The Devil and the Dark Water

6

Sammy Pipps dangled in the air, hands and feet poking through the cargo net hoisting him on to the Saardam.

‘If you try to leap out, the weight of those manacles will drown you,’ warned Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht, squinting up at him from the boat below.

Sammy smiled tightly. ‘It’s been a long time since anybody mistook me for stupid, Guard Captain,’ he responded.

‘Desperation makes us all stupid from time to time,’ grunted Drecht, removing his hat and leaping on to the rope ladder.

Arent followed him up, though much more slowly. Years at war had taken more than they’d given and each rung caused his knees to crack and his ankles to pop. He felt like a sack of broken parts clattering together.

Eventually he dragged himself over the gunwale and on to the waist of the ship, the largest and lowest of its four weather decks. His eyes swept left and right, searching for his friend, but there was far too much commotion. Clusters of passengers waited to be told where to go, while sailors poured buckets of water into the yawls and stuffed the cannons with hemp to keep the weather out. Hundreds of parrots were screeching on the yard, cabin boys waving their arms, trying to chase them off.

Cargo was being lowered into the hold through hatches in the deck, as insults were traded, blame assigned for tasks gone awry. The loudest voice belonged to a dwarf dressed in slops and a waistcoat, who was spitting names from the passenger manifest held in the crook of his arm. He put Arent in mind of a lightning-blasted tree stump, such was his stature and width, the roughness of his weathered skin and the strange sense of disaster he carried about him.

As each passenger identified themselves, he blotted their name in his manifest and barked them to their berth in a heavily accented voice, flinging a hand generally in the direction they were supposed to go. Most he ordered down to the orlop deck, a stinking hotbox where they’d be crammed in shoulder to shoulder, feet to scalp, making them easy fodder for malady, sickness and palsy.

Arent watched them go pityingly.

On his voyage to Batavia almost a third of everybody berthed down there had died, and it made him heartsick to see children trotting gaily down the stairs, excited for the trip ahead.

Wealthier passengers who still couldn’t afford the cost of a cabin were being shown through an arch on his right into the compartment under the half deck, where hammocks were strung alongside supplies and carpentry tools. They’d have space enough to stand and lie down – so long as they didn’t stretch out – but, more importantly, they’d have a curtain for privacy.

After a month at sea, such a simple thing would feel like a luxury.

Arent had been berthed in this compartment on the voyage out and would be travelling the same way back. He could already feel his back grumbling. He fitted a hammock the way an ox fitted a fishing net.

‘Your man’s over here,’ hollered Drecht from the far end of the waist, waving his hand to be seen over the heads of the crowd. He needn’t have bothered. The jaunty red feather in his hat was impossible to miss.

Two musketeers were wrenching Sammy out of the tangled net, laughing coarsely at what they’d caught and wondering aloud whether they should throw him back.

Outwardly, Sammy was bearing this humiliation stoically, but Arent could see his eyes flickering across their clothing and faces, pulling them apart for secrets.

He wasn’t sure what he’d find.

He knew these two from Batavia. They were an unsightly pair, their uniforms grease-spotted and their faces filthy. The taller of the two was called Thyman. He had green teeth and a patchy ginger beard. The shorter man was Eggert; he was bald, with scabs covering his scalp. He picked at them when he was nervous, which was unfortunate because he was nervous most of the time.

‘Where to, Guard Captain?’ asked Thyman, as Arent and Drecht approached.

‘A cell’s been built in the bow of the ship,’ said Drecht. ‘We’ll take him through the forecastle, and down into the sailmaker’s cabin.’

Passengers and sailors parted to let them through, their whispers rising like a swarm of disturbed flies. Nobody knew why Samuel Pipps was in manacles, though they all had theories. Arent felt partially responsible for that. For the last five years, he’d written reports on each of Sammy’s investigations. At first, they’d been for the eyes of their clients, who’d wanted to ensure their investment was paying dividends, but, over time, they’d become popular with clerks, then merchants and, finally, the public. Now copies of the reports were scribed and dispatched to every port that flew a Company flag. They were performed on stage; bards even set them to music. Sammy was the most famous man in the Provinces, but so fantastical were his adventures, so incredible his deductive methods, that many thought him a charlatan. They accused him of being responsible for the crimes he’d unravelled, believing it was the only way he could have solved them. Others accused him of conspiring with dark forces, trading his soul for supernatural gifts.

As Sammy shuffled across the deck towards his cell, they pointed and whispered, believing their petty suspicions vindicated.

‘Finally caught,’ they said.

‘Too clever by half.’

‘Struck a devil’s bargain and come undone.’

Arent’s glare silenced them momentarily, but the whispers simply sprang up again when he passed, like grass trampled underfoot.

Annoyed by Sammy’s slow pace, Eggert shoved him forward, causing him to trip on his chains and fall. Giggling, Thyman aimed a kick at his rump, but before he could swing his leg, Arent grabbed hold of the musketeer’s shirt and hurled him into the railing with such force the wood cracked.

Snatching up his dagger, Eggert swung wildly at Arent.

With a quick step, the mercenary manoeuvred around the musketeer, catching hold of his arm and twisting it upwards, forcing the point of the dagger to his jaw.

Guard Captain Drecht moved even faster, unsheathing his sabre and thrusting it forward, touching the tip of the blade to Arent’s chest.

‘I can’t have you laying hands on my men, Lieutenant Hayes,’ he warned calmly, lifting the brim of his hat to meet Arent’s eyes. ‘Let him go.’

The sword bit into his chest. A little more pressure and he’d be dead.