The Folly of the World (9 page)

Rotterdam, as she told Lubbert several times in as many hours, was breaking her fucking mind as they walked Mackerel through its cobbled streets. At one point she became so overwhelmed that she had to sit down on a stoop, shuddering, and Lubbert laughed, crouching down and putting his arm around her.

“My first visit to a city I nearly pissed myself,” he said with a wink.

Jolanda smiled. He was such a fucking poot it was unbelievable.

The street was thronged with men and women and children and beasts, a market day in late spring, and looking up into eyes the brown of old marram grass on the dunes, a smile warm as the beer he had bought her upon gaining the city gates, she heard the sea for the first time since leaving home. For a moment she considered leaning forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, in imitation of the fisherboys who had sometimes tried that approach after pinning her, only to find themselves with a split lip when
she head-butted them. Quick as the thought came, it fled, making her blush and stare down at where the filth of the street broke upon the stoop, a frozen black wave.

“Jo,” he said softly, and she felt herself go all stupid to hear him call her that. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry I kicked you,” she muttered, not really meaning it, but figuring she owed him something for thinking such an idiotic fancy.

“Not another word,” said Lubbert, flicking her on the nose. It hurt. “I always give as good as I get, no?”

Jo was back up and they were slapping at each other again, people grumbling around them as they reentered the current of crowded bodies flowing through the city. All day she revisited the illicit thought, and each time she did, it made her feel sick to her stomach. In the afternoon, however, he showed her something that finally took her mind away from stupid daydreams—it was the sea, there at the edge of Rotterdam. Well, almost. The Merwe was so broad here she could pretend the river was her beloved ocean, with the growing harbor to their left and the city curving inland behind it to frame the wide, choppy expanse.

“Almost as good as the sea,” she told him, which was high praise indeed.

“Better than,” he corrected her, which was heresy to Jo, but given the heretic in question, she was willing to let it slide. “And trust me, Jo, you’ve not seen anything yet.”

They watched gulls diving and dipping over the river for a time, and then returned to the common room of the Young Harbor, an inn on the noisy Marktplein. After he confirmed that the barmaid would mind her, Lubbert paid for a hot supper, beds in the loft, and a few beers for Jo, then departed to see about boarding Mackerel and booking passage to Dordrecht. The nearly empty common room smelled like wet dog and moldy malt, and had a mean draft that felt like heaven after the hot, crowded streets. Jo settled comfortably back into her chair at the
corner table where Lubbert had placed her, a warm mug of beer cradled in both hands.

A man came in almost immediately after Lubbert departed, a tall, brawny sort with a sword hanging from each hip. Rather than making for the bar or one of the unoccupied tables, he sat down across from Jo. He had a snarled blond mane that hung limply around his shoulders, a bushy, uneven beard, and bluish-gray eyes that were wild and dark as storm clouds rushing across a sky that had been clear a moment before. He stank like sour beer and sour sweat, his clothes were caked with dirt, and an ugly circular medallion dangled around a thick neck that was striped with old scars and new scabs. Jo tried not to let the goon put her off her stride, but he was big and ugly enough to get her heart paddling a little quicker than usual.

“Hey,” said the man. “Who’re you, then?”

“Leave her alone,” called the barmaid. She was young but nowhere near so young as Jo, and held an empty tankard in her hand with an air of casual menace as she came out from behind the bar. “I won’t tell you again, get up!”

The man’s face darkened, his jaw setting so hard Jo heard teeth click. Even when Lubbert had broken her nose, Jo hadn’t really been frightened, but she was now—something about the stranger smelled wrong, dangerous, and she half-expected him to fly at her or the barmaid. Instead his narrow eyes suddenly widened and he beamed a bright smile in Jo’s direction as he bolted to his feet, his chair clattering back as he turned to the barmaid.

“It’s all right,
love
,” he said placidly. “Just making sure it wasn’t lost, little girl like that, place like this.”

“Sit somewheres else or get out,” said the barmaid, but now that she was closer, Jo could tell the woman was uneasy—her shaking legs were making her stained apron tremble, and she was holding the tankard wrong if she actually meant to bottle this thug. Jo felt her own fear melt into that old fury on the barmaid’s behalf, this overgrown bruiser throwing his weight around,
acting hard… But then he turned his smile back at Jo, and she went all queasy to see how sharp his eyes were, the wrath in them so at odds with his easy grin, the open palms he raised in her direction.

“See you about, then,” he told her, and much as she wanted to meet his glare, Jo found herself staring down at a puddle of beer on the worn table. She hated him in that instant more than she had hated any man, and when she forced herself to look back up, he was gone, the door of the Young Harbor rattling shut behind him. The barmaid gave Jo a pitying frown.

“What a bastard,” said the woman, wiping back her sweaty bonnet. “Let’s take that beer in the kitchen till your da’s back, yeah?”

“Aye,” said Jo, giving the door a glance as she rose to follow the barmaid. When Lubbert returned, they would have a talk about her getting a sword sooner rather than later.

T
rue dark was still a few prayers off but it was past suppertime when Jan picked his way back toward Marktplein, the earlier traffic diminished to only the occasional beggar or cluster of youths. The narrow stone streets enclosed him warmly, like the walls of a childhood crib, and he shook his head to think of the ugly, broad avenues of the Empire and France, the squat, low buildings of the rural neighborhoods he had traversed to return to his birthright. Holland had its share of deficiencies, to be sure, but he would take it over Brabant or Zeeland or Guelders or anywhere else, and at long last he was in a position to take what was his.

Mackerel fetched a good price—even if Jan had bought the horse instead of stealing it from a Frisian stable the previous winter, he would have likely turned a profit. Then he found a boatman who would take them down the Merwe to Dordrecht in the morning for a far sight less than he had ever paid to cross, as clear as signs came that people had adapted to the city becoming an island. To top it all, the girl had come around, though it had taken even longer than he’d feared and they’d dicked around clear to Guelders before he was confident enough in her favor to institute the next phase of the plan. If she still distrusted him, that doubt was tempered by blind affection and loyalty, as winning a combination in a girl as it was in man or dog. Things could scarce be better if—

An arm burst from a shadowy gap between the houses to his left, and before Jan could cry out, he was snatched by the cloak and spun into the alley. The back of Jan’s head cracked against a brick wall, the blow sending sickly tremors all the way down to
his toes. Instead of pawing at Jan’s waist for his purse thongs, meaning theft, or covering Jan’s mouth, meaning murder, the assailant’s hand went to Jan’s throat. Jan blinked away the tears that being smashed into the building had summoned, but before he could even make out the man’s face, he knew him by the gently squeezing fingers and relaxed.

“Fucking cockstand,” said Sander, but he was smiling.

“Good to see you, too,” said Jan, his own hand going to the other man’s throat. Sander let him go even as Jan began to choke the bigger man, who gave a happy sigh that turned to a rasp as his windpipe was compressed. “How in God’s graces did you get out? They said you died after I slipped you the sword.”

“Clughhh,” said Sander, and Jan gave him a final squeeze before letting go. Sander looked good for a dead man and damn good for having spent half a year looking after himself, but by any other standards he looked truly abominable. He beamed at Jan, tears leaking down into his beard as he recovered from the light throttle.

“Went into a canal,” said Sander, and paused. Jan waited, his old partner giving him one of those calculating stares that so discomforted people, and finally shrugged. “Blacked out. Woke up a month or so back, up in Holland proper.”

“That right?” said Jan, looking with a more critical eye at the hanged man. Even for Sander that was a bit much, and from the man’s somewhat anxious expression he evidently knew it. Still, he was clearly looking for reassurance, and Jan fed it to him. “Well, I’ve heard plenty of men who’ve been walloped in the skull have trouble remembering things from time to time, and that crown of yours has been a regular bung long as I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” said Sander, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“Have you blacked out much since?”

“No,” the big man said, brightening. “Not once.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” said Jan. “I wouldn’t question it further. The important thing is you’re all right, I’m all right, and here we
are, with fortune closer than it’s ever been. I’ve even found us a swimmer, so you won’t have to worry about that end of things, after all—I know you had your reservations about diving yourself, so I’ve settled that for you. All that’s left is to pick it up.”

“Thought you’d maybe took up pimping again,” said Sander, and there was an edge to his voice that Jan recognized of old. Good as it was to see him again, the last thing Jan needed was Sander complicating things with his jealousy… But there were easy enough methods of assuaging that, and agreeable methods they were.

“How long have you been watching us, then?” Jan hoped his annoyance came through.

“Heh. Just the day,” said Sander, what passed for a sheepish expression crossing his wolfish face. “Was over in Dordt for a week, stayed with Poorter. He said you’d be back ’fore the summer heat, but thought I’d meet you halfway. And here you are.”

“Here I am. Here we are. Do you need a drink?”

“Do fish get wet when they fuck?”

“I expect they do,” said Jan, and he felt something sharp and hard pass through his chest, a shock of relief that his faithful Sander had again cheated death and returned to him. He stepped forward, Sander standing his ground, and they kissed in the shadow of the alley, Jan delighting in the awkward shyness his partner had not shed even after all this time. Jan worked his fingers into Sander’s tangled hair, getting close to the scalp before making a fist and tugging, his other hand back at the man’s neck until Sander’s kiss became a dry gasp, and then they reluctantly parted.

“Got a room at that place?” Sander panted.

“Just a common loft, and I’ve already paid for it,” said Jan. “But I wager we could find somewhere more private in this grand old sprawl, eh?”

They walked along the new dike away from the heart of the city until they reached the half-built storehouse Sander was camping in whenever the builders left for the day. There they urgently fucked in the dirt, Jan being far gentler with Sander
than he would have had they something more substantial than spit to facilitate affairs. As it stood—ho ho—Jan could barely get more than his point in, and didn’t push things lest he have a mess on his hands without a washrag at the ready. Afterward they leaned against the stone wall, sweaty and sated as they were liable to get without the benefit of a bed, cod oil, and a length of rope longer than the medallion cord Sander had snapped with an errant buck when Jan had pressed too deep.

Walking back to the Young Harbor took a bit longer than leaving the city center had, the men holding hands until the after-supper drinking traffic picked up. Jan had gone over things with Sander again, but even still he could tell his partner had reservations about working with the girl. Lord knew how much worse it would have been if he had found a boy to do the swimming instead. At least Sander had promised to stick to the Lubbert-of-Sneek story around her, which would be something, assuming it lasted.

The barmaid gave them a strange look when they sauntered into the bustling Young Harbor, and looked positively concerned when Jan paid for Sander to sleep in the loft as well. She took the coin without a word, however, and fetched Jolanda from the kitchen. The girl was drunk, possibly very drunk, and blathering something to the barmaid, but when she saw Sander, her crooked posture straightened out and she balled her hands into fists.

“Daughter, this is my brother Sander,” said Jan. “Your uncle.”

She blinked foolishly at Sander, her face contorted as if she were being introduced to a talking eel and wasn’t sure if she should hurl it to the ground and stomp on it or curtsy.

“We met earlier, didn’t we, missy?” said Sander, setting Jan’s teeth on edge. The bastard hadn’t said anything about—

“Think you’re fucking hard?” demanded Jolanda, glaring from Sander to Jan. “This cunt acted hard. Tried to scare me.”

“Don’t talk that way to your uncle,” said Jan, hoping to pacify them both with his charm. “He has an odd sense of humor, that’s all.”

The girl looked warily at Jan, but Sander was evidently in a good mood and didn’t exacerbate things—a welcome surprise. Instead the large man silently extended his palm to Jolanda, who eyed it suspiciously but made no move to take it.

“Fine then,” said Sander, yanking his hand back and scratching his beard. “Time comes, don’t forget was you decided to be the bitch first.”

“I’m going to fuck you up,” said Jolanda, whatever she had been drinking giving her voice an evenness the rest of her lacked; she was vibrating, like Jan’s father at the start of one of his fits. “Hear me, big man? Ask your fucking
brother
what happens to arseholes who give me trouble.”

Sander adopted a silly lilt and bobbled his head and shoulders around as he smiled at Jan and asked, “
What happens to arseholes who give her trouble?
”

“She kicks them in the balls,” said Jan.