The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Kers raised an eyebrow. “You fear these men?”

  “Isn’t one of them who wouldn’t slit your throat for a free drink, then rape your ward while your blood was still warm,” interrupted van Schooten.

  His tone was meant to shock, but the predikant gazed at him levelly, while Isabel’s hand tightened around the strap of her satchel. Whatever she thought of the declaration, it didn’t show on her face.

  “Fear is the curse of the faithless,” said Kers. “Upon my brow, a sacred duty has been placed. I mean to fulfill it, and I will trust God to protect me while I do so.”

  “You mean to go among the crew?” asked Larme.

  “Yes, dwarf, and deliver God’s word.”

  Larme bridled. “They’ll kill you.”

  “If that is God’s plan for me, then I welcome it.”

  He did, thought Arent. He really did. He’d come across a few pious men in his time and learned to spot the fakers. Piety, true piety, came at a savage cost. God was the only flame that gave them light, the only source of warmth and direction. They saw the rest of the world as a dull, gray thing they’d ecstatically set alight to spread their flame. Sander Kers spoke every word as if he were striking the flint.

  A silent conversation passed between Crauwels and Larme, a question asked through twitches and small movements of the head, the answer delivered with pursed lips and a slight shrug. It was the language of those who worked at dangerous occupations in close quarters. Arent communicated with Sammy the same way.

  The predikant’s gaze bore into Crauwels. “Now, do I have your blessing to go about my ministrations?”

  Crauwels threw the metal disk into the air again, only to immediately snatch it back down in frustration. “My permission, aye. Not my blessing. And it extends only to you, not your ward. I’ll not risk a mutiny over lust.”

  “Captain—­” protested the young woman.

  “Isabel!” Kers interrupted sternly. “We have what we came for.”

  She glared from one face to the other, her expression indicating quite clearly that while they had what they had come for, she did not. Sucking her lips in irritation, she stamped out of the cabin.

  Kers hobbled after her on his cane.

  “Well, there’s a spot of trouble I had no use for,” said Crauwels, scratching his eyebrow. “Now, you, thief taker, what do you need from me today?”

  Arent bristled at the title. Sammy had always hated being called a thief taker. He said it was the profession of brawlers and gutter dwellers, fit only for small mysteries easily solved by fists. He preferred to be called a problematary, a title entirely made up and entirely his own, yet one kings had emptied treasuries to employ.

  “Did you have a maimed carpenter aboard?”

  “Bosey, aye. Knew the name for every nail and plank holding this ship together. Didn’t turn up for roster though. Why?”

  “Sammy Pipps thinks he was the leper who threatened us on the docks.”

  Larme flinched, then tried to cover it by rolling up his chart and hopping down from his stool. “I need to check our speed, Captain.”

  “Take the jug of ale out of the helmsman’s hand while you’re out there,” Crauwels said gruffly.

  Arent watched Larme leave, resolving to talk to him later, once he had everything he needed from the captain.

  “Can you think of any reason this Bosey would be threatening the Saardam?” asked Arent.

  “I know he fell afoul of the crew somehow, though I couldn’t tell you how. A captain has to keep his distance from the men much as he can, else there’s no way to govern them. Larme would know more.”

  “On the docks, he mentioned having a master. Know anything about that?”

  “There’s one hundred and eighty sailors on my crew, Hayes. You’re lucky I know his name. Honestly, it’s Larme you need. He’s closer to the rabble than I am.” He was growing impatient. “Is there anything else? I’ve still got a dozen other nuisances to attend.”

  “I need permission to speak with the constable guarding your gunpowder store,” said Arent.

  “Why?”

  “Sammy Pipps is worried somebody’s planning to blow it up.”

  “Good enough,” grunted Crauwels, throwing the metal disk toward Arent, who caught it in his palm. It was heavy and engraved with a double-­headed bird.

  “Show the constable that token, and he’ll know you go with my good word,” he said.

  “A moment,” said van Schooten, making a grand show of rising from his chair and going to the table. He pulled a quill from an inkpot and began scrawling a series of numbers on a piece of vellum. “I’m the master of this voyage, and all doors will remain closed to you until I say otherwise. Unfortunately, I can’t give you what you ask until you settle a debt,” he said, tossing a handful of pounce on the ink to dry it before handing it to Arent.

  “What this?” asked Arent, staring at it.

  “It’s a bill,” responded van Schooten, his eyes shining.

  “A bill?”

  “For the cask.”

  “What cask?”

  “The cask of ale you broke open on the dock,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It was Company property.”

  “You’re charging me for sparing a man’s suffering?” demanded Arent incredulously.

  “The man wasn’t Company property.”

  “He was on fire.”

  “Be glad the Company didn’t own the flames,” said van Schooten with that same infuriating reasonableness. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Hayes. As per Company policy, we may not render you any service until prior debts have been settled.”

  Crauwels growled, snatching the vellum from Arent’s hand and shaking it in the chief merchant’s face. “Hayes is trying to help, you dark-­hearted wretch. What’s become of you these last two weeks? It’s like you’re a different man.”

  Doubt flashed on van Schooten’s face, but it was no match for his arrogance. “Perhaps if he’d come to me first, we could have been spared this unpleasantness, but”—­he shrugged—­“here we are. My authority must—­”

  “Your authority is worth salt!”

  The voice had come from an adjoining doorway, where Governor General Jan Haan was red faced and shimmering with rage. “How dare you treat Lieutenant Hayes with such disrespect,” he hissed, disgust pouring out of him. “From this point forward, you will address him as ‘sir,’ and you will show him the same deference you show me, or I’ll have Guard Captain Drecht cut out your tongue. Do you understand?”

  “My lord—­” van Schooten stammered, glancing between Arent and the governor general, desperately trying to draw some line between them. “I…I… No offense was—­”

  “Your intentions couldn’t be less important to me,” snapped Haan, dismissing van Schooten with a wave of his hand.

  His gaze found Arent, a sudden smile brightening his face.

  “Come, Nephew,” he said, inviting him inside. “It’s time we talked.”

  13

  The governor general had taken the captain’s cabin. It was twice as large as the others, with its own privy. Furs were piled on the bunk and a rug laid on the floor. Hanging on the walls were oil paintings of famous scenes from the governor general’s personal history, including the siege at Breda.

  Arent was in that one. He was the giant covered in blood, carrying his injured uncle over his shoulder while single-­handedly fighting hordes of Spanish soldiers. It hadn’t happened that way, but it was close enough to make him feel sick with the memory. Truth was, they’d hidden under bodies and clambered through middens, holding their breath all the way through the enemy line. He could understand why his uncle hadn’t commissioned that for his wall though. It was a difficult thing to capture magnificently in oil.

  A harried clerk was transferring clothes from a sea chest i
nto drawers, while Cornelius Vos, the governor general’s chamberlain, was arranging scroll cases very precisely on a shelf. It took Arent a couple of glances to really notice him. With his muddy hair and brown clothes, it was difficult to distinguish him from the pillars supporting the roof.

  “I appreciate your intervention, but I can fight my own battles, Uncle,” said Arent, closing the door behind him.

  “This battle was beneath you,” responded Haan, waving an agitated hand in the direction of the great cabin. “Reynier van Schooten is weak and venal and grasping. That there’s any place for him in this Company I love makes me love this Company a little less.”

  Arent examined his uncle. They’d last seen each other a month ago, when he and Sammy had first arrived in Batavia. They’d eaten a large dinner and drunk a great quantity of wine, then reminisced, for it had been eleven years since they’d met last.

  Haan hadn’t changed a great deal. In the eleven years between meetings, that hawklike face had become more hawkish perhaps, and there was now an island of sunburnt baldness on top of his head. About the only significant change was his weight. He’d lost the coating of fat that was the privilege of wealth, growing thin as any beggar on the street.

  Eerily thin, thought Arent. The way a sword was thin. Sharp rather than frail, as if age were a whetstone. Could it be worry that had remolded him? A breastplate sat snugly atop his clothes, the metal gleaming. Despite its obvious quality, it must have been uncomfortable. Even generals at war took their armor off once they returned to their tents, but his uncle showed no such inclination.

  Haan peered around his nephew’s body, finding Guard Captain Drecht waiting patiently behind him, his hat pressed respectfully to his chest.

  “You look like you’re attending my funeral, Drecht. What do you want from me?”

  “To request permission to offload some of our musketeers to another ship, sir. We’ve got them crammed into every empty space we can find, but there just isn’t enough room on the Saardam.”

  “How many did we bring aboard?”

  “Seventy.”

  “And how many do you want to offload?”

  “Thirty.”

  “What do you make of it, Vos?” Haan asked his chamberlain.

  Vos glanced over his shoulder, his ink-­stained fingers twitching as he considered the details. “Your protection would be adequately served by the number we’d retain, and the extra rations would be welcome. I can see nothing against it,” he declared before returning to his work.

  “Then you have your permission, Guard Captain,” said Haan. “Now, if you gentlemen would excuse me, I’d like some time alone with my nephew. We have much to discuss.”

  With a regretful glance at his pile of unordered scrolls, Vos followed Drecht into the great cabin, shutting the door behind him.

  “Curious fellow,” said Arent.

  “None finer with figures, but you’d have more fun talking to the figurehead,” Haan said, running his fingers along the jugs in his wine rack. “He’s loyal though. As is Drecht, and that counts for a great deal these days. Do you want a drink?”

  “Is that your famous wine cupboard?”

  “As much as would fit,” said Haan. “I have something French that I’d be glad to waste on those wretched taste buds of yours.”

  “I’d be glad to have it wasted on me.”

  Haan took down a jug, blowing the dust away. Tearing the cork loose, he poured out two mugs, handing Arent one. “To family,” he said, raising his mug.

  Arent clinked it, and they drank heartily, savoring the taste.

  “I tried to see you after your soldiers took Sammy, but I wasn’t even allowed into the fort,” said Arent, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. “They said you’d summon me when you had a free moment, but I didn’t hear anything.”

  “That was cowardice on my part.” Haan lowered his eyes, shamefaced. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid if I saw you… I was afraid of what I might be forced to do.”

  “Uncle?”

  The governor general rolled the wine around his mug, staring deeply into the red liquid as if some great truth would shortly reveal itself. Sighing, he stared at Arent.

  “Now you’re standing in front of me, I realize my oath to the Company is not greater than my oath to your family,” Haan said quietly. “So tell me, without fear, did you know what Samuel Pipps was doing?”

  Arent opened his mouth, but his uncle silenced him with a hand.

  “Before you answer, understand fully, there will be no recrimination from me,” Haan said, his eyes scouring Arent’s features. “I will do everything in my considerable power to shield you, but I must know if Samuel Pipps intends to name you as a”—­he searched for the word—­“conspirator when he goes before the Gentlemen 17.” His face darkened. “If that’s the case, additional measures must be taken.”

  Arent had no idea what “additional measures” meant specifically, but he could hear the blood dripping from them.

  “I never saw him do anything underhanded, Uncle,” he said stridently. “I never have. He doesn’t even know what he’s accused of.”

  “He knows,” scoffed Haan.

  “Are you certain? He’s a better man than you give him credit for.”

  The governor general went to the porthole, his back to his nephew. Only an hour at sea and the fleet was already beginning to disperse, the white sails leaving the monsoon clouds behind.

  “Do I strike you as a stupid man?” asked Haan, an edge in his voice.

  “No.”

  “Reckless, then? Cavalier, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Samuel Pipps is a hero to this noble Company we all serve. He’s a favorite of the Gentlemen 17. I would not manacle him nor treat him with such disregard if I had any other choice. Believe me, the punishment befits the crime.”

  “And what is that crime?” said Arent, vexed. “Why keep it a secret?”

  “Because when you face the Gentlemen 17, this bafflement will be your greatest defense,” said Haan. “They’ll believe you were involved. How could they not? They know how close you and Pipps are. They know how he leans on you. They will not believe you were ignorant. Your outrage, your confusion—­this is how we’ll sway them.”

  Arent picked up the wine jug, refilling his mug and his uncle’s.

  “His trial is eight months away, Uncle,” he said, joining him at the porthole. “But while we’re worrying about the sword, we may miss the spear. Sammy believes there’s some threat to this boat.”

  “Of course he does. He thinks he can use it to parlay his freedom.”

  “The leper had no tongue, yet he spoke. He had a maimed foot, yet he climbed a tower of crates. These peculiarities alone are worth Sammy’s attention. And then there’s the symbol that appeared on the sail.”

  “What symbol?”

  “An eye with a tail. It was exactly the same as the scar on my wrist. The one I got after my father disappeared.”

  Suddenly, Arent had his uncle’s full attention. Going to his desk, Haan plucked a quill from its well, drawing the symbol onto a sheet of parchment and holding it in front of Arent’s face.

  “This one?” he demanded, the ink dripping down the sheet. “You’re sure.”

  Arent’s heart hammered. “I’m sure. How could it be here?”

  “How much do you remember of that period after your father disappeared. Do you remember why your grandfather came for you?”

  Arent nodded. After he’d returned alone from the hunting trip, he’d been shunned. His sisters had treated him with scorn, and his mother had kept her distance, leaving his care to the servants. Everybody had hated his father, but nobody seemed glad he was gone. Nor were they happy that Arent had come back. It was never spoken aloud, but their accusation was
obvious. They thought he’d put an arrow in his father’s back, then feigned memory loss.

  Soon enough, the rumor was the truth, spreading amid his father’s congregation, poisoning them against him.

  At first, they accused him quietly, the other children whispering vile insults whenever they saw him on the road. Then one of the villagers had cursed him after Mass, screaming that the devil danced behind him.

  Trembling with fear, Arent had clutched his mother for protection, only to find her staring at him with the same loathing.

  That night, he’d crept out of their home in the dead of night and carved the shape of his scar onto the villager’s door. He couldn’t remember why he’d done it or what dark impulse had inspired him. Nobody would have recognized the mark, but there was something malevolent about it, he’d thought. It frightened him, so he assumed it would frighten others.

  The next morning, it was the marked villager who was being shunned, his denials for naught. The devil came to the door of those who invited him, they claimed.

  Thrilled by his victory, Arent crept out the next night and the next, carving the symbol on the door of anybody who’d ever offended him, watching as they became the target of suspicion and fear. It was such a small thing, the only power he had, the only revenge he could summon.

  The symbol was a jest, but the villagers poured their terror into it, giving it life. Before long, they burned any house branded by the mark, driving its occupants out of the village. Terrified of what he’d created, Arent stopped his nocturnal visits, but the mark kept appearing, settling old feuds and inspiring new ones. For months, the village tore itself apart under the weight of its grudges, people accusing and being accused until finally, they found somebody to blame.

  Old Tom.

  Arent’s thoughts strained. Was Old Tom a leper? Was that why they had all hated him?