The Folly of the World (54 page)

“No. I don’t know,” said Jolanda, her voice breaking. “I don’t know, but he wouldn’t. I’m so tired, Lijsbet—is there anywhere we can go?”

“I…” Lijsbet pursed her lips, nodded to herself. “Right, so I need to come clean—I wasn’t staying with my aunt when you were gone, nor minding my nephews last night… You know my husband left me, and he’s not coming back—I mean, if he did, I wouldn’t have him, I’d run first, I would…”

“Lijsbet,” said Jolanda wearily. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been lying about where I’ve been off to,” said Lijsbet. “I’ve got a fellow I’ve been spending time with, a… a Jew, m’lady. I know I should have told you, but I… well, I didn’t want you thinking less of me. I promise I never shirked in the house on account of him, I’d only see him when I was dismissed, and—”

Jolanda sucked her teeth. “I’d have thought you’d know better, Lijsbet, than to get mixed up with some horned cheat. I didn’t know there were any in the city, seducing innocent girls with their spells and—”

“M’lady, that’s the veriest nonsense,” said Lijsbet shortly. “I’m sorry to correct you, but it is—why I didn’t say anything before, I
knew
you’d act like this. He doesn’t have horns, nor a tail, and he doesn’t cast spells—he’s a cobbler, and—”

“Lijsbet,” said Jolanda, offering her maid a watery smile. “I’m fucking with you. The graaf’s the one who told me all that, and I shouldn’t need to tell you what credence I give his tales. Can we stay with your Jew, is that why you brought him up?”

“Yes,” said Lijsbet. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry, it’s just what people think about him, you know, and I’m just flustered, too—you and the graaf acting so queer ever since you came back, and I’ve been worried about Simon, and so I’ve been with my Solomon, he takes my mind from it, and if I hadn’t spent last night with him, I might… like Lansloet and Drimmelin. Jan might’ve—”

“Lijsbet,” said Jolanda. “Not another word about it. He—” Jolanda’s skull ached as she forced herself to call Sander by his
hated persona—“Jan didn’t kill them. Somebody’s after us, after Jan, and me, and Simon. Now, can we please get out of here?”

“Of course, of course,” said Lijsbet, and they were moving off down the alley. “You can stay with us there long as you need. His mother’s gone to Tilburg to visit her sister, so it’s just us, and he’s got a secret loft where he does his praying, so even when the shop’s open, you’ll have a bit of privacy. It’s tight in there, nothing like you’re used to, but it is what it is.”

As it turned out, Jolanda stayed with Lijsbet and her surprisingly kind Jew, Solomon, for close to two weeks, never leaving the tiny house and rarely leaving the secret loft with all its candles and suspicious-looking scrolls. It was in the leather-stinking loft that Jolanda grieved for Lansloet and Drimmelin when it was confirmed that both servants had indeed been murdered, and where she wept for Simon when Lijsbet brought word of his confession and subsequent suicide. The loft was also where Jolanda plotted to somehow avenge him, not believing either of these claims about the dead, disgraced Gruyere. Over the din of shop noise, she also tried to figure out a means of helping Sander, now held in the same cell Simon had been locked in, and after many a lip-gnawed, leg-cramped night, she started to put together a plot.

When she finally left Solomon’s house, Jolanda went to Laurent’s office, thinking that if anyone would take a bribe to help her, it would be the lawyer. After expressing concern for her and her family, Laurent genially informed her that a distant cousin had arrived to take over affairs while her father was awaiting trial, and if she hadn’t yet seen him, she should return home at once. She took the advice—Jan had certainly wasted no time in installing himself, which backed up her theory that he had set all this up with Wurfbain.

And so she returned to the house on Voorstraat where she had spent the last two years. Its glazed brick facade no longer looked so grand, its profile so tall and lordly—it seemed to squat there,
squished between its neighbors, the pigeon-steps of its triangular roof the wedge that had pushed it up from the bowels of the swamp like a stinkhorn emerging from a rotten log. This could be the last time she ever set foot in the place, the last time she ever laid eyes on the familiar foyer, the narrow stair, her bedroom. That thought was what finally propelled her up the stairs—be done with it, and be away.

She went to the door and tried her key. The lock had been changed.
Cunt.

She knocked. After a long wait, she knocked again. And again.

Finally, the door opened. A short, thin man she had never seen before peered out at her like a wary turtle having a look outside its shell and not at all pleased by what it had found. Ants, maybe. He had on the same plain gray livery Lansloet and Drimmelin had worn. A fortnight after the two servants were murdered, and here was a new one dressed the part—if this wasn’t her home, damn it, if she were just some passerby asking directions, she should never have suspected that this turtle was a new addition to the house.

“Yes?” said the servant.

“I’m here to see…” Jolanda paused, unsure if Jan had slipped on yet another alias despite Lansloet’s referring to him as Sander when he’d introduced the unwelcome guest—who would want to be
Sander
? She pushed her bulky, ugly cloak farther back to showcase her somewhat filthy grass-green velvet-and-satin gown, hoping her obvious money would outweigh her vagueness. “The master of the house. I am… his relation. Jolanda Tieselen.”

“Please,” said the servant, standing aside and ushering her in. He was nervous—competent, but not yet used to nobility, she guessed. “Graaf Himbrecht is in the parlor, if you will…”

The man blanched and froze. Definitely new to all this—Lansloet let people in without asking all the time, but that had clearly been his rebellious streak; he’d known better, he just
liked getting on Sander’s tits. Jolanda never thought she’d find herself half-smiling, half-choking up at the thought of Lansloet, but he—

She had to stay focused, and gave this fellow a reassuring smile as she whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle that you told me he was in without asking. Go on and make sure it’s all right. It will be.”

He relaxed, giving her a grateful nod as he went down the hall to enter the parlor via the kitchen and dining room, rather than through the doors beside them—an old trick to make the narrow house seem larger than it truly was. As soon as he went into the kitchen, Jolanda took the stairs, bracing her palms against the walls to keep her footfalls as quiet as possible. Her room was open, praise the goodness of God, so she had slipped inside and locked the door behind her before the servant even returned to the creaky floorboards of the foyer. Wriggling out of the cloak, she began to strip.

The room was as she had left it two weeks before—apparently Jan hadn’t made time to get rid of everything belonging to the former tenants. She retrieved the pieces of armor she’d scattered across the floor when blindly shedding the suit the night Jan came home, and laid them out on the bed. Quick, quick, quick, she thought as she pulled the leather chausses on—her wearing the padded leggings all over Creation after Brouwershaven had loosened them a bit, but it was still a battle to get into them. She was topless, still buckling the plates of the poleyns over her knees, when she heard the slat of the lock pop open—she knew it was easy enough to do with a thin piece of metal. Such as a dagger. She snatched up her sword, her Tongue—she had left it in the kitchen her last night here, she remembered, but it had been waiting for her on the bed, right beside her blunted Tooth.

Instead of the servant who had admitted her, Jan stood in the doorway. In one fist he held two mugs by the handles, in the other a small knife. The cups made her more nervous than the
weapon—those, and his smile. He didn’t feign embarrassment at catching her half-dressed; on the contrary, he stepped into the room and bumped the door shut behind him as he eyed her bare chest.

“You’ve filled out nicely, Jo,” he said, and she told herself to swing on him. She would have, too, if Sander hadn’t fucked himself quite so tremendously and needed her to find a way to free him, or, or, or… “What do you say we have a tumble, for old time’s sake?”

“Stay where you are,” she said, impressed with how steady her voice was. He looked more handsome than ever, but then they said the devil was a gentleman. They also said he was a cunt. “I’m dying for a pretext to cut you down, and you so much as—”

“
Pretext
,” said Jan, pulling a face. “My, you’ve taken to being a lady, haven’t you? Certainly explains how Sander was able to get away with it, having you to help. I underestimated you, Jo, I—”

She whipped the sword through the air between them, breaking the clay mugs in his hand and skimming the hair off his knuckles. He stopped advancing at that, scowling down at the wine that had exploded all over his hand and shirtfront. He backed away, tossing the jagged, wet mug-ends onto her bed. She grinned, doing her best to look as wild as she must have when he’d first found her on the beach. “Don’t you know ’bout staying clear of lady-chambers, poot? Get to fuck, and when I’m dressed we’ll have a blather, aye?”

He nodded, and she saw she’d taken more than hair off the edge of his fist—a thicker vintage was blurring with the wine dripping from his hand. The devilry in his eyes was still there, but he didn’t let any dribble out of his mouth, silently exiting the room. Only when she heard him on the stair did she resecure the latch, put her sword down, and finish dressing. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to wait a spell before lacing up the leather half-sleeves of her vambraces, but she was proud of herself, and knew Sander would be, too, when she told him. First she had to spring him, though.

Picking out several sets of her warmest clothing rather than her handsomest, she packed the gowns, pelisses, and shifts into a large satchel, but when she went for the most important component, she felt herself shrivel inside—her money pouch was gone. She and Sander had spent a bit while traveling to and from Monster, and she’d given a full third to her shitbird brothers, but there had still been so much left… except it wasn’t where she’d left it secreted in her chest. After checking the room twice over, she confirmed it wasn’t anywhere else. Miserable thieving neuker had the whole Tieselen fortune at his disposal, and he still tossed her goddamn chambers…

The cloak went over her brigandine armor, then the satchel went over her shoulder, and then a sword went in each hand, Tooth in her left, Tongue in her right. The twin scabbards on her hips made the bulky cloak poof out behind her, but she had more important things to worry about than how ridiculous she might appear to those expecting more elegance from the Lady Tieselen. Important things like burning this whole fucking city back into the meer, if that was what it took to free Sander and her from its sucking clutches.

Coming down into the foyer, part of her cautioned against engaging with Jan—the front door was right there, she could be away down Voorstraat and never look back. It wasn’t like she’d never been skint, she could get by without the money Jan had stolen, and who knew if she could even expect him to turn it over… but no. Leaving would mean never having all her questions answered, never figuring out how a man could return from the grave. She wasn’t afraid of no plaguebitch, ghost or no. She wasn’t. Licking her lips, she turned away from the door, advancing down the hall.

Entering the kitchen, she found the turtleish servant sitting on a stool in the corner by the cheese barrel. He gave her a dirty look, but dared nothing more, and she gave him a bright smile in return. This energized her a bit—it was fun, falling back into
bad behavior. She wondered if Sander had missed it as much as her, not giving a flea’s weight what any random dickskin thought of you. Kicking the kitchen door open, she found the dining room empty, but the gate-section of the partition was spread, and she could see her prey in the parlor.

Jan sat in Sander’s chair in front of the empty fireplace. There weren’t even ashes in the grate. His right index finger was bound in dark cloth, and in his left hand he held a new mug. He was looking up at the uncannily lifelike painting of Christ that Wurfbain had convinced Sander to purchase, the one she’d petitioned him to take down any number of times.

“Who did this?” Jan asked, not looking away from the pallid savior lurking above the hearth.

“He’s a court painter,” said Jolanda. “Another goddamn Jan, I think they said he was called. Eyck, maybe, Jan Eyck. Reckon his name was part of the appeal for Sander, but I gather Wurfbain wanted us to buy it to piss off the local Cods, since most’ve ’em couldn’t afford a fancy picture by one of Duke Philip’s favorites.”

“Oh,” said Jan. “I wondered if it was someone on the island. I’ve never seen anything like it. Won’t you join me beneath his loving gaze, dear lady, or are you intending to skulk over there indefinitely?”

Jolanda approached Jan, but even if he had set out another chair, she wouldn’t have sat. Not on her life. He didn’t have a weapon in hand or sight, though, and to prove she didn’t have any more concern of him than he did of her, she sheathed both swords.

“Will you marry me, Jolanda?” he said lazily over the sound of metal sliding home.

“Well, I weren’t doing nothing else this afternoon,” she said, careful to keep herself from talking too properly. She ought to be stupid for him, or at least rough enough to be shapeable. She shifted her arm, her satchel uncomfortably pressing her armored doublet into the skin.

“I’m serious,” he said, looking up. “It would save us both a lot of trouble.”

“You would have killed me, he hadn’t stopped you,” Jolanda said, wishing it could be a question.

“I’m a changed man, Jo, though obviously I don’t expect you to believe that immediately. In time, though, I think you will come to understand.”

“Smell like the same turd we left bobbing in the swamp,” she said.

“If that were true, I might have tried some lie about how I never really meant to hurt you back there, how it was all some trick to betray Sander that went horribly, horribly awry. But you’re right, of course, I did mean to murder you.” He flexed his bandaged finger with a wince, the binding darkening as he did so.