The kitchen was empty, as was the closet privy, and Sander went from window to window to make sure no one was in the chink of a yard between Poorter’s place and the neighbor’s. When he got back into the workroom, Poorter was up on a stool, talking to Jo.
“—comes around occasionally, but never close enough for me to grab her,” Poorter was saying. A tremor passed from ears to asshole, Sander suddenly wondering if they were in on something together, Jo and Poorter, but then he realized they were talking about that damn Muscovite cat they’d brought back from the meer. Hobbe had forbidden them from taking the creature with them to his estate in Leyden, and though Poorter had offered to mind her until they returned to take their somewhat-less-than-rightful place in the Tieselen house, he had let the cat out while they were in the country. The cat was long gone now, but Poorter always fed Jo the same line about it showing up for food from time to time.
“Why you think she wants to be grabbed?” said Jo, though Sander remembered her telling the big man to do just that on numerous occasions—if she’d finally come to terms with the murdered Muscovite’s cat being lost to her, then so much the better. Or maybe the puss was one of the beasts following them in the street? Would the cat appreciate Sander’s bringing her back from the swamp-sea, or would she resent his killing of her former master, back when the Muscovite had hit Jan with an oar? Had this drowned world gone so mad that on top of corrupt counts and conspiracies Sander now had to fear revenge-minded tabbies? “Just put out the leftovers and leave her alone.”
“Of course, Lady Tieselen,” said Poorter, rolling his bloodshot eyes.
“Who did it?” said Sander, and before the fatty-tats could start in with his lies, Sander slapped him hard in the face, surprising him so much Poorter didn’t even think to fall off his stool in exaggerated pain. “Who roughed you up, cunt, and why? It’s got something to do with us or you wouldn’t be acting so fucking goofy, would you? Who did it?”
“It’s got nothing to do with—” Poorter began, and this time he did fly from his seat as Sander backhanded him. Poorter may have actually landed on his hurt arm, it was hard to tell if his screech was manufactured or not.
“I’m not of a mood, Primm,” growled Sander. “I’m a madman, as you well know, and if you don’t spit, I’ll stomp the pudding out of you!”
“Who did it, Primm!?” shouted Jo, following Sander’s lead and getting in the fallen fat man’s face. “Who?!”
Glaring up at them, Poorter looked anything but intimidated. He looked, well, pissed. “Friends of yours, apparently, you goddamn frauds! Stern helpers of Count Wurfbain, making sure I wasn’t approached by any Cods curious about your credentials, and that I knew what to tell them if I am in the future!”
That… that made a kind of sense—Hobbe wouldn’t want it getting out that he had knowingly installed two impostors, and Poorter was another loose end in that regard. That Hobbe hadn’t ordered his bullyboys to kill Poorter outright boded well for everyone’s prospects, Sander figured. Before he could weigh it further, though, Jo had snatched a gorgeous, cherry-butted crossbow off the table and brought it down with both hands onto the edge of a workbench. The delicately curved lath was smashed and unmoored, its whipcord string snapping across the room, splinters exploding into the air, and Sander and Poorter both stared at Jo in mute horror. Though her hands must be agonized by the reverberations, she held tight to the battered weapon, and, straightening up, hurled it into the wall. Sander flinched as it connected, the stock cracking like thunder.
“What?” said Jo, meeting Sander’s eyes. “He’s lying. Gonna play us, he’s gonna get punished.”
“My commission,” Sander said quietly, kneeling to pick up the remains of the bow from where it had landed beside the bench. It was just as he’d imagined it; no, better. Pass a bolt clean through a rat, feathers and all. Poorter sat up on the floor and all three of them appraised the broken weapon in silence.
“Oh,” said Jo. “I’m… I’m going to check the loft.”
“Sure. Said he had a woman in here,” said Sander, straightening back up and pointing the broken bow at Poorter. “Wouldn’t be lying to his friends, would Poorter Primm?”
“I told you—” began Poorter, but Sander cut him off with a snap of the lath across the shoulder.
“And I told you to tell me who did it, fat man,” said Sander. “I’m good and mad now, so I’d talk fast, I were you.”
Poorter wouldn’t talk. Or rather, he did, but he talked too much for it to be honest, giving them too many details, too many names, things they’d have to investigate before being sure if he was lying. If his information didn’t check out and they needed to come back, good luck getting Poorter to open his door again. Then there was the matter of the open window in the loft, which Poorter claimed was for fresh air, and the two mugs on the kitchen counter that Jo noticed after poking around the rest of the house, which he chalked up to good old-fashioned slovenliness. Still Poorter stuck to his story of Hook thugs making sure he stayed straight, or at least dependably crooked.
Except why would Hobbe think Poorter was a potential liability? At this point, nigh on two years recognized as noble, the only way anyone was going to start investigating whether or not Sander and Jo were legitimate was if Hobbe himself called their legitimacy into question. So why lean on Poorter, give the crossbow-maker the heads-up that people were going to be asking questions about Sander, and order him to keep up the lie? Wouldn’t Hobbe need witnesses willing to confess to the deception, rather than loyal conspirators to the fraud?
One thing Sander had to come to terms with, he knew, was never figuring out half of what Hobbe was scheming—the count was too damn fox-pated. Poorter, on the other hand, was not, so focus on him. The only two options here were that Poorter was lying about who beat him, and why, or he was telling the truth. If he wasn’t lying, fine and good, and damn Jo to the Belgians for ruining that cherrywood rat-sticker, but if Poorter was playing them, that meant someone had more than beat him blue, they’d put the fear of the Lord into him—why else act so shady about it, and why else risk the wrath of him and Jo, known nutters? Yeah, that was the worry—someone had scared Poorter so bad he wouldn’t squeal even when his precious workshop was in danger, Jo wrecking a couple more pieces before Sander called her off. Poorter had either cracked at the start of their interrogation or else he never would.
After visiting Poorter, Sander decided to wait until he’d had a proper think before paying Von Wasser a call, and, yeah, Simon, too—he was starting to feel like a massive shit for not going to his friend sooner, consequences be dry-fucked. Before visiting anyone, though, he took Jo down to the market at Scheffersplein for poffertjes, a few enterprising sorts having set up stalls in what amounted to one big, slippery, witch-titted-cold puddle. Jo kept apologizing about the commissioned crossbow, but he wasn’t listening, instead scanning the crowd for shadows they might have acquired as he chewed on dough and powdered sugar. Problem was, the sun was bright enough that folk were using their hoods to keep the glare out instead of the wet, and so there was an abundance of suspects. He was starting to lose himself. Again.
“Sander,” said Jo, and the queerness of her using his real name got his attention. He was about to bawl her out when he saw how ashen she’d gone, sweat-browed and shaking. “Can I go home?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping crumbs from his mouth, “something wrong?”
“Sick,” she said, her eyes darting over the crowd like a hungry wasp. “Please?”
She didn’t look well, and he reckoned she must have had too much wine the night before, goofing off with Lizzy. It happened, wake up fine, and an hour later—
Jo threw up all over their shoes. Shit. She squatted down, the flow of people around them giving her a slightly wider berth as she retched. Sander sighed, hating these sorts of situations more than he could bear—just what they needed, attracting attention, and fucking great, here was some nosy biddy getting involved.
“She’s fi
ne,” said Sander, putting himself between Jo and the old woman, who gave Sander the stink-eye as she stepped around them and ordered her poffertjes. Real nice, sick girl puking up her all and this whore not even checking to see if she was all right before stuffing her own gob. Sander hated this place, wanted to see it burn, but just as he was about to tell the old woman off, Jo had staggered upright and tugged on his sleeve.
She seemed to improve after he got her out of the square, the shade of Groenmarkt refreshing after the blinding sunlight shining off wet cobbles. Things were looking up now that they were out of the crowd. Then, only a few houses down the lane, Sander glanced over his shoulder and saw they were being followed by that same cunting hooded figure from the other night.
Except it was the middle of the damn day, and a nice one at that, so they weren’t being followed, it was just some bloke walking the same street as them. Not a crime, that. Except what if he wasn’t some random sheephead?
“Shit,” Sander muttered, his foot sinking in a pothole and saturating his boot with ice water. This was just what they needed—all his old suspicions coming back, and with a vengeance. People couldn’t walk the street now without Sander’s thinking they were after him?
“Sander,” Jo said, her voice scratchy from the puking. “I didn’t listen to you.”
Some surprise, that, but what in particular? “How’s that?”
“I went out yesterday, tried to see Simon.” She looked as though she might spew again at any moment. “After, I started doing it again. I’m going mad.”
“No, you’re not,” said Sander, trying not to lose his temper with her. Do that, and he’d never get the truth out of her. “You went to see Simon, then what?”
“I’m doing it now,” Jo gagged, as if the words were noxious. “Happened after I saw Simon, and it’s happening now. Dreaming while I’m awake.”
Brisker than the wet boot, that. He tried to steer her along faster, taking them to where an alley ran over to Buddingh’ Plein—it was the opposite of the way home, but if they were being followed he wanted to throw whoever was after them. The only time she’d claimed to see something that wasn’t real was in regards to a creeper outside her window, but what he hadn’t told her then and wouldn’t now was that he didn’t think she’d been dreaming, awake or otherwise; he’d just told her that to put her at ease. What the hell had she seen here, and yesterday, apparently, to put her in this state? What was wrong with her? Was the madness he had suffered after escaping Sneek returned, and catching?
“Seeing things that ought not to be there, you mean?” said Sander, tugging her into the alley and quickening their pace as they wove around heaps of filth and debris. Militia ought to stave in some heads, goddamn peasants cluttering up the thoroughfare with stinking sacks of garbage and piles of broken roofing and all. “It’ll pass, Jo, it will, just lean on me and don’t let it get to you. Pretty normal, when you’re sick.”
“Thank God…” she said, her voice so small they near-drowned it completely with their splashing through the snowmelt. Maybe not just theirs, but he wouldn’t look, he weren’t so green as that. Another alley T-boned this one, cutting between two dilapidated houses, and Sander took it, dragging her after him.
“Dead quiet, Jo,” he whispered, pushing her forward and flattening himself against a wall. “This goes queer, you run home and…”
And what? If something happened to him, what was she supposed to do? Hobbe had talked a lot about marrying her off, but she hadn’t wanted that, so Sander had never pushed it. Should have, maybe. Would Hobbe try to get rid of her once Sander was gone? Could he afford not to? Jo was harder than Sander was, no way she’d do Hobbe’s bidding, the little idiot…
Someone was coming quick now, splashing along, back the way they’d come. Not trying to be quiet, trying to catch up. Glory’s End called to him, but it was too late to get her out without making noise or maybe flapping his elbow ’round the corner, spoiling the ambush—shouldn’t have been worrying about the girl at a time like this. Come to that, he shouldn’t have gotten fat, gotten sloppy, gotten old. Right, and the sun shouldn’t rise on a cloudy day for fear of getting rained on. The wet footsteps didn’t slow as they reached the corner, and Sander sprang.
His eyes were at the man’s chest and shoulders, seeing where his arms were, seeing what he was holding. Nothing in the left, but a dagger in the right, tucked half-under his cloak. That was good. Meant Sander had his man, all right, didn’t have to go easy. Of course, it would’ve been better if the cunt had been holding a sword—harder to get stuck with a sword this close up, but beggar’s choices and all. Sander’s right hand was on the man’s wrist even as the dagger was coming up. Got you, Sander thought, got you. Crushing the knife arm into the man’s chest, Sander rabbit-punched the back of his hand. The man dropped the dagger. Perfect.
Jo screamed. Shit. Should’ve known there would be more, but checking on her would mean looking away from the cunt he was currently driving into the alley wall with all his strength. He had the one hand pinned to the man’s chest and felt a sudden chill at not knowing what the other was doing, but then it was punching at Sander’s stomach and he relaxed—punch away, little man, so long as there weren’t nothing sharp to go with it. Just as he slammed the thug into the side of the building, Sander finally got ahold of the asshole’s other wrist, arresting his weak blows. The same thug who’d followed them from the poffertjes stall, like as not, and Sander reared his head back to butt this bastard into nightmareland. Before he could slam his forehead into the bridge of the goon’s nose, however, Sander caught sight of brown hair, brown eyes, and stumbled back, wringing his hands like a man realizing the rope he’d just picked up was actually a live snake.
Behind him Jo had stopped screaming, her breath coming in stuttering gasps, and Sander bumped into her as he backed away from the handsome man. Sander pushed her down the alley without turning, trying to find something to say. The man pulled his hood the rest of the way off as he advanced on them, rubbing the back of his head where it had connected with the wall.
“Good to see you, too,” said Jan, smiling at them from the shadows of the alley.
“Run,” Sander finally managed, spinning away from the ghost or devil or whatever blighted thing had crawled from their past to torment them. Jo couldn’t look away from the phantom, and Sander scooped her up as he broke into a run. She weighed hardly anything—certainly less than guilt.
“See you soon!” the specter called after them as they flew from the dim alley into the blinding sunlight. “Soon!”
V.
This must be how Sander felt all the time, Jolanda thought as they both pretended to have an appetite at supper. Or how he used to feel, anyway—ever since becoming graaf, he’d seemed progressively saner. When she’d seen Jan watching her from the crowd in the square that morning, the effect had been immediate, visceral—she was frankly surprised she hadn’t pissed herself, but now, hours later, it wasn’t any better. No, it was worse, much worse, she and Sander occasionally darting glances at one another over their herring, only to pretend they hadn’t made eye contact. Even Lansloet and Drimmelin seemed concerned by the strangeness of their behavior.
They had hid in the Great Church, which was perpetually under construction, until a carpenter ran them off, whereupon Sander had led them on a frantic race to the harbor. When they’d set out that morning he’d brought only enough coin for their poffertjes, however, and their own small rowboat was currently engaged in ferrying out to the warehouse the man Laurent, in Sander’s absence, had hired to replace the incarcerated Simon.
After Sander nearly assaulted the third boatman who laughed at his offer of a promissory note in lieu of money, Jolanda finally convinced him to go home. He’d insisted they only run in to get money for the crossing, but once they were inside, he showed no interest in leaving—perhaps it was his returned suit of plate that convinced him to stay, Von Wasser having had it delivered while Jolanda and Sander were paying Primm a visit.
Sander suited up right there in the parlor, and the weight of it seemed to somewhat squash his panic. He sat down in front of the fireplace with his sword across his knees, a bottle in one hand and a poker in the other.
Lijsbet was out, having asked and received permission to babysit her nephews that evening, and without anyone to confide in even if she’d been of a mind to, Jolanda retreated to her bedroom. Rather than hiding under her covers, as she had fully intended when running up the stairs, she paced the small room, fingers unfurling and curling faster than her eye could follow. They had both seen Jan—that couldn’t have been a dream… Could it? You couldn’t share a waking dream any more than you could the regular kind… Could you? Jan, stalking them through the streets of Dordrecht, showing up just after everything soured with Wurfbain, just after Simon was accused of murder…
She tried to make sense of it all, but each time she seemed on the cusp of revelation, the memory of Jan’s mangled corpse lying in the bottom of a rowboat rose up to distract her with its horrific certainty—no man could recover from such wounds. If it were possible that he could, then anything could happen, even the other things she’d seen in the flooded Tieselen house, things she had rejected so thoroughly as to put them entirely from her mind, except for the odd nightmare. There was a reason she hadn’t been able to bring herself to eat eel since that fateful day…
Eventually both nervous nobles relented to Lansloet’s quiet insistence that they come to supper, though Sander wouldn’t take off his armor, and Jolanda put on hers before joining him. Her embroidered suit of brigandine and plain leather might not look as impressive as his plate and chain, but it was a hell of a lot more comfortable at the high table.
“An impostor,” Sander finally said. She nodded enthusiastically. “A con, is what it is. Someone trying to… chisel something.”
“Wurfbain’s doing,” Jolanda suggested. “He knew Jan from before, didn’t he? And he’d know how we’d react to seeing him again.”
The Folly of the World Page 39