, and he sounded like he meant it, talking to Hobbe. Rats, all of them.

  “All right, then,” said Sander, figuring he ought to return the favor of pissing Hobbe off on purpose—playing foolish always turned the trick. “Sure, Gloucester—moving into cheese ain’t a bad idea, pairs decent with the wine, even if that Englander stuff gets a little rich for my bowel. You got us a good deal lined up for importation? We’ll need new boats, the wine ones are only for river—”

  “Humphrey, duke of Gloucester,” said Hobbe, which annoyed Sander to no end—his cheese-monger fantasy had barely gotten in the water before this mussel interrupted. “Jacoba’s new husband. He’s landing, or landed, by now, down in Zeeland. We’re on the cusp of real war, with our odds never better—a success here will signify the end of Philip and his Codpieces, and a victory for true Hollanders.”

  “So Jacoba and her new duke take Zeeland, they come up the Maas, and then I’ll start getting invited to courts and feasts, neat as that?” said Sander. The open animosity most of his noble neighbors directed toward him couldn’t be entirely the result of his personality—Jo was adamant that it arose from Sander’s adherence to the cues Hobbe fed him, which, sure, ran counter to the common Cod interest. Yet between being unpopular with a bunch of rich Dordt assholes or unpopular with the one count who could expose them as frauds, well, that wasn’t a hard choice at all. Or rather, it hadn’t been… “Given the grief these sheepheads give this particular pillar of the community over letting the occasional wine-boat into the harbor, I don’t see them spreading the city’s legs for a countess they hate with passion and her Englanders, who they hate on principle.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago that local sympathies lay with our dear Jacoba,” said Hobbe. “In addition to those principled, if secret, allies we already have in Dordrecht, the wiser townsfolk will hang their cloaks according to the wind. They always do, and those who don’t may well find themselves in a spot of trouble.”

  “Like the Gruyeres did when we came along,” said Sander. A thought came to him, as thoughts were wont to fucking do ever since he’d shoved the raw feet of a madman into the soft boots of a graaf. “And if Jacoba and her duke don’t win the day in Zeeland, what then? Am I in for a fresh load of moldy turnips thrown through my windows?”

  “Still getting the new-noble treatment, eh?” said Hobbe. It had actually been some time since the last incident of vandalism, thank the saint of shitfree doors and shutters, whoever that was, but the thought that the dastardly hostilities might resume sat poorly with Sander. Much as he tried to ignore or correct it, the rejection he’d faced from the Dordrecht community was a constant irritant, like a bent eyelash. Hobbe was still talking some dumb shit, trying to play down the situation, but Sander finally pieced it all together and cut the crook off:

  “Oi, that’s why you’re running off to Leyden, ain’t it? Now that Jacoba’s brought the fight home again, you don’t want to be in Codtown if she loses.” Made sense, actually, and wasn’t too far from Sander’s notion to skip Dordt until the inevitable dead-kids-at-your-place-of-business storm blew over—get out before the squall, and come back when it’s calm.

  “I’m departing Dordrecht, but Leyden’s rather… warm, at present,” said Hobbe. “Especially with Duke Philip spending entirely too much time there of late. Don’t worry about me, though, I have my sanctuaries.”

  “So you hide out, and if the countess wins, you tell her you were just too far away to help in the fight, and if she don’t, no Hook can prove you took her part.”

  “I swear, you are nothing like I’d been led to believe,” said Hobbe. “Not just sound of pate, but smart as the nip of a horsefly!”

  “That supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” said Sander. “Not a wise way of putting it, whatever the intent.”

  “Well, as I said, you are the smart one, Graaf Tieselen. Ah, there you are—thought we’d have to muster a search party!” Lansloet had returned with a bottle that looked far too dusty for Sander’s liking—why didn’t the servant ever bring him drink that well seasoned? Sander quickly helped the old bugger out by draining his half-finished glass and shaking the dregs from Simon’s mug into the fire, where they hissed in a pleasing fashion. Lippy goddamn Hobbe, always treating Sander like some mutt or other such beast that was too dim to recognize when it was being openly mocked. One of these days, one of these jibes… “Yes, that’s much better, capital refreshment. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you were reiterating all my points
for some uncertain purpose. Let’s just move on to business, shall we? The ventures I have lined up for you while your peers are off playing war. First up, there’s—”

  “Where’s the fight going to happen?” Sander said, illumination coming to him like the finger of God, well, fingering him. In the brain, like. He was suddenly as excited as he’d been that night in the street with Gilles. He might not feel much like himself on a day-to-day basis, but by all the heavenly Host he could force himself to surface when he put his mind to it, when he got a brilliant scheme like the one currently cooking in his skull-pot. What was the limit on pigeons you could bring down with one rock?

  “Where?” said Hobbe, sipping the pricey wine he put away like it was water. “The first engagement, I suspect, will take place at a little port called Zierikzee, but after a victory there we shall—”

  “When,” said Sander, putting his glass down on the table. His hands were actually shaking, and he’d splashed some onto his white silk sleeve. “When’s the fight going to be, ’tween Philip and Jacoba? I know you know, deep in it as you are.”

  “And I know that look upon your face or I’m a goose,” said Hobbe, refilling his glass. “If the battle hasn’t been joined yet, it surely will be soon—our English friends have already landed in Zeeland, bolstering the local Hook ranks to insurmountable proportions. But, regardless, you’re not to get any further involved. If the will of God Almighty is that our fair land suffer further trials rather than immediate salvation, and our countess’s force thus fails, well, as you yourself pointed out, it’s one thing to be covertly funneling money to her mission and something else entirely to fight for her on the front line where everyone can see you. Willem Von Wasser and the rest of the councilmen suspecting you of Hook sympathies is manageable, but their seeing you in her ranks is most certainly not. I shan’t allow you to ruin everything I’ve worked for on account of bloodlust—it’s not as though your joining her army now will change the tide, formidable though your sword surely is.”

  “I’m not going to join her army, you boob, I’m going to join his,” said Sander with a grin. His warm satisfaction at finally telling Hobbe where to stick it was only partially dampened by the count’s confusion regarding being stuck.

  “Whose army?”

  “Our beloved Duke Philip’s, of course,” said Sander, the sheer joy of the moment making his arms tingle like they’d fallen asleep; like he’d fallen asleep. “I’m going to Zeeland, I’m kneeling in front of our Burgundian lord, and then I’m going to help him pound that Brabançon bitch of yours into a pancake, and her Englander bullyboys beside.”

  “No, you are not,” said Hobbe without the faintest whiff of concern. “You’re going to stay here, you’re going to press that pretty gold ring of yours against the documents Laurent presents you, and that is all. If you attempt to do anything other than that—”

  “You’ll what?” said Sander, springing from his seat and planting his hands on the armrests of Hobbe’s chair, getting good and properly in the count’s face. In the cunt’s face, rather. “Tell everyone I’m a fake? Have me arrested?”

  “Initially, yes,” said Hobbe, but was the wrinkled old pudding starting to blanch, maybe tremble a bit around the crust? “Once you’ve been unmasked and incarcerated, matters will worsen considerably for you.”

  “Can’t bluff me,” said Sander, breathing in the older man’s face. It felt good, taking this tone with Hobbe at long last, finally letting it all out. “I’ve got just as much on you as you do on me—even if they did take you on your word, I’ll call you out as a Hook, sneaking money to the countess every chance you get. You got my shorthairs, I’ll allow, but I got yours, too—they take me down, I take you down.”

  “My dear Graaf,” said Hobbe, and from the way those wispy storm clouds of his had come down low over his narrowed eyes, Sander could tell he’d genuinely gotten to the crooked count. “Every pfennig I have given to the countess’s cause over the last two years has gone through you, courtesy of Laurent. Our mutual lawyer friend has, all told, no less than fifty incriminating documents tying you to Jacoba, but nary a one with my scent on it. I’ve been using you as a scapegoat, you dunce, something that should have been obvious from the very first sheaf, if only you could read.”

  “Makes sense,” said Sander, because it did. He shrugged, but otherwise showed no reaction to the betrayal. If he hadn’t been planning on pummeling Hobbe into a pulp as soon as their discussion was concluded, he might have been angered by this disclosure, but as it stood, he was relieved to hear it—for all of Hobbe’s warts, Sander was somewhat fond of the man, and anything he said to further justify a beatdown put Sander that much more at ease.

  “Of course it does,” said Hobbe, leaning forward until their foreheads were almost touching. More of a fivehead in the count’s case, with that receding hairline. “You have nothing but your word that I am anything but a loyal retainer of Duke Philip, and the word of a charlatan counts for precious little, I fear.”

  “Except folk here in Dordt know you’re a Hook, even if they can’t prove it—they’ve been looking for an excuse to string you up since the flood, if not before,” said Sander, and rather than retreating, as Hobbe had no doubt hoped, Sander pressed in, nearly straddling the lounger and actually touching his brow to the count’s. Hobbe didn’t pull back, and Sander rocked his head against the count’s in an attempt to further unnerve the fucker. “They’ll believe I’m an impostor, sure they will, ’cause it’s the truth. But they’ll also believe me when I finger my accomplice, ’cause that’s the truth, too—think any of your Cod friends forgot whose coach I got out of that first day, back at the Leyden church? Think they forgot who vouched for me when Laurent and his cronies were rigging it up to get rid of the Gruyeres and install Jo and me? Think they don’t see you coming and going from my place oft enough they might mistake you for a resident? The truth, Hobbe, can be a right mean bitch, and all I got to do is loose her from her leash and your rich friends will do the rest.”

  Nothing but silence to that, and Hobbe slouched back in his chair, defeated. Nicely done, Graaf, very nicely done. Sander straightened up and cracked his knuckles, looking down at his defeated adversary. Maybe the count didn’t need a beating, after all.

  “You are making a dreadful mistake, Sander,” said Hobbe wearily. “All I have done for you, all—ah!”

  Sander had dropped into a crouch, grabbed one of the front legs of Hobbe’s chair, and upended both man and seat backward. He was on top of the count before Hobbe could even decide between scrambling up or rising in a more decorous fashion. The heel of Sander’s boot rested softly against Hobbe’s throat, fixing the man to the floor. The steadily firming hard-on that act had stirred in Sander’s pouch could plug up a well, or another such wide aperture—some things never changed. Time to lay some truth on this scheming asshole:

  “My name ain’t Sander, and it’s you that made the mistake in calling me such. You done shit for me since day one; you’ve only done for yourself, and we both know it. You wanted a Hook you could push around on the island, someone with more coin and influence than that Zoete woman you run with, and if Jan had come back with the ring, it would’ve been him instead of me. Except he would’ve put you where you are a sight sooner than it took me to do it, on account of his not being half the cunt I’ve been down these days since you made me graaf. Well, I’m not your cunt no more, Hobbe, to slap about or finger my purse whenever you get the notion. Long as you acknowledge that, we’ll be just fine, you and me. Just fine.”

  Hobbe might have tried to reply, but during his speech Sander had unconsciously begun pressing his foot down, and the count was apparently too dignified to writhe or seize the boot that was crushing his larynx. Instead he just lay there, silently being choked and staring up at Sander with eyes as cold and pale as snowmelt. Eerie, that was, and Sander removed his foot, but gave the old boy a light kick to the chin before setting it back on the floor beside its mate. “So what say you, Hobbe,
are we sorted, or do I need to sort you a bit more?”

  Hobbe took the hand Sander offered and rose to his feet, his back or knees or something cracking and popping as he did. Jesus, Sander hoped he hadn’t done any permanent damage to the scoundrel, he was aged and all and—“Graaf Tieselen, I must regretfully take my leave.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Sander with a wink. “When the war’s won and I’m settled back in here, you’ll have to come and have a stay. Good Graaf Tieselen judges a man by his deeds, not if he’s Hook or Cod. In the meantime, enjoy laying low in whatever burrow you’ve carved out and—”

  “I will be staying in Dordrecht, after all,” said Hobbe, his eyes flashing like a cat’s from the firelight. Though the shutters were open, it had begun to snow again, rendering the parlor dim enough to make the effect good and spooky. “There is a matter of business that yet needs attending. You have, and I mean this not as a threat but as a statement of simple fact, absolutely no comprehension of the forces at work. Of the forces you upset with your proud, foolish resolution to bite at the teat that has nursed you. Even now I would hear an apology and a recanting of your behavior, but should you actually follow through with your boast of raising arms against our countess, well… your final decision is entirely out of my hands, of course, but I promise you this—you will make amends to me, and shortly, or you shall look back on this hour and regret it as you have never regretted anything in the sum of your days.”

  A pause, but yeah, no fucking apology for the count, and so he concluded his pretentious little speech: “In any event, I expect to see you again before very long, and, of course, your lovely daughter as well. Good day, sir.”

  “Now, Hobbe,” said Sander, placing a hand on the count’s bony shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze. “You threaten Jo ever again, and I will pick you up, carry you to that hearth, and hold your face in the fire until you stop moving.”

  “I said good day, sir,” said Hobbe, wrenching his shoulder free and trying to stride proudly to the door. Pride before a fall, and all, and Sander kicked the count behind the knee. Hobbe stumbled, but before he could regain his balance or topple forward, depending on nature’s whim, Sander stepped quickly behind him and swung his arm in front of the man’s face, catching Hobbe’s neck in the crook of his elbow. He pressed the full weight of his body into the count’s back; it made his erection falter a bit to be ground against so unappealing a posterior, but for the sake of effect Sander tried to keep it solid.