The Folly of the World (50 page)

Being so confused made Sander want to puke. He closed his eyes, trying to find a loose end amongst the knotted possibilities in order to start unraveling the scheme, to find out if he was part of the hunting party this time or if he was the quarry—at present he was doing a merry jig on the safe side of the gibbet, but it was his fault Simon would be fitted for a hemp necklace before very long, and who knew, he might soon be joining the Gruyere in doing a different sort of gallows dance. Again his thoughts turned to somehow busting Simon out…

“Are you neuking kidding me?” said Jo, and blinking at her, he saw she was ready to go, her conspicuous brigandine attire smothered under a hooded canvas cloak—one of his old jobs, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Nay, I was just… won’t be a tic,” and Sander was out of his chair and up the stairs, telling himself nothing was fucked, everything was good, he had friends now, Von Wasser and the other Cods he’d met at Brouwershaven, and the old broad Jo had dined with…

Or if not friends, people who found him and Jo useful.

Or who
might
find them useful…

The cold truth was that Sander was out of his depth and needed help, and between his choice of Hobbe or a Cod, he’d take the Cod. His odds weren’t much better with Von Wasser, maybe, but at least this way he’d have a decent shot at fucking Hobbe over even if he doomed himself in the process.

Pick up the commission from Primm, then head straight to Willem’s manor, which was somewhere along the harbor. So yeah, go to Von Wasser, offer Willem the exquisite new crossbow as a sort of princely friend-making gift—much as it would pain Sander to give the weapon away without having used it—and then tell the hertog how Count Hobbe Wurfbain was out to get him, that the dirty, lying Hook would do anything to get at the Tieselens… Now,
that
was a plan!

The streets were shallow canals from the snowmelt, and the sun had brought out crowds of women and children tired of being cooped up by a winter that couldn’t make up its mind whether it wished to be brutal or mild. As a result, Sander had to abandon any hope of staying on the edges of the roads where he might keep his boots dry and instead plowed through the wet, dragging Jo along after him. She was nattering about the importance of visiting Simon immediately, but he was too busy keeping an eye on the faces drifting past them, all of which looked vaguely familiar. That one there was definitely a graafling made destitute from the flood, just as the Gruyeres had been, and had he been eyeing Sander a little too long? Was he the one from the square? Had his family been Hook or Cod before the flood?

And why were there so many more cats out than usual? A
clowder of the mangy strays crept along curbs and atop walls behind them… Sander must be losing his shit, because if put on the spot by a bishop, he’d admit to suspecting that
they
were watching him as well. That was just crazy… wasn’t it?

“
Sander
,” Jo hissed. “We’re here.”

“Huh?” Looking up, Sander saw they’d almost passed Poorter’s door. Glad to be out of the watery streets with all their potential assassins and spies, strange human and stranger feline, Sander hot-footed it up the stairs and banged on the door. Silence. Sander knocked again, and finally came the sound of bolts being slid back.

“What?” The door had opened barely a crack, Poorter clearly aiming to keep them out. Fuck that.

“Here to get that piece you’re making me,” said Sander, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Thought we might have a blather while we’re here.”

“I’m sorry, Graaf Tieselen,” said Poorter. “The commission isn’t ready, and at present I find myself—”

“Come on, cunt,” said Sander, his smile positively stinging now from the effort as he put his hand on the side of the door. “I’m not going to—”

“
Later
,” Poorter whined. “Please, I… I’ve got a woman here and—”

“Ah, I getcha,” said Sander, pretending to be put at ease by this and taking his hand off the door. A cloud had passed over the sun, and he was able to make out Poorter a bit better through the gap between wall and door. Unless he was mistaken… “Got something on your nose, old boy.”

Yes. Instead of lifting his right hand, which was definitely bandaged, Poorter took his left off the inside of the door to gingerly touch his face. As soon as he did, Sander threw himself into the door, not giving a pike’s tooth if anyone in the street saw him forcing his way inside. Poorter was neatly knocked back and then Jo was right there, closing the door after them as they slid inside fast as good luck slipping through your fingers.

Poorter lay on his back, bleating like a birthing sheep, and between his bruised, swollen face and cloth-wrapped hand Sander supposed he wasn’t putting on a show for once. Jo locked the door behind them as Sander bounded over the prone artisan and ran to the kitchen. He hadn’t forgotten his sword this time, and not that piece of shit he’d taken off Braem—that one had gone straight out his bedroom window and into the canal—but his real girl, Glory’s End herself, honed and hard for him. How she’d gotten from the Oudeland bog to his bedside scabbard warranted no scrutiny—she always found her way to him when he needed her.

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 fine,” 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?