A growl came from the end of the passage. Spinning toward it, they saw the leper waiting for them, a small candle held in its hands.
It gave them time to see it, then walked unhurriedly away. Sara grabbed hold of Arent’s arm and was relieved to find he finally looked uncertain.
“It wants us to follow,” she said.
“Probably into a trap.”
“Then why not just attack us from behind? Why go through all of this?”
Pressed tight together, they followed the passage to the last spot where they’d seen the leper. Turning a corner, they found it waiting for them again. Closer this time. Its head was bowed reverentially over its small candle.
“What do you want?” called out Arent.
It turned and walked away.
This time, they didn’t hesitate, quickening their pace in pursuit. The smell of spices tickled Sara’s nose. Rats darted away from the splashing water.
The marks covered every crate this deep into the maze, the lines seeming to shift and crawl like thousands of spiders scurrying up the walls.
Sara gritted her teeth. She was deathly afraid, but she was deathly afraid most days of her life. At least she could see an end to this. At least this fear led somewhere.
A light flared, as if the cover had been taken off a candle.
Arent tensed, then went cautiously toward it, with Sara following a little behind.
Expecting an assault, he put his arms up to protect his face, then stepped quickly around the corner. Hundreds more marks covered the surrounding walls.
Eight candles were burning on a makeshift altar, the mark of Old Tom drawn upon it.
“It’s a church,” said Sara, horrified. “Old Tom’s made himself a church.”
“Which means he likely already has followers among the crew,” replied Arent.
33
Arent and Sara sloshed back through the labyrinth in a daze. The cargo hold was still pitch-black, the air was still fetid, and the stink still scratched at their skin, but they both knew the danger had been sapped out of it—at least for the moment.
The leper had completed its errand.
“What does Old Tom want?” wondered Arent.
“Devotion,” said Sara. “What else do you need an altar for?”
“A sacrifice?” They considered that, then Arent spoke again, lost in his own musings. “I wonder if the altar is the reason Isabel came down here.”
“Isabel?”
Arent told her about Isabel’s encounter with the constable last night.
“‘Popped his carrot back in the sack?’” she repeated, giggling. “That’s the phrase he used?”
“Almost brought my breakfast up when I heard it,” said Arent, grinning. “But we know Isabel’s sneaking around the ship at night. That altar’s as good a reason as any. Could be that Old Tom’s managed to convert the predikant’s ward.”
“That would make sense,” said Sara. “Sander Kers is hunting Old Tom. He believes the demon is possessing somebody on the ship. He told me this morning.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Possibly. Apparently, we’re hunting somebody with a bloody past.”
“Should narrow it down,” replied Arent sarcastically, blowing a little life back into their flame. “Does Sander Kers want this demon dead, by any chance? Maybe he’s found a good excuse to commit murder.”
“He does, but I don’t think he’s lying.” From high above them, pinpricks of light shone from the grates that had been used to lower the cargo down. Footsteps were passing back and forth across them. It would have been faster to get out by climbing the stacks of crates and pushing one of the grates open.
Then she remembered how heavy her dress was.
“Kers was lured here as well,” she continued. “He received a letter from Creesjie’s husband asking that he join him in Batavia to fight Old Tom, but Pieter was already dead before the letter was written.”
“We definitely need to know more about Sander and Isabel,” said Arent.
“Leave it to me. I’ll ask—”
From somewhere near, they heard a scrape, then a thud. Somebody cursed.
“That sounded like Isaack Larme,” said Sara, raising an eyebrow.
“Larme, is that you?” called out Arent.
“Over here,” he hollered back.
They followed his voice to find him inspecting a mark of Old Tom by the light of a candle on a tray. There was a knife in his hand, its edge made jagged by rust. He was puffing slightly, as if he’d just completed some labor. Upon seeing them, he tapped the mark. “Did you see these? Same symbols as on the sail.”
Sara noticed a sliver of wood still clinging to the tip of Larme’s blade.
“It’s the mark of Old Tom,” said Arent. “Wherever it appears, disaster follows. This is what I was trying to warn you about.”
“They’re everywhere,” said Sara. She waved toward the heart of the maze. “The leper built an altar. Old Tom’s taking hold of this ship.”
Larme glanced at the marks again, then slipped his knife into his boot. “Or it’s the crew playing silly buggers,” he replied. His gaze traveled up and down Sara, without any apparent concern for her rank. “You shouldn’t be down here. No place for a woman, this.”
“We heard a scraping, then a thump,” said Arent.
Guilt flashed across Larme’s face. “Probably the search,” he said unconvincingly.
“Seemed closer than that,” disagreed Sara.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Sara looked around, trying to make sense of it, but the cargo hold was too dark and the candle too bright. It etched out Larme but blinded them to everything else.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with Bosey?” asked Arent.
“I weren’t.”
“You’ve half a charm each,” said Arent. “I’ve heard that means you get his pay at the end of this voyage. You must have meant something to each other.”
“And none of it’s your business,” said Larme, the flame faltering momentarily as he picked up the tray with the candle on it.
“Don’t you want to know who killed him?” tried Sara. “Don’t you want to know who stuck him on those crates, then burned him alive?”
Larme ran a nervous tongue around his lips.
“Or maybe you already know,” said Arent slowly. “And you just don’t want us to find out.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Larme.
“Then tell us,” said Arent.
“Don’t you think I want to? Do you reckon I’m happy that something’s threatening to put us on the bottom? I can’t talk to you, because you’re a soldier.”
“I’m not,” appealed Sara.
“You’re a woman. Ain’t much better.”
“For heaven’s sake,” she said, annoyed at his stubbornness. “There’s just us three, down in the dark. What does it matter?”
He shook his head angrily, jabbing a finger at them. “Everybody thinks sailing is about the wind and waves. It ain’t. Sailing’s about the crew, which means it’s about superstition and hate. The men you’re depending on to get you home are murderers, cutpurses, and malcontents, unfit for anything else. They’re only on this ship because they’d be hanged anywhere else. They’ve got short tempers and violent passions, and we’ve locked them all together in a space we’d feel bad keeping cattle in. Captain Crauwels sails this ship, and I keep the crew from mutiny. If either of us makes a mistake, we’re all dead.” He jutted out his chin pugnaciously, like a man ready to spill somebody’s drink in a tavern. “Do you know why the crew hates soldiers so much? It’s because we tell them to. If they didn’t, they’d realize how much they hate each other and we’d never get home.” He steadied his
light. “If I answer your questions, if I help either of you in any way, I put myself on your side, not theirs. So there’s my choice: Bosey or this ship. Which would you choose?”
Receiving no answer, he snorted and strode off.
Sara and Arent listened to his footsteps fade, then Arent walked to where Larme had been standing. “What could have made that scrape and thump we heard? What was Larme doing down here?”
“Moving crates?” suggested Sara.
Arent pushed at a couple, finding them pinned solid by the weight of those stacked on top. “Any other ideas?”
“Perhaps one of the sides is false?” she ventured.
He thumped some. They all seemed firmly attached.
Sara stamped on the floor, water splashing up her legs. She’d always enjoyed the parts of Pipps’s stories where he found a trapdoor and was hoping to discover one for herself. She was disappointed. If the floorboards had secrets, they were holding them close.
Arent stared at the thick beams of the hull, curving down toward them. His fingers roamed across the rough wooden planks, feeling for hollows or catches. There was nothing.
“What are you looking for?” wondered Sara, who’d joined the search.
“Whatever I’m missing. Whatever would Sammy have—” He slapped his hands together. “Larme’s a dwarf! He wouldn’t have been able to reach the section of wall we’re searching.”
He knelt in the bilgewater, soaking his hose. The stink was dreadful.
Sara eyed it with distaste, but she was already filthy. With a shudder, she joined him in the muck.
Her smaller fingers soon snagged on a peg.
“Here,” she cried triumphantly.
In truth, it wasn’t terribly well hidden. Whoever had built it had trusted to darkness to conceal it, rather than any great craft. She yanked it out, causing a panel to scrape loose, then thud onto the floor.
There was a compartment behind it.
Arent drew his candle closer so they could peer inside.
“Oh!” said Sara in disappointment. It was empty. Whenever Pipps did this, there was always something inside. Usually jewels, though on one particularly gory occasion, it had been a severed head.
“Larme must have moved whatever was in here,” she said. “He came down here to hide something.”
34
Arent arrived at the great cabin to find the fleet captains gathered around the table, banging their fists and shouting over one another, scolding Adrian Crauwels for calling battle stations. A solitary light appearing on a solitary night could be anything, they’d argued. There had been no need to panic them from their beds.
The only person not shouting was Crauwels himself. He was smoking a pipe and playing with the metal disk he carried around, tracing the lines of the double-headed bird crest with his fingernail.
There was wisdom in his silence, thought Arent. It was much easier to annoy his uncle than impress him. Half these men would be hauling peat on clapped-out scows in a year’s time, wondering when their fortunes had soured.
“Gentlemen!” yelled Haan at last. “Gentlemen!” The room quieted. “Tonight, we will extinguish our running lights and give our mysterious vessel no flame to chase. If it returns, the Saardam will put a yawl in the water and send it to investigate. Return to your ships, and start making preparations. Good day!”
Arent waited for the fleet captains to grumble out, then entered the room. His uncle had remained seated and was discussing something with Vos, who was standing at his side, hands clasped behind his back. Drecht had taken a position by the cabin door. He nodded in friendly fashion to Arent.
A master and his two hounds, thought Arent uncharitably.
Hearing Arent’s footfalls, the governor general smiled in delight at his nephew. “Ah, Arent. I—”
“How did I come by this mark, Uncle?” demanded Arent, holding up his wrist. “What happened to my father?”
His tone sent Drecht’s hand to his sword hilt, while Vos glowered on his master’s behalf. Haan simply leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands. “If I knew, I’d tell you,” he said calmly.
“I heard you talking to Vos,” said Arent, hoping to protect Sara from any recrimination. “I know you summoned Old Tom, and I know my father’s life was the price for it.”
Haan’s face fell. He glared at the chamberlain, who shied back under his scrutiny. It was like watching a hawk spot a field mouse far below.
“Is it true?” insisted Arent. “Did you sacrifice my father to bring Old Tom into this world?”
Haan considered his nephew, beset by calculations. His inkblot eyes were impossible to read.
“Your grandfather ordered your father’s death,” he said at last. “Your father was a zealot and a madman who believed you were the devil’s work from the moment you were born. After he beat you unconscious, your grandfather realized he was going to kill you, eventually. Casper could not let that happen. He loved you too much. He asked me to make the arrangements, and I did as he asked.”
Arent’s world was spinning. The mystery of his father’s disappearance had haunted his entire childhood. It had driven him from his mother’s home. His grandfather’s servants had whispered about it when they thought he couldn’t hear. Their children devised games to torment him, whispering through the door that they were his father’s spirit returned to carry him away.
Their voices stung, but it was his own doubt that truly wounded him. All of his life, he’d wondered whether he’d murdered his own father. And what that made him, if he had. That his grandfather and uncle had known the answer from the beginning was the gravest betrayal he could imagine.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” he stammered, still reeling.
“Because ordering the death of your own son is no small thing, Arent.” There was sympathy in his response, though whether it was for Casper van den Berg or him, Arent couldn’t tell. “Your grandfather was ashamed of what his son had become. He was ashamed of what he had to do, and he was ashamed that he couldn’t do it himself. Your grandfather abhors weakness of any sort, especially that which he finds in himself.”
Haan leaned forward into a shaft of sunlight, breathing deeply, as if it were something he could taste. “The past is poison. He wanted it behind him, and I swore to keep the secret.”
“Then why do I have this mark?”
“The assassin did it.” He pursed his lips. “The assassin did a number of troubling things. He was supposed to kill your father within sight of your home, not leave you wandering the forest for three days. Truly, we don’t know what became of you in that time.”
“What became of the assassin?”
“Gone.” Haan closed his fist, then opened his fingers. “Vanished. He delivered your father’s rosary to Casper, then took his coin. We never heard from him again.”
“The rosary was proof he was dead?”
“Yes. It was your father’s dearest possession. Casper knew he would never have relinquished it willingly.”
“But you summoned Old Tom? I heard you admit it.”
Vos coughed in warning. Such was the intensity of the conversation, Arent had entirely forgotten the chamberlain was there. The governor general ignored his counselor, considering Arent shrewdly. “Do you believe in demons, Arent?” he asked, leaning forward across the table.
“No,” he responded firmly.
“If you don’t believe in something, how could I have summoned it? You’re asking me these questions because your life changed in that forest, and you want to know what caused the change. I’ll tell you this—every decision that’s led you here is your own. Not mine, not your grandfather’s. Not God’s, or Old Tom’s. Believe me, we both wished it otherwise, but you always went your own way.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I answered a question,” replied his uncle,
rubbing his eye with the knuckle of his thumb. “Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.”
“That’s a line from one of my reports.”
“Did you think I lost sight of you these long years?” Haan rapped the table as if drawing a marker he daren’t pass. “There’s much I can’t tell you.”
“Uncle—”
“It’s testament to my love for your family that I’m answering the questions I am with the honesty I have. No other man could demand this of me.”
Arent heard the prickle in his voice. By his uncle’s standards, this was a beating in a back alley. His forbearance wouldn’t last much longer.
“Did my grandfather know about Old Tom?”
“I kept nothing from Casper.”
“Why is this happening, Uncle? Who’s behind it? Why was the demon’s mark on the sail?”
“Because I wanted more than was offered. The rest I’ve trusted you to uncover on my behalf.” Haan paused. “Do you believe I love you, Arent?”
Arent spoke without hesitation. “Yes.”
Haan puffed out his chest. “Then know that I keep my secrets to protect you. Not from doubt or fear. I trust you above anybody else on this ship. I’m proud of what you’ve become.”
Haan got to his feet and clapped his hands on Arent’s arms fondly. He smiled with a vague air of sadness, then stalked into his cabin without another word. Vos followed him inside, closing the door quietly.
Drecht stared at Arent, astonished, but said nothing.
Arent left them, his fury having burned down. He’d been lied to his entire life, though for the best of reasons. His uncle was right. His father had been a monster who certainly would have killed him. Casper and Jan Haan had murdered him to protect Arent, then lied about it to protect themselves.
Sara was waiting nervously outside. She flew to him. “I heard everything,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Arent.”
“Don’t pity me. Pity the Saardam,” warned Arent, glaring back through the doorway. “If Old Tom has some sort of hold on my uncle, he has a hold on this ship. This battle may already be lost.”
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 21
