The Devil and the Dark Water

77

Ancient branches clawed at Arent’s cheeks as he headed into the deep jungle. Nothing stirred, even the sea breeze couldn’t worm its way in here. Arent had told Drecht he was going hunting, but, secretly, he wanted to scout out an escape route for the passengers. If all went well, they’d slip away quietly in the night, but when it all went wrong, he’d want to know what they were being chased towards. This was Old Tom’s island. Whatever it had planned for them was in this jungle. He didn’t want them stumbling on it blind.

The interior of the island was a strange, twisted place. Tree trunks split at the base, the sections reaching into the air like the fingers of some monstrous beast. There were huge red flowers standing half his height from the ground, each one a collection of fleshy threads, sticky enough to catch the flies that landed on them. Butterflies the size of petals thrashed inelegantly through the air, while petals the size of plates shaded him from the worst of the sun’s heat.

Unseen creatures were skittering through the undergrowth, claws clambering through the branches. During his first hour in here, he’d thought every one of those noises had an empty belly and ideas about his throat. He’d nearly run back to the shoal, which was reason enough to keep moving forward. Fear was too brittle a material to make good decisions from.

Sweat rolled down his face, the air so humid it seemed to hang from the branches. He sucked breaths in wet lumps, his body in agony.

Sara hadn’t wanted him to go by himself. She’d argued and protested, demanding she come along. It had taken every argument he had to convince her he’d be safer alone, moving quickly and quietly.

The last person to care for him like that was his uncle.

Loss grew like a bubble in his gut.

It made no sense, he thought. He wasn’t a boy any more, and the man he’d met in Batavia wasn’t the same man who’d raised him. He’d beaten Sara. He’d slaughtered the population of the Banda Islands. He’d consorted with a devil. He’d locked Sammy in a cell, which would certainly have killed him.

These were the acts of a monster, and yet … deep down, Arent still loved him. He grieved his death. Why would that be? How could that be?

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he pressed on, noticing a trail of broken branches. Somebody had passed through here. A few steps further on, the trail widened. This hadn’t been done recently, thought Arent. The hacked branches had already started healing.

The trail stretched out ahead of him. This was the work of months, by a dozen or more men.

He followed it cautiously, finally entering a large clearing, where three long log huts had been built around a stone well, with a pail lying by its side. Keeping to the treeline, he searched for inhabitants, but there was nobody around. There hadn’t been for months, to judge by the huge spiderwebs spun across the doors and shutters.

Arent darted out of the trees and pressed himself to the wall of the nearest hut, working his way around to a set of shutters. He tried tugging them open, but they were latched from the inside.

He carried on to the door, which was in full view of the other huts. There was still nobody around, and the muddy ground didn’t show any footprints.

It was deserted.

‘Or abandoned,’ he muttered, opening the nearest door and stepping into the gloom, disturbing the spiders which skittered into the thatched roof. Inside were thirty double bunks in orderly rows, though they didn’t appear to have been slept in for some time.

There was another door at the far end of the hut, which he headed for. On the way, he spotted a mother-of-pearl button on the floor, a piece of thread still tangled in its hole. It was expensive, the sort of thing Crauwels might have worn. ‘Someone was living here,’ he said to himself, blowing dust from it. He stared at the bunks. ‘A lot of somebodies,’ he added.

His heart began to thud.

He opened the second door with more confidence. Beyond it was a supply room. Shelves were filled with bulging sacks, crates and clay pots stoppered with corks.

Taking a clay pot down, he jiggled the cork loose and sniffed the contents.

‘Wine,’ he murmured.

The lid of the crate had been hammered shut, but he drove his elbow into its centre, cracking the wood. Using his fingers, he pried the shards away to find it filled with salted beef. Another contained tack.

His dagger ripped open the top of the nearest sack, revealing the barley within. There was enough food here to feed the survivors of the Saardam for weeks.

He let the grains run through his hand.

This was Old Tom’s island, so this was likely where it intended to berth his new followers. They’d be warm and well fed, and would likely be grateful.

Arent’s fist closed, holding the last of the barley tight. This wasn’t right.

Old Tom wouldn’t build this. What did a devil care for gratitude? The daemonologica described a creature intent on slaughter and destruction that left nothing behind except depravity. Its followers were sent into the world to cause suffering. Nothing mentioned two solid meals and a good night’s sleep first.

No king he’d fought for had ever treated his soldiers this well. They got stinking stew and dirty old blankets in the mud.

Troubled, Arent left the hut and lifted the cover off the well. Aside from a few dead insects, the water was clean. Cupping his hand, he tried it. It was sweet and refreshing. After splashing some on his face to cool down, he inspected the other huts.

Both were equally well provisioned.

There was room for hundreds of people in this camp and the huts must have been stocked recently, because nothing would keep long in this heat. Drecht had butchered the injured for nothing. This food and ale would keep the survivors alive for months, if they required it.

Going back outside, he walked slowly around the buildings, unable to comprehend such benevolence.

Offcuts of wood, chunks of beam and broken crates had been discarded at the treeline and closing the distance, he realised there was more detritus behind. Nails spilled on to the jungle floor from an upturned box and wooden poles had been stacked against the thick trunk of a tree. Picking his way through the mess, he pressed deeper into the jungle, finding sheets of tattered sailcloth and then a badly damaged yawl.

It was concealed by massive leaves, and he would have walked right by it except that a few had fallen away, revealing the wooden hull beneath. Tearing free the remaining leaves, he inspected the boat. The seats had been ripped out to make room for a huge triangular frame, which must have fallen over. Arent could still see the nails where it had wrenched away from the hull, smashing one entire side of the yawl.

The frame had taken up the entire boat, but there was nothing to suggest what its purpose might have been.

He stared at it for a few minutes, before walking back to the huts.

Thirsty, he returned to the well and took another drink, spotting a sword hilt poking out of the mud. It came free with a satisfying plop, revealing a broken blade. He washed it in the pail, finding very little of interest. It was made of steel and had a basket handle, two sharp edges and a pointy end. Like all swords it was great for killing and terrible for shaving. It didn’t tell him anything about the people who’d built the huts, except that they didn’t take very good care of their weapons. The edges were chipped and rust had eaten through the blade. That’s why it had snapped so cleanly. The best way to kill a man with this would be to hope he tripped on it and hit his head on a rock.

He listened to the jungle rustle. This was the second badly made weapon he’d seen in the last few days. At least this had a proper blade unlike the leper’s dagger. That had basically been a shard of thin metal and a wooden handle. It was almost …

‘Decorative …’ he said slowly, as his thoughts bumped into a very large idea.

Old Tom had told Sara, Creesjie and Lia that it would leave a dagger under the governor general’s bunk for them to kill him with, and the leper had made sure Arent got a good look at the blade. Why?

The beautiful thing about fear this large is that nobody will look beyond it. Vos had said that when he tried to kill him. The chamberlain had carved the Mark of Old Tom on the wood knowing there wouldn’t be any questions asked once it was found. What if somebody was trusting the same thinking to disguise the dagger’s true nature? Aye, it wasn’t much of a weapon, but don’t worry about that because it belongs to a demon. You’ve seen its servant holding it, after all.

But what if the dagger wasn’t the murder weapon?

Realistically, it couldn’t be. The cabin had been locked. Nobody had entered after the governor general had gone to bed. The only person who could have done it was Jacobi Drecht, but he was a professional soldier. If he’d killed the governor general, he’d have used a real weapon. He wouldn’t have trusted the leper’s dagger to do the job. Nobody would have. And they hadn’t.

It was decoration.

An idea came, then another, and another, and another. How did you kill somebody without entering their cabin? What weapon could do it? Who’d wield it?

‘It can’t be …’ he said out loud, as the answers arrived in a dizzying rush. ‘It can’t be …’