The Folly of the World (46 page)

“We thought Your Worship and my lady Jolanda had returned before us and made the small mess,” Drimmelin said, not meeting Sander’s eyes. “But that you were out upon the town when we come in. We spent the day restoring the house, thinking you’d be home again any moment, but then my lady burst into the kitchen, giving me a fright, and ran out again, and—”

“Shut it,” said Sander, although not cruelly. “That’s not what you said when I asked about the goose, is it, Lansloet? You said you’d err on the side of us coming back, but weren’t sure if we’d
be home or not. Said you thought we might still be on the road, didn’t you?”

“If I may be so bold as to request you release me, dear lady,” Lansloet said to Jo, who unhanded him in disgust and stamped around the table to a jug of wine on the far side of the bird. She hoisted the clay vessel in both hands and took a chug on it while Lansloet addressed Sander. “With all due respect, Your Worship, what I said was that I preferred to have a hot meal for you in the event that you returned rather than risk a cold oven upon your return. I was referring to whether or not you might be dining on trenchers at the White Horse, or at another gentleperson’s home, or some entirely other location, but, and I feel this is important to clarify, another location here in town. As Drimmelin said, we had every reason to think you’d returned.”

“The house is wrecked so we did it, eh?” said Jo, thumping the jug down on the table and wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “That your every reason, Lansloet?”

“In addition to my lady’s cloak hanging by the door, there are a gentleman’s boots with fresh mud upon them beneath it. These boots bear a striking resemblance to those Our Worship wears upon his feet at this very moment, as you will surely agree once you inspect them for yourself,” said Lansloet. Tone was everything with the old stoat, and Sander marveled at Jo’s restraint in not giving him the jug full in the face. “Your unexpectedly late return to the city leads me to conclude that the girl, Lijsbet, had a male friend installed in the house while we four were away, and upon Drimmelin and my entering the house this morning they fled through the kitchen window. I would be very surprised if we see her again.”

“Out the window into the canal?” said Jo. “That makes a lot of sense, Lansloet. Nice offer, but we’re not buying.”

“I assure you, my lady, a desperate criminal has very few compunctions against getting her feet wet, once caught in the act.” Was Lansloet giving Sander a knowing look there? Memories of
Sneek welled up, welcome as a gut-ache at the start of a feast. “Perhaps they kept a boat moored beneath the window, and if not, there is enough of a ledge for an enterprising thief to creep along the rear wall of the houses until a suitable alley or pier presented itself for a drier escape.”

“Bullshit!” Jo cried. “She wouldn’t!”

“Quite the mystery,” said Sander, hoping that his face wasn’t betraying how intensely anxious all this was making him. The last person in the house he would have expected to betray or take advantage of them was Lizzy, but that certainly seemed to be a possibility now. She might even have been working with Hobbe all along—hadn’t Jo said the maid was adamant she not be made to go to war against Countess Jacoba?

“My lord,” said Lansloet, and now the servant actually looked nervous or excited, his eyes darting back and forth from Jo to Sander. “I wonder if I might venture to provide a final piece of information, one that might, perhaps, shed some small light upon the maid’s accomplice?”

Even Jo seemed curious as to this, and Sander nodded, trying like Satan tries to tempt the righteous to unravel the knot before him.

“This afternoon, not an hour before your arrival, there was a knock upon the door.” Lansloet seemed to be trying to smother a smile or else hold in a fart. “When I answered, it was the freeman Braem Gruyere.”

“Braem?” That was queer—that cunt knew better than to call on Sander without invitation, which, yeah, hadn’t been given yet, nor would it ever be, so long as Sander was graaf and Braem was a bitch. Forever, in other words. “By himself?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Lansloet with relish that was nigh obscene. “He seemed surprised to see me, I must say, although I cannot imagine who else he might be expecting to answer the door at
your
house. Sir.”

“So Braem and Lizzy… No.” Sander nodded, putting it
together. Whether or not it was true would be proven in time, but this was certainly what Lansloet was implying: “Simon. Braem was calling ’cause he thought Simon was inside with Lizzy.”

“Upon being greeted by me, he became flustered, and when I inquired as to his purpose in calling, he stammered something about how Your Worship should do well to meet him at the White Horse upon your return, an urgent matter, but I’m sure I don’t—ugh!” Lansloet fell back as Jo caught him in the jaw with the goose, the leg she’d seized it by tearing free from the momentum of the greased-up poultry and sending the rest of the bird ricocheting away. The servant hit the wall and Jo hit him again, this time rapping his nose with the drumstick.

“Liar!” Jo struck again with the goose leg. “Shameless, dastardly liar!”

Recalling the incident after the fact, Sander would chuckle to himself at the memory of Lansloet being battered by a dismembered bird, but in the moment, he was thinking too hard on all the possibilities at work and was simply annoyed by Jo’s interruption. Hauling her off the servant, he caught the drumstick across the cheek as Jo turned her weapon on him. He snapped at it, catching the raw leg between his teeth and clamping down. Once disarmed, Jo calmed substantially—perhaps the sight of Sander with goose blood and fat running down his chin was fierce enough to put the fear of a beating into her, or perhaps she was simply as tired as he was after weeks on horseback and boats.

“He’s lying,” Jo protested as Sander spit out the drumstick and carried her from the kitchen. “She wouldn’t!”

“Let’s hope not,” muttered Sander, though in regard to Lansloet being a liar—given the scenarios an ominous cloak, a trashed house, and an open window left them, he’d prefer Lizzy be just another lousy cheat in a city full of them rather than a victim herself. Sander had always liked the lippy maid, but even if he hadn’t, Jo was fond of her, and that would’ve been enough
for him. Glancing back down the hall, he saw Drimmelin kneeling over the fallen Lansloet, but then she straightened back up—she’d been retrieving the bird. Sander called behind him, “See that’s cooking before it gets any later!”

“It’s
bullshit
,” she said. “Lijsbet wouldn’t, not with
Simon
. She… do you think she’s all right?”

“I’m sure of it,” said Sander, though a particularly gruesome thought had entered his imagination—what if the girl had been wearing Jo’s cloak, and an assailant mistook the maid for her mistress? If Hobbe had hired an assassin and the poor servant had suffered for it, he would see Count Wurfbain chained out at Trash Island, a fancy target for graaf and daughter to hone their shooting.

Having carried Jo all the way down the hall, he deposited her at the foot of the stairs and knelt to inspect the foreign pair of boots that indeed muddied the floor beside his discarded surcoat. A man’s, sure enough, and a cut similar to his own. “I’ll just be out to check the Horse and see if Braem’s about, and if so, I’ll have the truth out of him before that goose loses its blush.”

“Good thinking,” said Jo. “Let’s go by the harbor on the way, see if the warehouse boat is moored or missing. I didn’t think to check when we were coming in.”

“You’re minding the house,” said Sander, and before she could protest, he lowered his voice and added, “in case she comes back, or Simon, or someone else. I don’t trust neither of our loyal servants, nor should you. Until we know who we can trust, any one of them might be working for Hobbe, and I’d rather not leave the house in their hands.”

Jo bit her lip, and saints pat her pate, her hand had dropped to the hilt of the sword she still wore on her belt. Her mostly leather armor might do fuck-all in a real melee, but right now he was a wee bit jealous of her having something more substantial than a doublet and hose in which to face unknown foes. That said, he wasn’t yet such a ponce that the likes of Hobbe Wurfbain or
Braem-fucking-Gruyere would spook him into donning his plate before going down to the goddamn pub—assuming those miserable servants of his had even followed his instructions and brought his armor back from Brouwershaven. No time to worry about that now.

“Be careful,” said Jo as he opened the door, which was, yeah, sound advice in the fairest weather, and it looked like both snow and wind had picked up since he’d gone inside. Never even got the chance to take his wet boots off.

“You, too,” said Sander. “Lock this behind me, and don’t let anyone inside other than Lizzy. And only then if she’s got a damn fine tale to tell.”

C
rossing the Visbrug, Sander realized he’d neglected to re-don either the heavy cape or surcoat he’d ditched upon first entering his house, his soft azure doublet scant protection from the wind that now howled through the narrow avenue. Snow was blowing in his eyes, and he hurried down Groenmarkt to where Vleeshouwersstraat cut over Varkenmarkt, which was the long way to the White Horse, but he needed time to think. Vleeshouwersstraat was narrow enough to restrict the snow even as it channeled the wind, and coming out of the alley, he cursed—he’d meant to run by the old harbor, as Jo suggested, but he’d sooner kiss the devil’s cock than retrace his steps now. No matter, he’d go that way on the return, assuming he didn’t find the answers he sought at the tavern. Of course, getting answers required questions, but he’d figure those out just as soon as he was out of the harsh night.

Angling across town, he saw few people on the streets, the wind too stern, the snow too thick—even the militia would be tucked into their gatehouses, he supposed. Which made the fact that a hooded figure had followed him for three turns now all the more obvious. Sander’s hand fell to his waist, but his sword was back at the house, hanging up beside his cloak, and he almost laughed at his folly. He quickened his pace, making for the alley just ahead that cut between the White Horse and the neighboring bakery. The backdoor to the baker’s house lay just inside the alley’s mouth, and he could flatten himself in the doorway, get the drop on this git, sword or no—the day he needed tools to
take down a single man was the day he deserved what he got. If it was someone Hobbe had hired, or—

“Graaf!” came from just ahead, and peering through the churning snow, he saw Braem Gruyere had stepped out of the White Horse. Trying to be nonchalant about it, Sander glanced over his shoulder, but his shadow was gone, swallowed by the night city. Goddamn Gruyere. Braem was wearing a sackcloth suit of a considerably poorer cut than the richly colored outfit he had flaunted at court when Sander, Hobbe, and Laurent had stripped the Gruyere brothers of their rightful inheritance. The man looked haggard, which was a rare state for the proud if disenfranchised pretty boy. “We’ve got to talk, Jan.”

“ ’Bout you skulking around my place without invitation?” said Sander. “Wager we do. See, where I come from—”

“Please,” said Braem. How’d Lansloet described him, flustered? That was an understatement; the lad was positively losing his shit. “Everything’s moving too fast. Simon’s been arrested, and they mean to hang him. You need to help.”

“Eh?” Sander squinted, looking for a break in the man’s bullshit. Simon, arrested? “Let’s get inside, have a drink and you tell me all—”

“No!” said Braem. “No, they, they have spies everywhere, we can’t be seen together. For you as well as Simon and I. Come on, let’s go to the south gatehouse, they’re keeping him there, I’ll tell you as we go. Pull your collar up, you won’t need to talk, just listen, please listen.”

“Right,” said Sander, leading the man directly into the alley he had originally made for. Braem seemed less drunk and posturing than usual, which made his raving all the more odd, and—

Shit. Sander sighed, realizing Braem meant to lead him into an ambush. Simon might have truly forgiven Sander and Jo for taking his house and property—maybe—but this sad little dandy had certainly never accepted Count John’s wisdom in awarding the Tieselen estate to Sander. Hell, Sander wouldn’t
have let that shit slide if he’d been in the Gruyere brothers’ position, so he should have expected something like this—the only question now was if Simon was in on it. A bad question, a very, very bad question, but one that came to mind now that Sander was being led away from bright lights and witnesses by the shifty Braem.

“The Hooks are behind it,” said Braem, slowing his pace. It was blatant what he was doing, but Sander slowed as well. By the faint light that seeped down into the alley and reflected on the snow, Sander saw that Braem was wearing a sword, not something the man was in the habit of doing but a welcome sight nevertheless—this confirmed the cunt’s intent, and if Braem had a sword, then Sander was never a few quick movements away from having a sword. Sander focused, making the pommel look more and more like her, like his queen, his mistress. It was her, he thought, she’d found him again… but she hadn’t, it was just a plain sword, and he grunted, trying harder to make her appear.

“They’ve been replacing real nobles to put their own…
impostors
into power.” The words left Braem in a rush, like oats spilling from a cut feedbag. “I thought you were one, which is the whole reason we did what we did, but I see now that you’re not, you can’t be, you’re as real as me or Simon. Impostors, they’re impostors, but not just that, no no, something much worse is afoot. Something too horrible to even… Lord Above, I’ve seen it with my own eyes and I don’t know what to make of it, what to make of all their plotting, all the
eels
… We need to free Simon and get to my friends, our friends, before they kill him, or you. They’ve done it all wrong, they’ve made it look like Simon’s the killer, that he murdered the kids, but you and I know better, the kids were put out there to set
you
up, and now that he’s been arrested, we—”

“Shut it, shut it—who arrested Simon?” Sander interrupted, the pieces not fitting together.