The Devil and the Dark Water

53

Dusk brought a change of watch, the second mate ringing the bell amidships. The repairs had been ongoing all day, and the ship looked tidy, if not seaworthy. Under a purple and orange sky, Arent followed the throng of sailors and musketeers to the forecastle deck, with Sara walking behind him.

They’d told the captain about Sander’s body and he’d sent sailors to bring it up on deck to be disposed of. Arent had asked him to delay, so Sammy could inspect the corpse that evening, but Crauwels had refused. Everybody knew the dead brought plague if left to rot. Any ship even suspected of being plague-ridden would be held at port for sixty days, the passengers and crew forced to endure onboard until it passed, or killed them.

Crauwels didn’t want to risk it.

Sara estimated that Sander had been in there a couple of weeks, which suggested he’d died the night he disappeared. The night the Eighth Lantern had attacked.

They’d told Isabel, who’d taken the news better than they’d expected. Tears filled her eyes, but her back remained straight. After asking where he’d been taken, she’d gone to pray over the body.

‘Don’t let Wyck nick you here, or here,’ said Sara, pointing to spots on Arent’s legs and chest. ‘You’ll bleed and keep bleeding, and there won’t be anything I can do.’

‘Sara –’

She ignored him. She was speaking quickly and nervously, obviously afraid for him.

The waist was packed with spectators, who parted to let them through, shouting insults or encouragement, depending on which way they’d bet. Ignoring their curfew, passengers from the orlop deck had gathered at the mainmast, craning their necks to see more clearly or standing on the railing for a better view. Creesjie had brought Marcus and Osbert out, and the boys had found some willing shoulders to sit on.

Even the governor general would watch, according to the rumours. Arent was thankful Sara was wearing her peasant clothes, but he was still afraid of her being spotted. He’d begged her not to come but she’d flatly refused his advice.

Arriving on the forecastle deck, Arent saw Wyck at the beakhead, practising with his dagger.

‘He’s good,’ said Sara.

‘He’s very good,’ corrected Arent.

His hands were a blur, the point of the attack changing with every swipe and thrust. More importantly, he kept his feet moving.

Arent felt the first touch of nerves. Despite his size, Wyck was fast and nimble. He would be hard to hit, whereas Arent would be hard to avoid. It didn’t matter whether this was friendly or not. If that blade nicked him in the wrong spot by accident, he was dead.

Drecht appeared in front of him. His hat was pulled down low, a pipe sticking out of his beard. The guard captain glanced at Sara agitatedly, but he knew better than to argue with her. He took the dagger from his waist and held it out to Arent.

‘Guard your body and if you get the chance, put a blade in his throat,’ he warned, lifting the brim of his hat to stare at Arent with those pitiless blue eyes. ‘Every second this fight drags on is to his advantage.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m going to lose,’ argued Arent. ‘Nobody needs to die.’

‘That’s your plan,’ said Drecht. ‘His plan is to lie to you, then kill you quick, and if that fails, to kill you slow. I know men like this. They can’t be trusted.’

Taking the weapon, Arent handed Sara his father’s rosary. ‘Can you keep this safe for me?’

‘I’ll have it waiting when you come back.’

Their gaze lingered, but Arent could feel Wyck’s eyes upon him. He touched Sara’s arm and then stepped into the ring, where Wyck was bouncing from toe to toe.

As the crowd roared for them to start, Arent crouched, putting his arms out in front of him, trying to protect as much of his body as he could. Being tall and wide had its advantages, but not in a knife fight where the key was to make yourself as difficult to hit as possible.

Wyck circled, trying to find an angle.

He thrust quickly, but Arent parried with the edge of his blade, adjusting quickly and slashing back.

Wyck jumped away, laughing at the attempt.

He was as irritating to fight as to talk to, Arent realised.

The sailors howled, urging the boatswain forward, while the musketeers cheered for Arent.

The boatswain came again, slashing and thrusting. Sidestepping the first two strikes, Arent caught the second on his blade, iron scraping along iron as he tried to push Wyck away, but he was strong.

‘Old Tom sends his regards,’ sneered Wyck.

Taking advantage of Arent’s surprise, Wyck punched him in the side, then tried to ram his blade into his belly. Stumbling backwards, Arent avoided the thrust, earning the slightest of nicks.

The crowd roared in appreciation.

Drecht was right. This wasn’t a friendly contest. There would be no quarter. No hesitation. Wyck meant to slit his throat, and he was going to do it at Old Tom’s behest.

‘You have to stop this,’ screamed Sara. ‘This isn’t fake. Wyck’s going to kill you.’

Arent wished he could reassure her, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Wyck. Everybody believed he was defending desperately, trying to keep himself alive until Wyck tired, but that wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t defending, he was watching how Wyck fought, working out his reach and where he left himself open when he attacked.

Wyck was fighting, but Arent was planning.

Seeing Arent distracted, the boatswain charged forward, snarling. This time Arent didn’t take a step back and he didn’t parry. He twisted slightly, letting Wyck’s blade slide past him as he slashed at his opponent’s face.

The boatswain caught the strike on his forearm, blood spraying across Arent’s clothes.

Rather than falling back, Wyck swung his arm at Arent’s eyes, momentarily blinding him with blood.

Arent kicked out desperately, catching Wyck in the stomach, ripping the air from him. As Wyck sucked in breath, Arent wiped as much blood as he could from his eyes. His vision was blurry, but good enough to catch Isaack Larme’s nod to somebody in the crowd. Glancing in the same direction, Arent saw the glint of a knife emerging from a sailor’s sleeve.

Circling, Wyck thrust suddenly, trying to manoeuvre Arent so his back was to the hidden blade.

Arent gave him what he wanted, but kept a few steps between himself and the assassin.

When Wyck came again, Arent was ready. Rather than parry, he let the first strike catch his arm. Ignoring the searing pain, he yanked Wyck close and caught hold of his wrist. Roaring, he hurled the boatswain at the sailor with the blade, the two of them cracking together.

Arent was on them in two steps, scooping up the fallen knife and jamming it straight through the second sailor’s hand, pinning him to the deck. Falling on Wyck’s body, he punched him, then leant close to his ear, the overpowering smell of paprika rising into his nostrils.

‘What does Laxagarr mean?’ he demanded.

Wyck ripped the dagger out of the sailor’s hand and drove the point at Arent’s hip.

Growling, the mercenary grabbed his arm, banging it against the deck and sending the dagger skittering. Before he could try anything else, Arent elbowed him in the face, dazing him.

‘What does Laxagarr mean?’ he demanded.

Wyck coughed blood, his eyes unfocused. ‘Old Tom take you.’

Arent hit him again, his fist landing like cannon fire. Something cracked in Wyck’s face.

Sara screamed for him to stop.

‘What does Laxagarr mean?’

‘Go to –’ Arent hit him again, Wyck’s head snapping back. A small, dark, vile part of Arent revelled in it. He’d held his strength for so long, wary of fighting because he knew how it ended. There was a ball of rage held tight at his core that had been there for as long as he could remember. Every insult, every jeer, every slight; that’s where he kept them. They were fuel for the dark furnace he normally kept shuttered.

He raised his fist again.

‘What does –’

‘Trap,’ spluttered Wyck. ‘It means trap,’ he said, coughing blood.

The crowd went silent.

Puffing like a pair of bellows, Arent looked around. The crowd were watching him with the awe of soldiers seeing a bombardment for the first time.

Aside from Old Tom, Wyck was the fiercest, most terrifying thing on the ship. Everybody who’d found themselves on the wrong end of him had suffered, grievously.

Bosey got it worst, but he hadn’t been alone. They all had their scars.

Wyck was what these murderers, malcontents and rapists had nightmares about. And Arent had put him down.

Some delicate, but crucial, balance had shifted on the Saardam.

As the sailors pondered this, Sara broke through the crowd, hugging Arent fiercely.

‘Sara, what will –’

‘Shut up,’ she said, her face pressed against his chest. Finally, she dashed the tears away. ‘I thought you were going to kill him,’ she said.

Arent lifted his forearm, inspecting the slice. It was shallow enough, but it would ache for a week. ‘Laxagarr means trap in Nornish,’ said Arent. ‘When the other sailors asked Bosey what he was working on, that’s what he was telling them.’

Drecht pushed through the crowd. ‘Why didn’t you kill him, you damn idiot.’

‘The dead don’t answer questions,’ replied Arent, returning his dagger.

‘And they can’t ask them,’ responded Drecht. ‘Strength follows strength. You’ve made him look weak in front of his lads. He’ll be coming for you now. He has to.’

‘Somebody’s always coming for me,’ said Arent, staring at Isaack Larme. ‘And they better come damn quick, or I’ll find them first.’