The Folly of the World (60 page)

“I’ll come out!” Jo shouted so loud it made Sander wince, her face pointed at the hole in the door but not in front of it, like, where she might get stuck. Smart enough, Jo. “I’ll come out, you all just back away!”

The riot started up again, banging the door even harder, the shouts waking up the sleeping angels, no doubt, but then she roared again, and again they quieted down. Cowardly mob of nutsacks. “I’ll burn it down!” she hollered. “Back off! Twenty paces! I’ll burn it! Kill these three watchmen!”

Again the banging stopped, the silence spread, and she edged over toward the peep-window. She darted a peek before they could pop her, and seeing the grim smile on her face, he reckoned she liked what she saw. Mind, they’d shoot her soon as she stepped out, and there’d be men on either side of the wall, clear
out of her view from the peephole and ready to pounce, and her nakedness wouldn’t distract them for more than a moment—she would’ve been a sight better served with her brigandine. Before he could tell her any of that, though, she’d thrown the last bolt, wrenched the door open, and slipped out, pulling it shut behind her.

Shit. He dropped her bundle of armor and went after her, but the quick movement made him swoon in front of the door and he barely found the wherewithal to knock the top bolt in place while he got his bearings. He was right beside the peephole, and leaned into the door for a better look, his blazing forehead pressing against the oak. This was stupid, they would catch him like this, but he was too tired to move, and besides, they seemed busy enough with the girl for now.

Sander had been correct about men lying in ambush on either side of the door, then—two of them. One now lay screaming in the street but the other was right in front of Jo, the sneaky bastard having the drop on her and—no, Sander saw, that wasn’t right at all, this second man was limp as a pickled herring, and only upright because Jo had a hold of his hair, her arm quivering from the strain of holding him aloft. Her bare back filled most of the window, but past her shoulders and those of the man she hoisted up, Sander saw the crowd maybe ten paces off, and then he heard a chorus of bowstrings strumming like the harps of angels. Jo dropped the man she’d been shielding herself with, his back festooned with shafts, and Sander tried to laugh, but only a wet cough came out.

She charged them before they could reload their crossbows or move on her, and as usual he was impressed with her grit. They weren’t Belgians, like he would’ve fought, but, mundane men or no, there was a whole host of them, with cudgels and pikes and shining blades. The naked girl was among them, Glory’s End whistling through the air, but instead of severing limbs and spraying blood, as the sword would have for Sander, she deigned only to bludgeon the men’s limbs and weapons as Jo pushed through them.

Then, suddenly, tragically, impossibly, they were driving Jo
back instead of letting her through. Maybe six or eight men lay clutching themselves on the cobbles, but there were at least twice that many pressing forward, and more behind them. Sander tried to warn her, tried to tell her what to do, but as quickly as she had joined the battle, she left it, fleeing back toward the gatehouse. They followed, and bows were raised, and she looked over her shoulder, which, what the fuck, never look over your shoulder, especially when you’re running along a—

—Canal swallowed her. Sander blinked, not believing it could have ended this way, but there was the mob drawing up short at the icy ledge, those with lanterns waving them over the water, those with bows firing them into the channel. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl—first and last thing he taught her was mind the goddamn canals, especially when you’re running.

“Ball-washers!” Sander howled at them. “Plaguebitches!”

That got their attention. A few lingered, waiting for her to surface with lanterns and bows at the ready, but most of them charged the door. He fumbled the middle bolt locked just before they reached the gatehouse, and slammed the hinged portal covering the peep-window back into place. They were beating on the door again, and he resumed his position of leaning against it, as if that would help. It smelled like oil in here; maybe he should burn the place down. That would learn them.

The door thudded again and again, and Sander smiled at the thought of drying out in front of the hearth with Jo. He’d had his fill of the wet and the cold. He closed his eyes, rallying the strength to go over to where the lamp hung from a chain over the table and dash it against a wall or something, or maybe just break it over his head like some drunkard smashing pots against his skull for a laugh, or—

Huh. The banging on the door had stopped, though they were still shouting. Not at him, though. He put his ear to the oak:

“—boat!”

“—bitch!”

“—back!”

Huh. Sander opened the peep-window, wondering if this were a ruse and he was about to get his eye tickled with something sharp, but too curious to care.

No, not a ruse. The men’s backs were to him again, and the crowd on the edge of the canal was dispersing, and with the quickness, members of the militia and men and women and kids in their nightclothes all shoving one another aside to flee the channel. Strange. In one of those peculiar little gaps of silence in the cacophony of cries, Sander heard a bowstring snap. One of the men closest to the gatehouse pitched over, a fountain of black flying up from where the quarrel had stuck in his throat. Huh.

Was someone calling his name? It certainly sounded like it, an angel whispering over the battlefield, a mouse murmuring in an avalanche.
Sander
, it said,
Sander
, then something else?
Run
, maybe? Well, that—

—Ah. Jo was floating along the edge of the water, a vengeful ghost, and one possessed of a magical weapon to match Glory’s End. It was a crossbow, but one that never emptied—the spirit need only kneel for a moment, as if in slack-assed prayer, and then the bow was nocked and loaded again. She had almost reached the side of the gatehouse, crying his name over and over again, and he stared in awe at the phantom. It had been so long since his dreams had been anything but nightmares that all he could do was ogle the spectacle as she shot down one plaguebitch after another. This was great!

“Sander!” She was nearly screaming it now, “Sander, run! The canal! Sander! Get in!”

Ah. He saw it now—she was standing in a boat that drifted down the channel. That was… pretty smart, he had to admit, and nearly tripping over the balled-up cloak full of armor, he lurched over toward the door in the alcove. The crying lad had buggered off somewhere, but as Sander rounded the table and opened the canal door, someone very large moved to snatch him.
He turned, swinging his stump at the man, too tired to explain why, no, he wasn’t up to a tussle at present, and inadvertently knocked the lantern from its ceiling hook, onto the table. That sheriff’s pet giant who had worked Sander over back on Voorstraat was right fucking here, somehow, his neck all black and blue and his face all red with fury, but instead of laying into Sander, the big baby fell back, scared. Damn right, he was scared.

No, shit, it was just that the lamp had broken, a column of fire shooting straight up to the ceiling, and then Sander’s legs caught flame as burning oil flowed off the table, all over him. Tired or no, he found his strength then and pitched himself through the door, slipping on the dock and falling into the water. It was fucking cold, too damn cold, and he was too tired to think, let alone swim, so it was time to…

Someone had him by the hair, and suddenly dead sober and aware he was back in the well, Sander screamed underwater, kicking for the surface. He came up and clobbered Jo with his stump-hand, which crippled him with pain and nausea. It felt like someone was hammering an icicle into his fucking arm bone, and he blacked out which, sure, was probably for the best.

O
ut on the meer the mist did not rise with the sun, and midday found Jolanda rowing just as blind as she’d been before dawn. She tried not to look over her shoulder at Sander, because at any given moment he appeared dead and she couldn’t stop propelling them along to check for breathing every few strokes. She ought to cut off his scorched hose to see if his legs were all right, but at this point it wasn’t like it would make a whole hell of a difference—she inspected his stump-bindings whenever she took a break, but beyond that she didn’t know what to do with the mutilated idiot.

Hauling him into the boat despite his best efforts to drown himself had resulted in all of the gear she had packed becoming soaked, and to top it all he’d left her armor in the gatehouse, though his severed hand was still safely jammed down his hose. Typical Sander.

Jolanda locked the oars and let them drift as she stretched her deadened arms, the sweaty woolen gown she’d put on after rebinding his wrist even damper from her exertions than it had been from the splashing canal water. As if the release of the oars was a river lock dropping to loose a torrent, soreness flowed through her, washing away the numbness and flooding her body with a hundred tiny agonies. She had started to pass out at the oars, which was no good, and had all sorts of pressing needs roiling through her innards, and so she took the gown back off, and, never having put anything on underneath it, jumped overboard into the frigid bog.

The water proved warmer than the air, and just as her head went under, her feet sank into mud. Kicking free and up, she hung onto the side of the boat as she relieved herself, trying very hard not to think about giant catfish. It finally sank in that her plan had worked despite Sander’s madness, that they had a
satchel of clothes and blankets and a smaller bag stuffed with the cheese-heavy contents of Poorter Primm’s larder, as well as a dozen of the fat man’s finest crossbows.

Despite Poorter’s general priggishness, she hoped she hadn’t hurt him too badly when she’d smacked him with the practice sword—she’d been expecting him to give up without a fight, but he’d surprised her by pulling a bow and she’d had no choice but to swing on him. He’d gone down after the first blow and let himself be tied up, and only spoke to fruitlessly protest the gag that she shoved into his mouth. She supposed he recognized her despite the charcoal disguise and felt betrayed, but the double-dealer deserved a lot worse than she’d given him—just after scaling his roof she’d seen several hooded figures leave his house, no doubt Wurfbain’s people checking in on their chum.

But Jolanda was done worrying about Poorter and who he might be plotting with. She was done with all of them, for better or worse, now that her plan had worked. She’d nearly abandoned it altogether, panicking at the last moment and going to Lady Meyl’s estate to throw herself at the woman’s mercy, to tell her everything, but the servant who answered the gate claimed that his mistress was out. That dogsbody had been just a little too insistent that Jolanda wait inside for Lady Meyl, and Jolanda rediscovered her resolve, running all the way through the crowds from Meyl’s house to Primm’s.

There she went, worrying over Dordt business again, when she was done with it forever. At least she and Lijsbet had enjoyed one final afternoon of cards and wine in Solomon’s loft before Jolanda set upon the bloody path that took her from the house of the wealthiest noble in Dordrecht to the loft window of one of the city’s shadiest artisans, from there to a midnight harbor, and then, at long last, escape. Between mist and meer the odds of their being found by any pursuers were dwindling by the moment. Wonderful.

Getting back into the rowboat proved a good deal more difficult than quitting it, and for a terrible moment Jolanda thought
she was going to tip it completely as she hauled herself over the side, but then she was in and the rocking vessel settled. She sprawled amidst the crossbows, and with the same pulse of ice water you feel in your stomach at noticing a spider crawling across your face, she saw that one of the weapons was still nocked and loaded and pointed straight at her. If she’d bumped it hard enough to trigger the long tickler…

Slowly sitting up, she took the bow and unloaded it, then set to unstringing all but two of the weapons. Useful as it might be to keep them primed and loaded as she had while taking the gatehouse, it seemed unlikely they would need them in a similar state of readiness anytime soon, and seeing Sander try to move amongst them would be like watching a blind kitten cross a field of rabbit snares.

She yawned, wondering what time of day it was, and looked at Sander. He might yet live. The boat was much smaller than the one they’d taken out to Oudeland, and maneuvering around her unconscious shipmate to get at the wee anchor was near-impossible.

To hell with it. She cleared a space for herself in the belly of the dinghy, her aching back actually warmed by the few centimeters of water pooled beneath her, and fell immediately into something resembling sleep. She woke every few moments or hours, it was hard to tell, and at one point fought a tightly knotted bag into giving up one of its blankets. The mist thickened, and she did not dream.