The Devil and the Dark Water

43

It was dawn when Arent finally returned to his berth, his father’s rosary twisted around his wrist. Reynier van Schooten had argued to throw it into the water, claiming it was cursed, but Sammy had stayed his hand, citing its importance to his investigation. He hadn’t offered any theory on how it had come to be on the Saardam. According to his uncle, this was the token taken by the assassin to prove he’d completed his contract and killed Arent’s father. That would put it in Casper van den Berg’s possession last, so how had it come to be in the animal pen?

These sorts of riddles delighted Sammy, but to Arent it was like repeatedly lifting the same boulder, hoping each time to find something new beneath it.

Warmth touched his neck, a solitary ray of sunlight reaching for him. A yawl was being unlashed. Reynier van Schooten had ordered it to row to the nearest ship in the fleet and tell them they were turning back, as soon the governor general gave the go-ahead. That ship would then dispatch its yawl to the next ship and so on, until the message had been passed across the remainder of the fleet.

As sailors untied the knots holding it in place, they gossiped about the ghost ship that had attacked them last night, and how it had branded them with a demonic symbol. The story had already grown in the telling, he noticed. The Eighth Lantern was now an ethereal thing, hazy and indistinct, rather than simply distant, its crew comprised of souls lost at sea. The Mark of Old Tom had been burnt into the Saardam, and rather than being static, the eye had blinked, its tail swishing, before it disappeared.

The gossip accompanied Arent back to his berth. Tugging back the curtain, he stared in bewilderment at his hammock.

His surprise swiftly turned to rage. Somebody had used it as a privy.

Laughter echoed across the deck. Wyck and a few other sailors sat in the rigging, their faces gleeful. Here was the grievance he was meant to take to Larme, he realised.

‘Could have found something a little cleaner,’ mumbled Arent.

Marching out, he accosted Larme on the quarterdeck. ‘I’ve got a grievance,’ he said, without any preamble.

Larme blew out of a breath. ‘How the hell did you learn about the law of grievance?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not really, but there isn’t a man on this ship who’s short of one, so what makes yours special?’

‘I hear it doesn’t have to be special, just a grievance.’

‘Sailors only,’ said Larme desperately, searching around to see who could hear them.

‘A musketeer fought a sailor yesterday,’ replied Arent.

‘Over a damn hand plane, and a proper farce it was,’ said Larme, relenting. ‘Who’s your grievance with?’

‘Johannes Wyck.’

Larme stared at him disbelievingly. ‘Of all the men on the ship, you want to pick a fight with Johannes Wyck?’

‘Seems he’s picking a fight with me.’

‘Do you have you any proof of the offence?

‘Only his laughter.’

Larme whistled at the rigging, summoning Wyck. The boatswain scurried down with surprising agility, wearing that familiar scowl beneath his eyepatch.

‘Did you shit on this giant’s hammock?’ asked Larme, without preamble.

‘Weren’t me,’ replied Wyck.

‘Shake his hand and call this entire thing over with then,’ demanded Larme.

‘I have a grievance,’ repeated Arent stubbornly. ‘By ship’s law, I’m demanding fists on the forecastle.’

‘There’ll be no penalty,’ warned Larme. ‘You’ve no proof so I can’t –’

‘No penalty!’ exclaimed Wyck incredulously. ‘His size is the penalty.’

‘Give over, you’re not so small,’ argued Larme. ‘It’ll be the mainmast and the mizzenmast swinging punches at each other.’

Wyck took a step back, holding his hands up as if fending off an assault. ‘You’ve heard the stories. He’s the hero of bloody Breda. Fought off an entire Spanish army by himself.’

‘Should have thought about that when you were using his bunk as a privy. Might have caused you to clench up.’

‘I want an equaliser,’ demanded Wyck, staring at them stubbornly. ‘Otherwise I’m not doing it.’

Larme glared at him. ‘He’s called the Right of Grievance.’

‘And I told you I aint done nothing. You’re putting me in a fight with a bear without any proof. Aint fair.’

Larme scratched under his armpit, obviously wishing he’d been a few minutes quicker to his berth.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘Blades.’

Arent’s spine turned to ice. Why would Wyck change the bargain? Losing convincingly was a damn sight harder when metal was involved. There was a lot more bleeding, for starters.

The boatswain’s soot-coloured eye bored into him. ‘What do you say, soldier. Make it fair?’

‘Blades is fine,’ agreed Arent, uncertain what else he could do. ‘When?’

‘Dusk, after we’ve dropped anchor.’ Larme shook his head. ‘You’re daft bastards the both of you. I’ll be glad when one of you is dead.’