The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “That’s impossible,” muttered Arent.

  He glanced at Sammy, who was straining against his chains, trying to see better. “His tongue’s been cut out,” Arent hollered, struggling to be heard over the din of the crowd.

  “Stand aside, I’m a healer” came an imperious voice.

  A noblewoman pushed past Arent, removing a lace cap and shoving it into his hands, revealing the jeweled pins glittering among her tight red curls.

  No sooner was the cap in Arent’s possession than it was snatched away again by a fussing maid, who was trying to keep a parasol over her mistress’s head while urging her to return to the palanquin.

  Arent glanced back toward it.

  In her haste, the noblewoman had yanked the curtain off its hook and spilled two large silk pillows onto the ground. Inside, a young girl with an oval face was watching them through the torn material. She was dark haired and dark eyed, a mirror of the governor general, who sat stiff on his horse, examining his wife disapprovingly.

  “Mama?” called out the girl.

  “A moment, Lia,” replied the noblewoman, who was kneeling beside the leper, oblivious to her brown gown piled up in fish guts. “I’m going to try to help you,” she told him kindly. “Dorothea?”

  “My lady,” responded the maid.

  “My vial, if you please.”

  The maid fumbled up her sleeve and removed a small vial, which she uncorked and handed to the noblewoman.

  “This will ease your pain,” she said to the suffering man, upending it above his parted lips.

  “Those are lepers’ rags,” warned Arent as her puffed sleeves drifted perilously close to her patient.

  “I’m aware,” she said curtly, watching a thick drop of liquid gathering on the rim of the vial. “You’re Lieutenant Hayes, are you not?”

  “Arent will do.”

  “Arent.” She rolled the name around her mouth as if it possessed an odd flavor. “I’m Sara Wessel.” She paused. “Sara will do,” she added, mimicking his gruff response.

  She gave the vial a slight shake, dislodging the drop into the leper’s mouth. He swallowed it painfully, then shuddered and calmed, the writhing ceasing as his eyes lost focus.

  “You’re the governor general’s wife?” asked Arent disbelievingly. Most nobles wouldn’t leave a palanquin that was on fire, let alone leap out of one to aid a stranger.

  “And you’re Samuel Pipps’s servant,” she snapped back.

  “I—­” he faltered, wrong-­footed by her annoyance. Unsure of how he had offended her, he changed the topic. “What did you give him?”

  “Something to ease the pain,” she said, wedging the cork back into the vial. “It’s made from local plants. I use it myself from time to time. It helps me sleep.”

  “Can we do anything for him, my lady?” asked the maid, taking the vial from her mistress and putting it back up her sleeve. “Should I fetch your healing sundries?”

  Only a fool would try, thought Arent. A life at war had taught him which limbs you could live without and which nicks would wake you in agony every night until they killed you quietly a year after the battle. The leper’s rotting flesh was bad enough, but there’d be no peace from those burns. With constant ministrations, he could live a day or a week, but survival wasn’t always worth the price paid for it.

  “No, thank you, Dorothea,” said Sara. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Rising to her feet, Sara gestured for Arent to follow her out of earshot.

  “There’s nothing to be done here,” she said quietly. “Nothing left except mercy. Could you…” She swallowed, seemingly ashamed of the next question. “Have you ever taken a life?”

  Arent nodded.

  “Can you do it painlessly?”

  Arent nodded again, earning a small smile of gratitude.

  “I regret I have not the fortitude to do it myself,” she said.

  Arent pushed through the whispering circle of observers toward one of the musketeers guarding Sammy, gesturing for his sword. Numb with horror, the young soldier unsheathed it without protest.

  “Arent,” said Sammy, calling his friend closer. “Did you say the leper had no tongue?”

  “Cut out,” confirmed Arent. “A while back, I reckon.”

  “Bring me Sara Wessel when you’re finished,” he said, troubled. “This matter requires our attention.”

  As Arent returned with the sword, Sara knelt by the stricken leper, reaching to take his hand before remembering herself. “I have not the art to heal you,” she admitted gently. “But I can offer you a painless escape, if you’d have it?”

  Stricken, the leper’s mouth worked, producing only moans. Tears forming in his eyes, he nodded.

  “I’ll stay with you.” She looked over her shoulder at the young girl peering at them from inside the palanquin. “Lia, join me, if you please,” said Sara, holding out a hand to her.

  Lia climbed down from the palanquin. She was no more than twelve or thirteen, already long limbed, her dress sitting awkwardly, like a skin she hadn’t managed to quite wriggle out of.

  A great rustling greeted her as the procession shifted to take her in. Arent was among those curious onlookers. Unlike her mother, who visited the church each evening, Lia was rarely seen outdoors. It was rumored her father kept her hidden out of shame, but as Arent watched her walk hesitantly toward the leper, it was difficult to know what that shame could be. She was a pretty girl, if uncommonly pale, like she’d been spun from shadows and moonlight.

  As Lia drew closer, Sara flicked a nervous glance at her husband, who was sitting rigid on his horse, his jaw moving slightly as he ground his teeth. Arent knew this was as close to fury as he’d come in public. By the twitching of his face, it was obvious he wanted to call them back into the palanquin, but the curse of authority was that you could never admit to losing it.

  Lia arrived by her mother’s side, and Sara squeezed her hand reassuringly.

  “This man is in pain,” she said in a soft voice. “He’s suffering, and Lieutenant Hayes here is going to end that suffering. Can you understand that?”

  The girl’s eyes were wide, but she nodded meekly. “Yes, Mama,” she said.

  “Good,” said Sara. “He’s very afraid, and this isn’t something he should face alone. We will stand vigil; we will offer him our courage. You mustn’t look away.”

  From around his neck, the leper painfully withdrew a small, charred piece of wood, the edges jagged. He pressed it to his breast, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” she said to Arent, who immediately rammed the blade through the leper’s heart. The leper arched his back, going rigid. Then he went limp, blood seeping out from underneath him. It was glossy in the sunlight, reflecting the three figures standing over the body.

  The girl gripped her mother’s hand tightly, but her courage didn’t falter.

  “Well done, my love,” said Sara, stroking her freckled cheek. “I know that was unpleasant, but you were very brave.”

  As Arent cleaned the blade on a sack of oats, Sara tugged one of the jeweled pins from her hair, a red curl springing loose.

  “For your trouble,” she said, offering it to him.

  “Ain’t kindness if you have to pay for it,” he responded, leaving it sparkling in her hand as he returned the sword to the soldier.

  Surprise mingled with confusion on her face, her gaze lingering on him a moment. As if wary of being caught in such naked observation, she hurriedly summoned two stevedores who’d been sitting on a pile of tattered sailcloth.

  They leaped up as if stung, tugging a lock of hair when they were near enough.

  “Sell this, burn the body, and see his ashes receive a Christian burial,” commanded Sara, pressing the pin into the nearest calloused palm. “Let’s give him the peace in death he was
denied in life.”

  They exchanged a cunning glance.

  “That jewel will pay for the funeral with enough left over for any vices you seek to indulge this year, but I’ll have somebody watching you,” she warned pleasantly. “If this poor man ends up in the undesirables lot beyond the city walls, you’ll be hanged, is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they muttered, tipping their hats respectfully.

  “Can you spare a minute for Sammy Pipps?” called out Arent, who was standing next to Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht.

  Sara glanced at her husband once again, obviously trying to weigh his displeasure. Arent sympathized with her predicament. Jan Haan could find fault in a bold table arrangement, so watching his wife dash through the dirt like a harlot after a rolling coin would have been unbearable to him.

  He wasn’t even looking at her. He was watching Arent.

  “Lia, return to the palanquin, please,” said Sara.

  “But, Mama,” complained Lia, lowering her voice. “That’s Samuel Pipps.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “The Samuel Pipps!”

  “Indeed.”

  “The sparrow!”

  “A nickname I’m sure he adores,” she responded dryly.

  “You could introduce me.”

  “He’s hardly dressed for company, Lia.”

  “Mama—­”

  “A leper’s quite enough excitement for one day,” said Sara with finality, summoning Dorothea with a lift of her chin.

  A protest formed on her daughter’s lips, but the maid stroked her arm, encouraging her away.

  The crowd melted from Sara’s path as she approached the prisoner, who was busy straightening his stained doublet.

  “Your legend precedes you, Mr. Pipps,” she said, curtsying.

  After his recent humiliations, this unexpected compliment seemed to take Sammy aback, causing him to stumble on his initial greeting. He tried to bow, but his chains made a mockery of the gesture.

  “Now, why did you wish to speak with me?” asked Sara.

  “I’m imploring you to delay the departure of the Saardam,” he said. “Please, you must heed the leper’s warning.”

  “I took the leper for a madman,” she admitted in surprise.

  “Oh, he was certainly mad,” agreed Sammy. “But he was able to speak without a tongue and climb a stack of crates with a lame foot.”

  “I noticed the tongue but not the lame foot.” She glanced back at the body. “Are you certain?”

  “Even burned, you can see the impairment clearly. He would have needed a crutch to walk, which means he couldn’t possibly have climbed up on those crates without help.”

  “Then you don’t believe he was acting alone?”

  “I don’t, and there’s a further cause for concern.”

  “Of course there is,” she sighed. “Why would concern want to travel alone?”

  “Do you see his hands?” continued Sammy, ignoring the remark. “One is very badly burned, but the other is almost untouched. If you look carefully, you’ll notice a bruise under his thumbnail and that his thumb itself has been broken at least three times in the past, rendering it crooked. Carpenters accrue such injuries as a matter of course, especially shipborne carpenters, who must contend with the unsteady motion of the boat while they’re working. I noticed he was bowlegged, another common trait of the sailing class.”

  “Do you believe he was a carpenter on one of the boats in the fleet?” ventured Arent, examining the seven ships in the harbor.

  “I don’t know,” said Sammy. “Every carpenter in Batavia likely worked on an Indiaman at some time. If I were free to inspect the body, I might be able to answer the question more definitely, but—­”

  “My husband will never free you, Mr. Pipps,” said Sara sharply. “If that’s to be your next request.”

  “It’s not,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “I know your husband’s mind, as I know he will not hear my concerns. But he would hear them from you.”

  Sara shifted her weight uncomfortably, staring at the harbor. Dolphins were playing in the water, leaping and twisting into the air, disappearing back beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

  “Please, my lady. You must convince your husband to delay the fleet’s departure while Arent investigates this matter.”

  Arent started at that. The last time he’d investigated a case had been three years ago. Nowadays, he kept out of that side of things. His job was to keep Sammy safe and trample underfoot whatever bastard he pointed his finger at.

  “Questions are swords and answers are shields,” persisted Sammy, still staring at Sara. “I’m begging you, armor yourself. Once the Saardam sets sail, it will be too late.”

  3

  Under Batavia’s burning sky, Sara Wessel walked the length of the procession, feeling the scouring eyes of the courtiers, soldiers, and sycophants upon her. She went like a condemned woman, shoulders square, eyes down, and fists clenched by her sides. Shame reddened her face, though most mistook it for heat.

  For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Arent. He wasn’t hard to spot, standing a clear head and shoulders taller than the next man. Sammy had put him to work inspecting the body, and he was currently picking through the leper’s robes with a long stick that had previously been used to carry baskets.

  Feeling Sara’s gaze upon him, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. Embarrassed, she snapped her head forward again.

  Her husband’s damnable horse snorted, kicking the ground angrily as she approached. She’d never got along with this beast. Unlike her, it enjoyed being underneath him.

  The thought drew a wicked smile, which she was still wrestling from her face as she came upon him. His back was to her, his head bowed in hushed conversation with Cornelius Vos.

  Vos was her husband’s chamberlain, foremost among his advisors and one of the most powerful men in the city. Not that it was obvious by looking at him, for he managed to carry his power without charisma or vigor. Neither tall nor short, broad nor thin, his mud-­colored hair topped a weathered face devoid of any distinguishing features, beyond two luminous green eyes that always stared over the shoulder of whomever he was speaking to.

  His clothes were shabby without being ragged, and there hung about him an air of such potent hopelessness one would expect flowers to wilt as he walked by.

  “Is my personal cargo boarded?” asked her husband, ignoring Sara.

  “The chief merchant has seen to it, my lord.”

  They didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Her husband couldn’t stand being interrupted, and Vos had served him long enough to know that.

  “And matters have been arranged to ensure its secrecy?” asked her husband.

  “Guard Captain Drecht attended it personally.” Vos’s fingers danced at his sides, betraying some internal calculation. “Which bring us to our second piece of important cargo, my lord. May I ask where you wish to store the Folly during our voyage?”

  “My quarters seem appropriate,” declared her husband.

  “Unfortunately, the Folly’s too large, sir,” said Vos, wringing his hands. “Might I suggest the cargo hold?”

  “I’ll not have the future of the Company packed away like an unwanted piece of furniture.”

  “Few know what the Folly is, sir,” continued Vos, momentarily distracted by the splashing oars of an approaching ferry. “Even fewer know we’re bringing it aboard the Saardam. The best way to protect it might be to act as though it is an unwanted piece of furniture.”

  “A clever thought, but the cargo hold remains too exposed,” said her husband.

  They fell silent, puzzling the matter over.

  Sunshine beat at her back, thick beads of sweat gathering on her brow and rolling down her face, clogging the white powder Dorothea applied so
liberally to conceal her freckles. She yearned to adjust her clothes, to remove the ruff around her neck and tug the damp material away from her flesh, but her husband hated fidgeting as much as being interrupted.

  “What about the gunpowder store, sir?” said Vos. “It’s locked and guarded, but nobody would expect something as valuable as the Folly to be housed in there.”

  “Superb. Make the arrangements.”

  As Vos walked toward the procession, the governor general finally turned to face his wife.

  He was twenty years older than Sara, with a teardrop head, which was bald except for a tonsure of dark hair connecting his large ears. Most people wore hats to shield them from Batavia’s harsh sunlight, but her husband believed they made him appear foolish. As a result, his scalp glowed an angry crimson, the skin peeling and collecting in the folds of his ruff.

  Under flat eyebrows, two dark eyes weighed her as his fingers scratched a long nose. By any measure, he was an ugly man, but unlike Chamberlain Vos, he radiated power. Every word out of his mouth felt like it was being etched into history; every glance contained a subtle rebuke, an invitation for others to measure themselves against him and discover the ways in which they were wanting. By merely living, he thought himself an instruction manual in good breeding, discipline, and values.

  “My wife,” he said in a tone that could easily be mistaken for pleasant.

  His hand jerked to her face, causing her to flinch. Pressing a thumb to her cheek, he roughly wiped away a clot of powder. “How unkind the heat is to you.”

  She swallowed the insult, lowering her gaze.

  Fifteen years they’d been married, and she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been able to hold his stare.

  It was those inkblot eyes. They were identical to Lia’s, except her daughter’s glittered with life. Her husband’s were empty, like two dark holes his soul had long run out of.

  She’d felt it the first time they’d met, when she and her four sisters had been delivered overnight to his drawing room in Rotterdam, like meat ordered special from the market. He’d interviewed them one by one and chosen Sara on the spot. His proposal had been thorough, listing the benefits of their union to her father. In short, she’d have a beautiful cage and all the time in the world to admire herself in the bars.