Also by Stuart Turton
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Stuart Turton
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by David Mann
Cover images © Nadezhda Molkentin/Shutterstock, Croisy/Shutterstock, Siberica/Shutterstock, Adrian Niederhaeuser/Shutterstock
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Turton, Stuart, author.
Title: The devil and the dark water / Stuart Turton.
Description: Naperville : Sourcebooks Landmark, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020023597 | (hardcover)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6120.U79 D48 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023597
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Notable Passengers and Crew
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An Apology to History. And Boats.
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Ada,
Right now, you’re two years old, asleep in your cot. You’re very strange and you make us laugh a lot. By the time you read this, you’ll be somebody else entirely. I hope we’re still pals. I hope I’m a good dad. I hope I don’t make too many mistakes and you forgive the ones I do. Truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. But I’m always trying hard.
I love you, kid. This is for you. Whoever you’ve become.
Foreword
In 1634, the United East India Company was the wealthiest trading company in existence, with outposts spread across Asia and the Cape. The most profitable of these was Batavia, which shipped mace, pepper, spices, and silks back to Amsterdam aboard its fleet of Indiaman galleons.
The journey took eight months and was fraught with danger.
Oceans were largely unmapped, and navigational aids were rudimentary. Only one certain route existed between Batavia and Amsterdam, and ships that strayed beyond it were often lost. Even those that kept between these “wagon lines” remained at the mercy of disease, storms, and pirates.
Many who boarded in Batavia would never make it to Amsterdam.
Manifest of notable passengers and crew sailing aboard the Saardam bound for Amsterdam, as compiled by Chamberlain Cornelius Vos
Dignitaries
Governor General Jan Haan, wife Sara Wessel, and daughter Lia Jan
Chamberlain Cornelius Vos
Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht
Creesjie Jens and sons Marcus and Osbert Pieter
Viscountess Dalvhain
Lieutenant Arent Hayes
Notable Passengers
Predikant Sander Kers and ward Isabel
Saardam’s Senior Officers
Reynier van Schooten, chief merchant
Adrian Crauwels, captain
Isaack Larme, first mate
Notable Crew
Johannes Wyck, boatswain
Frederick van de Heuval, constable
The Prisoner
Samuel Pipps
1
Arent Hayes howled in pain as a rock slammed into his massive back.
Another whistled by his ear, a third striking his knee, causing him to stumble, bringing jeers from the pitiless mob, who were already searching the ground for more missiles to throw. Hundreds of them were being held back by the city watch, their spittle-flecked lips shouting insults, their eyes black with malice.
“Take shelter, for pity’s sake,” implored Sammy Pipps over the din, his manacles flashing in the sunlight as he staggered across the dusty ground. “It’s me they want.”
Arent was twice the height and half again the width of most men in Batavia, including Sammy. Although not a prisoner himself, he’d placed his large body between the crowd and his much smaller friend, offering them only a sliver of target to aim at.
The bear and the sparrow, they’d been nicknamed before Sammy’s fall. Never before had it appeared so true.
Sammy was being taken from the dungeons to the harbor, where a ship waited to transport him to A
msterdam. Four musketeers were escorting them, but they were keeping their distance, wary of becoming targets themselves.
“You pay me to protect you,” snarled Arent, wiping the dusty sweat from his eyes as he tried to gauge the distance to safety. “I’ll do it until I can’t anymore.”
The harbor lay behind a huge set of gates at the far end of Batavia’s central boulevard. Once those gates closed behind them, they’d be beyond the crowd’s reach. Unfortunately, they were at the tail end of a long procession moving slowly in the heat. The gates seemed no closer now than when they’d left the humid dampness of the dungeon at midday.
A rock thudded into the ground at Arent’s feet, spraying his boots with dried dirt. Another ricocheted off Sammy’s chains. Traders were selling them out of sacks and making good coin doing it.
“Damn Batavia,” snarled Arent. “Bastards can’t abide an empty pocket.”
On a normal day, these people would be buying from the bakers, tailors, cordwainers, binders, and candlemakers lining the boulevard. They’d be smiling and laughing, grumbling about the infernal heat, but manacle a man and offer him up to torment, and even the meekest soul surrendered itself to the devil.
“It’s my blood they want,” argued Sammy, trying to push Arent away. “Get yourself to safety, I’m begging you.”
Arent looked down at his terrified friend, whose hands were pressing ineffectually against his chest. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, those high cheekbones swollen purple with the beatings he’d received while imprisoned. His brown eyes—usually wry—were wide and desperate.
Even maltreated, he was a handsome sod.
By contrast, Arent’s scalp was shorn, his nose punched flat. Somebody had bitten a chunk out of his right ear in a fight, and a clumsy flogging a few years back had left him with a long scar across his chin and neck.
“We’ll be safe once we reach the docks,” said Arent stubbornly, having to raise his voice as cheers erupted ahead of them.
The procession was being led by Governor General Jan Haan, who was stiff backed on a white stallion, a breastplate fastened above his doublet, a sword clattering at his waist.
Thirteen years ago, he’d purchased the village that had stood here on behalf of the United East India Company. No sooner had the natives signed the contract than he’d put a torch to it, using its ashes to plot out the roads, canals, and buildings of the city that would take its place.
Batavia was now the Company’s most profitable outpost, and Haan had been called back to Amsterdam to join the Company’s ruling body, the enigmatic Gentlemen 17.
As his stallion trotted along the boulevard, the crowd wept and cheered, stretching their fingertips toward him, trying to touch his legs. Flowers were thrown on the ground, blessings bestowed.
He ignored it all, keeping his chin up and eyes forward. Beak-nosed and bald-headed, he put Arent in mind of a hawk perched atop a horse.
Four panting slaves struggled to keep pace with him. They were carrying a gilded palanquin with the governor general’s wife and daughter inside, a red-faced lady’s maid scurrying alongside it, fanning herself in the heat.
Behind them, four bow-legged musketeers gripped the corners of a heavy box containing the Folly. Sweat dripped from their foreheads and coated their hands, making it difficult to hold. They slipped frequently, fear flashing across their faces. They knew the punishment should the governor general’s prize be damaged.
Trailing them were a disorderly cluster of courtiers and flatterers, high-ranking clerks and family favorites, their years of scheming rewarded by the opportunity to spend an uncomfortable afternoon watching Haan leave Batavia.
Distracted by his observations, Arent allowed a gap to form between himself and his charge. A stone whistled by, hitting Sammy on the cheek, bringing a trickle of blood and jeers from the crowd.
Losing his temper, Arent scooped up the stone and hurled it back at the thrower, catching him on the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. The crowd howled in outrage, surging into the watchmen, who struggled to hold them back.
“Good throw,” murmured Sammy appreciatively, ducking his head as more stones rained down around them.
Arent was limping by the time they reached the docks, his huge body aching. Sammy was bruised but mostly untouched. Even so, he let out a cry of relief as the gates swung open ahead of them.
On the other side was a warren of crates and coiled ropes, piled-high casks, and chickens squawking in wicker baskets. Pigs and cows stared at them mournfully as bellowing stevedores loaded cargo into rowboats bobbing at the water’s edge, ready to be transported to the seven Indiaman galleons anchored in the glistening harbor. Sails furled and masts bare, they resembled dead beetles with their legs in the air, but each would soon teem with over three hundred passengers and crew.
People rattled their coin purses at the ferries rowing back and forth, pushing forward when the name of their ship was called. Children played hide-and-seek among the boxes or else clutched their mothers’ skirts while fathers glared at the sky, trying to shame a cloud out of that fierce, blue expanse.
The wealthier passengers stood a little apart, surrounded by their servants and expensive trunks. Grumbling under their umbrellas, they fanned themselves futilely, sweating into their lace ruffs.
The procession halted and the gates began to close behind them, dimming the sound of the braying mob.
A few final stones bounced off the crates, bringing the assault to an end.
Letting out a long sigh, Arent bent double, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead into the dust.
“How badly are you hurt?” asked Sammy, inspecting a cut on Arent’s cheek.
“I’m fair hungover,” grunted Arent. “Otherwise, I’m not too bad.”
“Did the watch seize my alchemy kit?”
There was genuine fear in his voice. Among his many talents, Sammy was a skilled alchemist, his kit filled with tinctures, powders, and potions he’d developed to assist his deductive work. It had taken years to create many of them, using ingredients they were a long way from replacing.
“No, I stole them out of your bedchamber before they searched the house,” replied Arent.
“Good,” approved Sammy. “There’s a salve in a small jar. The green one. Apply that to your injuries every morning and night.”
Arent wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Is that the piss-smelling one?”
“They all smell like piss. It’s not a good salve if it doesn’t smell like piss.”
A musketeer approached from the direction of the wharf, calling Sammy’s name. He wore a battered hat with a red feather, the floppy brim pulled low over his eyes. A tangle of dirty blond hair spilled down his shoulders, a beard obscuring most of his face.
Arent examined him approvingly.
Most musketeers in Batavia were part of the household guard. They gleamed and saluted and were good at sleeping with their eyes open, but this man’s ragged uniform suggested he’d done some actual soldiering. Old blood stained his blue doublet, which was dotted with holes made by shot and sword, each one patched time and again. Knee-length red breeches gave way to a pair of tanned, hairy legs riddled with mosquito bites and scars. Copper flasks filled with gunpowder jangled on a bandolier, clattering into pouches of saltpeter matches.
Upon reaching Arent, the musketeer stamped his foot smartly.
“Lieutenant Hayes, I’m Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht,” he said, waving a fly from his face. “I’m in charge of the governor general’s household guard. I’ll be sailing with you to ensure the family’s safety.” Drecht addressed himself to the musketeers escorting them. “On the boat now, lads. The governor general wants Mr. Pipps secured aboard the Saardam before the—”
“Hear me!” commanded a jagged voice from above them.
Squinting into the gla
re of sunlight, they craned their necks, following the voice upward.
A figure in gray rags was standing on a pile of crates. Bloody bandages wrapped his hands and face, a narrow gap left for his eyes.
“A leper,” Drecht muttered, in disgust.
Arent took an instinctive step backward. From boyhood, he’d been taught to fear these wasted people, whose mere presence was enough to bring ruin to an entire village. A single cough, even the lightest touch, meant a lingering, dreadful death.
“Kill that creature and burn it,” demanded the governor general from the front of the procession. “Lepers are not permitted in the city.”
A commotion erupted as the musketeers peered at one another. The figure was too high up for pikes, but their muskets had already been loaded onto the Saardam, and none of them had a bow.
Seemingly oblivious to the panic, the leper’s eyes pricked every single person gathered before him.
“Know that my master”—his roaming gaze snagged on Arent, causing the mercenary’s heart to jolt—“sails aboard the Saardam. He is the lord of hidden things, all desperate and dark things. He offers this warning in accordance with the old laws. The Saardam’s cargo is sin, and all who board her will be brought to merciless ruin. She will not reach Amsterdam.”
As the last word was uttered, the hem of his robe burst into flames. Children wailed. The watching crowd gasped and screamed in horror.
The leper didn’t make a sound. The fire crawled up his body until he was completely aflame.
He didn’t move.
He burned silently, his eyes fixed on Arent.
2
As if suddenly aware of the flames consuming him, the leper began beating at his robes.
He staggered backward, falling off the crates, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Snatching up a cask of ale, Arent covered the distance in a few strides, tearing the lid free with his bare hands and dousing the fire.
The rags sizzled, the smell of charcoal singeing his nostrils.
Writhing in agony, the leper clawed at the dirt. His forearms were terribly burnt, his face charred. Only his eyes were still human—the pupils wild, thrashing against the surrounding blue, driven mad with pain.
A scream wedged his mouth open, but no sound passed his throat.
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 1