The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “Why?”

  “I knocked three times, but you didn’t answer.” Growing frustrated, she gave the vial a shake, causing two drops of the liquid to dislodge themselves.

  Her heart stopped.

  A single drop would put him in a deep sleep, but for no longer than usual. Two drops would keep him under well past breakfast. For a man who usually rose before dawn, that would provoke questions. She considered making some excuse to try again, but he would surely notice the delay. Instead, she poured the wine and hoped he would blame his tiredness on the sea air.

  “You seemed distracted,” she continued, bringing it over to him. “That’s rare for you.”

  “My solace has never concerned you before,” he said suspiciously, tapping his mug with a long fingernail.

  Feeling the first touch of panic, she realized she’d misplayed the moment. She hadn’t acted the dutiful wife for many years, and even when she had, it had been done from spite.

  “It’s been an odd day,” she said weakly, unable to summon a better lie.

  “I heard,” he said, his eyes narrowing malevolently upon his wife. “Or did you believe that your flight into the cargo hold with Arent had gone unnoticed?” He banged his wine down on the table and stood up. “What was your intent, Sara? To humiliate me? What did you hope to gain?”

  Panic rose in Sara. She flinched, expecting to be hit, but he simply glared.

  “Did you think me oblivious to your carousing last night?” His face twisted into a lascivious grin. “Tell me, how did you enjoy his fiddle?”

  “Husband—­”

  “It’s done, Sara,” he spat, waving it away. “You’ll see him no more. Arent’s too good for you, and I’ll not be embarrassed by your infatuation. We’ll have no more breakfasts, no more questions.” He dashed his arm through the air. “Consider your liberty at an end. You will spend your days in your cabin, except to complete your obligations to me, after which you’ll return there immediately.”

  Regaining his temper, he drained his wine and put the cup back down again.

  “Undress,” he commanded, all traces of his former anger seemingly evaporated.

  Having gone ice cold, she lowered her eyes, undoing the knots at her shoulders. Her gown slid to the floor, followed by her corset and stomacher, until she stood naked before him. He studied her with contempt, unhooking the six leather straps that kept his breastplate in place and hanging it on the armor stand in the corner. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a scrap of parchment tucked behind the buckle.

  His breeches came off next, revealing those pale, bony legs and his erect penis.

  Gesturing for her to lie down on the bunk, he took his position on top of her.

  It was a work of moments.

  A few grunts, gritted teeth, and his seed was spilled.

  He panted, his breath rancid on her face.

  Humiliated, Sara’s hands unclenched from the sheets. She stared at his thin neck, imagining what it would feel like to watch him struggle for his last breath.

  Her husband gripped her chin and burrowed into her with those black eyes. “Bear me a son and these obligations will be at an end.”

  “I hate you,” she muttered.

  It was reckless, foolish. She shouldn’t have said it, but it welled up in her like sickness. She couldn’t keep it down.

  “I know. Why do you think I chose you of all your sisters?” He rolled off her and went to his writing desk, pouring a little more wine. “Your father made an enemy of me, Sara. I sent pirates to burn his warehouses and raid his ships, then when I’d ruined him, I took one of his precious daughters as a prize, the one who could never love me, the one who would hate it the most.” He finished the wine in a long gulp, then belched. “How does it feel, knowing your suffering is secondary, that your torment isn’t even your own?” He watched her keenly, awaiting her reaction.

  “I know you bargained with Old Tom,” she spat, overcome by her loathing. “I know you summoned it.”

  Something stirred behind his eyes. It wasn’t shock or anger. It wasn’t sadness or surprise.

  It was pride.

  “I was the fourth son of a beleaguered family headed inevitably to ruin by my father’s incompetence,” he said. “God laid no grand plans for my future, so I wrote them myself with the devil that was to hand. You’ll not shame me, Sara. And you’ll find no regret. When the Folly is delivered, I will be scribed into history, while you—­unremarkable and dull—­will be forgotten.” He waved her away. “Now go. I have no further need of you.”

  39

  In the narrow confines of his berth, Arent wriggled into his old army uniform, his arms and legs shooting through the curtains. The breeches were tight around his waist, and his faded green doublet was proving difficult to fasten.

  He was dismayed, though not surprised.

  For all the chasing after people he did, it was a softer life he lived now. He ate rich food and drank fine wine, going whole weeks without strain. It wasn’t so in the army, where they’d marched or fought almost every day. And when there wasn’t an enemy, they’d fought themselves. It had been miserable and uncomfortable, and some days he didn’t miss it at all.

  Finally managing to button the doublet, he tucked the frayed hem of his shirt into his breeches, then examined it for stains, finding a few drops of dried blood near the neck.

  It would have to do. Tatty as it was, this uniform remained the finest suit of clothes in his possession and the only one fit for dinner. His uncle had bought it for him, along with his commission. For his myriad faults, Jan Haan had been the only one who’d understood why Arent wanted to leave his grandfather’s home. He was the only one who hadn’t shouted or forbade. The only one who’d looked into Arent’s eyes and seen the fear lurking underneath. Loyalty had compelled him to try talking his nephew out of it, but when it was clear he couldn’t be dissuaded, he’d done everything he could to set him solidly upon his new path.

  Once again, Arent felt that pang for the man he’d known and the sharp shock of remembering who he’d become. Arent couldn’t bring himself to believe in demons, but he understood the temptation. It would be a comfort to have something to blame, something he could banish and have his uncle—­the one who’d raised him—­miraculously returned.

  Arent rubbed his scar. His uncle claimed the assassin had given it to him, but why? And who else knew about it? Whoever it was knew about his past had put the mark of Old Tom on the sail. They had enlisted Bosey for some purpose aboard the ship. They’d dressed him in leper’s rags and placed him on those crates to deliver a warning.

  That took power and planning and organization, which seemed a lot of effort to waste on a lowly mercenary.

  Straightening his jacket, Arent made his way through the empty helm toward the great cabin. Drinks were being served by surly stewards, the passengers and officers mixing like warm and cold water in a bathtub, so that patches of jocularity sat next to awkward pauses, strained conversations stretching toward inevitable silences.

  Kers and Isabel were speaking with Lia and Sara. There was a glassiness to Sara’s eyes that suggested recent tears. She saw him at the threshold and offered him an inviting smile.

  Arent felt his heart swell.

  Vos stalked into view. He was staring at something on the far side of the cabin, his face twisted by misery. Arent followed his gaze, realizing it was Creesjie under observation. Of them all, she was the only one who appeared to be having fun. She was standing within gossip’s distance of Captain Crauwels, and Arent would have been hard pressed to decide who was better dressed. Creesjie was wearing a damask silk gown, inlaid with beads, lace flowing over her chest as blond hair spilled down her back. Crauwels wore a leather jerkin and a silk shirt beneath. A burst of feathers hemmed his orange breeches and matching cape.

  Creesjie laughed, flashing her fine teeth, then tugged
playfully at the captain’s sash. “Tell me, Captain, what are you truly? An uncouth merchant captain or a gentleman?”

  “Can’t I be both?”

  “Impossible,” she said, tossing her hair. “One creates wealth and so cares only for its acquisition and preservation. The other spends wealth and cares not how it arrived, only that it keeps doing so. They’re incompatible pursuits, and yet here you are.”

  He puffed out his chest in pride. It was a fine thing to be complimented by Creesjie Jens.

  “Come, Captain, tell me. How did you come to be such a fascinating contradiction?”

  Crauwels didn’t see it, Arent was certain. He was so charmed, he didn’t notice how directly she was digging. Hard questions were best wrapped in soft words, Sammy had once told him. Sammy was a master, but Creesjie was even better.

  He wondered what she was after.

  “I’ll tell you, Mistress Jens, for I think you’ll enjoy the story,” he said, leaning daringly close to her. “My family were nobles once, until my grandfather, curse his soul, squandered our wealth. Growing up, there were traces of our former glory all around us. Mama kept pieces of furniture in rooms much too small to house them. She carried the manners of the class we’d departed and could occasionally call on a connection not yet wrung dry or an old debt still to be called in. That’s how I got my commission as captain in the fleet. It was the last favor of a former family friend who wanted nothing more to do with those who could offer nothing back.”

  Creesjie covered her mouth with her hand in astonishment.

  “As it turned out, I’m a natural seaman,” he bragged, enjoying her reaction. “There isn’t anyone better at navigating or reading the sea and sky, you can ask any of my crew. I won’t let anybody else touch a map on the Saardam, for fear they’ll steer us wrong. Even so, these skills seem a poor trade for everything lost, and so I cling to what I can. My manners, my dress, my education. I hold them close so that when I finally rebuild my family’s fortune, I’ll be able to resume the life lost.”

  Creesjie gave him a look of such overwhelming promise that Arent turned his head, embarrassed. “You’re a remarkable man, my captain,” she said. “And pray, how will you rebuild this fortune—­and, if I may ask, will it be soon?”

  Crauwels lowered his voice. “Soon enough, I feel. There are always opportunities on a ship like this.” He glanced meaningfully at the governor general’s cabin.

  Valiantly though Creesjie tried, she could get no more out of him, and their conversation drifted into empty wit.

  Realizing it was time to step through the doorway, Arent took a fortifying breath.

  “I did the same,” said a drunken voice behind him.

  Arent turned around to find Reynier van Schooten slumped in the corner of the helm, his legs splayed out before him, a bottle nestled by his crotch. Some attempt had been made to dress for dinner, but it had gone awry. After spilling wine on his shirt, he’d clearly pulled a doublet on to cover it, but he’d put the buttons through the wrong loops. Bows trailed by his ankles, and his hose were piss-­stained. About him hung the smell of alcohol and sweat, long nights and regret.

  “What happened to you?” asked Arent.

  “I made a mistake,” he said, swallowing. There was something desperate about him. Something terrible and sad. “I wanted to be like them so badly.”

  “Like who?”

  “Them!” exclaimed van Schooten, throwing a hand toward the great cabin. “The thrice-­damned nobility. I wanted what they had. I almost had it too.” His head dropped, so his chin pressed against his chest. “I didn’t realize what they did to get it. How much they ask of you. What it costs.”

  Arent took a step toward him. Old Tom offered a person’s heart’s desire for a favor. He knew from Bosey’s warning on the docks that it planned to bring merciless ruin to the Saardam, and the ship’s master would be a fine ally in that cause.

  “What did it cost, van Schooten?” he demanded.

  Van Schooten’s head snapped up. “What do you care? The boy who gave up being a Berg, to be what? What are you now? Pipps’s lapdog.”

  “What did it cost?” persisted Arent.

  Van Schooten laughed, pulling at his soiled clothing as if seeing it for the first time. “I hate this Company, you know. Always have. Profit comes before principle, pride, and people. My mama would have been ashamed to see me now. Would have been ashamed of what I’ve done.”

  Arent was surprised to find common ground between them. His father would have been the same, he thought. Every Sunday at Mass, he’d railed against the United East India Company, calling it the “company of want.” It was his belief that everything needed by mankind had been freely given by God. Food hung on trees, grew in the soil, and skipped through the forest. God’s bounty, given to them by birthright. It was the devil who brought want, he preached. Tempting people with fripperies: sugar, tobacco, alcohol, things that distracted them, that disappeared too quickly, that always needed replacing, things to go mad chasing. In the United East India Company, he saw the devil’s hands at work, caging humanity with want, persuading them to buy their manacles new every month.

  Arent hated his father, but he’d ended up half agreeing with the mad old bastard. He’d seen farmers work themselves to death in the fields, because they were paid a pittance for what they produced. Those who refused were forced. Those who stood in the way were murdered, because progress demanded sacrifice.

  Van Schooten was right. People didn’t matter to the Company. They were commodities like everything else—­free to produce and cheap to replace. Only what they dug out of the ground had value.

  “You know what,” slurred van Schooten. “Truthfully, I’ll be glad when Old Tom pulls this ship to the bottom of the ocean. Isn’t anybody aboard worth saving.”

  “It’s not going to come to that,” argued Arent.

  “Because you’re going to stop it?” There was something almost pitying in his voice. “Pipps’s dancing bear thinks he’s the one holding the chain now. That’s rich.” His eyes narrowed, his tone becoming sharp. “I heard a story about you. About the last case you took, something to do with a man named Edward Coil and a missing diamond.”

  Arent tensed. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  “And the jewel was never recovered. Did you steal it, Arent? That’s what they say.”

  “I arrived in Lille three months after it was stolen. Sammy arrived a month after that. It was long gone. Coil had thousands of guilders in a case under his bed.”

  “Family wealth.”

  “That’s what Sammy discovered.” Arent spoke through gritted teeth. “I made a mistake.”

  “What happened to Coil?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You ruined his good name, and you don’t know,” hooted van Schooten.

  “He fled before Sammy could reveal his innocence. We don’t know where he went.”

  Arent felt somebody push by him. The overpowering pomander immediately told him it was Captain Crauwels.

  “Christ, Reynier,” said Crauwels, peering down at van Schooten pityingly. “What’s happened to you? You’ve been a donkey’s dick for the last two weeks.”

  Van Schooten looked up at him pleadingly, tears welling.

  “I—­”

  He was interrupted by a clatter of footsteps, the door banging open as Larme burst inside.

  “It’s back, Captain,” he said, out of breath. “The Eighth Lantern is back!”

  40

  No sooner was the cell door open than Sammy came scrambling out, sucking in the clean air. Despite the humidity, he was clammy. His eyes were large as plates, his hair lank, his breath rancid. He was clutching the vial of sleeping draught Sara had given him.

  “By God, it’s good to be out of there,” he proclaimed, using Arent’s outstretched arm to clamber to his feet.r />
  Arent tried to keep the despair from his face.

  His only job was to keep Sammy Pipps from harm, but every hour he was locked in this cell was another hour he failed in that task. Yesterday, he’d been convinced his uncle’s affection for him would be enough to win Sammy’s freedom. Today, he knew it wouldn’t even parlay him a cabin.

  As he had the night before, Sammy demanded that Arent turn his back when they reached the weather decks so he could drop his breeches and relieve himself over the side of the ship.

  “Eighth Lantern’s back, I see,” he said, counting the flames in the distance.

  “They’re putting a yawl in the water to investigate,” said Arent. “If you hurry, we can watch them.”

  “Never rush a man while he’s on the privy,” scolded Sammy as a torrent of piss arced over the side of the ship. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “I met the leper today. It led me to an altar it had built in the Saardam’s cargo hold.”

  “Is it still there? Can I inspect it?”

  “Captain Crauwels ordered it destroyed.”

  “Of course he did. Anything else?”

  “We think Bosey built smuggling compartments around the Saardam and was in business with Isaack Larme, the first mate. We found—­”

  “Who is we?”

  “Sara Wessel.”

  “Ah.” His voice was knowing. “Sara Wessel.”

  “Yes, Sara Wessel.”

  “Very good.”

  Arent blinked at him. “What’s very good?”

  Sammy spread his arms joyfully. “You’re as dense as the mountains you were carved out of.” He peered at his friend, lamenting the lost cause before him. “What was inside Larme’s secret compartment?”

  “It was empty. Larme had already gotten to it by the time we arrived, but he seemed surprised to see the marks of Old Tom around it.”

  “Then Old Tom may have used Bosey to smuggle something without Larme’s knowledge.”

  “And then killed him to keep him from talking about it,” agreed Arent. “Oh, and Reynier van Schooten has a secret that’s eating him from the inside out. We almost had it, but…” He gestured to the Eighth Lantern.