The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “Sander Kers is missing. We need your help.”

  Arent came around grudgingly, wiping his blurred eyes to peer up at them. The smell of paprika hung thick in the air. Somebody must have broken open a case in the cargo hold.

  “Sander went shuffling out of here first thing,” he said, coming up on his elbows. “I heard his steps on the staircase down to the orlop deck.”

  “I’ve searched the orlop deck,” said Isabel accusingly.

  Arent sat up, resting his head in his hands tiredly. “Maybe he went down to the cargo hold, or past the divide? Have you searched afore the mainmast?”

  “I’m not allowed that far,” said Isabel, frantically.

  “I’ll go ask after him there,” he said. “Soon as I work out how to put my boots on.”

  Sara gave him the parchment Creesjie had scribed. “Before you do that, read this,” she said. “It’s a letter from your grandfather to my husband. It explains why Sammy is imprisoned.”

  Becoming alert, he took the missive, reading it twice. He laughed, suddenly. “I don’t know how my grandfather came by this information, but it’s a lie. Sammy isn’t a spy.” Arent’s tone was amused. “He’d be useless at spying. He doesn’t care for nations or kings. He cares about coin in his pocket, and interesting puzzles.”

  “Ask him about it,” requested Sara. “And don’t tell my husband what you know. I stole it from his cabin.”

  Arent dropped the note out of the porthole, the wind catching it. “Of course not. Thank you, Sara,” he said.

  After Sara had fetched Lia, the four women went outside, where the rain had grown spiteful enough to wash away the disappointed congregation. “Are you certain enlisting Arent is wise?” asked Isabel, glancing over her shoulder at him. “We still don’t know for certain he isn’t the demon.”

  “He isn’t,” said Sara, her tone ending any further debate.

  Her certainty took them all by surprise, but she faced their doubt down. Two days in Arent’s company and she already knew him more deeply than she knew her husband after fifteen years of marriage.

  “Trust me, if he’s to be found, Arent will find him,” she said. “We should talk to Reynier van Schooten though. He was begging confession from Kers. He may know where the predikant went this morning.”

  “Can we send the boys inside first?” said Creesjie, glancing toward the sky. “It doesn’t feel very welcoming out here anymore.”

  Marcus and Osbert were on the quarterdeck, chasing each other in circles, playing some variation of tag only they knew the rules to. Dorothea was watching them fretfully, believing they would eventually run straight through the gaps in the railings and over the edge of the ship.

  Considering the boys’ gifts for mishap, it wasn’t an unfounded concern.

  The women were at the foot of the stairs when the boys came running down under instruction from Dorothea. “Think we best be getting inside, mistress,” she said, her white cap held tight in her hand against the wind.

  Sara caught her arm.

  “Could you find time today to make me some practical clothes, Dorothea?” She gestured to Isabel’s loose cotton shirt and hemp skirt. “Something like those. And I’d need a hat, a bonnet, or something with a brim that covers my face and hair.”

  “A disguise, you mean?” said Dorothea, who had experience of such things, having helped Sara sneak out of the fort on more than one occasion.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll have to sacrifice a dress or two,” she warned.

  “Tear up whatever you need,” said Sara.

  After Dorothea had ushered the boys inside, Creesjie cleared her throat awkwardly. “Sara,” she began in an inquiring voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Arent Hayes.”

  The name lingered between them.

  “Yes,” repeated Sara, but slower this time, more warning than invitation.

  “Your defense of him was very…”

  “Spirited,” finished Lia helpfully.

  “Yes, spirited,” said Creesjie, brushing her blond hair from her eyes.

  “Was it?”

  “And you’ve been spending a great deal of time with him recently.”

  “Not an undue amount,” countered Sara.

  “Do you care for him?”

  Sara’s mouth formed an objection, but then she thought about who was asking the question. “Yes,” she admitted, grimacing slightly. It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and it felt like pulling a particularly ugly cow into the middle of a market.

  Lia smiled, leaving Creesjie to creep tactfully toward her point. “These feelings you have… You understand that they’re impossible.”

  “Of course I do,” said Sara, pulling at the neck of her dress irritably. Dorothea was having to wash everything in seawater, making the clothes stiff and itchy. Still, it was better than the sailors. They washed their clothes infrequently, and when they did, it was with their own urine. In another five months, the entire ship would smell like a latrine. “I’m… I like the way I feel around him,” continued Sara. “He lets me be myself, rather than forcing me to be somebody I’m very bad at being. That’s all it is. It’s easily put aside.”

  “Are you certain you have to?” asked Lia cautiously. “He makes you happy. I’ve seen it.”

  “There’s no hope for Arent and I.” Sara lowered her voice. “If our plan is successful, I’ll disappear, and Arent will…” She trailed off. She didn’t know. Where would he go once Sammy Pipps was executed? Back to war? Hope flickered within her.

  He was a mercenary. More importantly, he was a man. There were no obligations upon him. No expectations. He could go wherever he wished. Maybe he’d welcome the chance to follow her and begin a new life far away from everything. Perhaps she would be able to get word to him when they docked, telling him where she’d gone.

  She shook her head angrily. Why was she thinking about this? She was so close to earning Lia’s freedom and her own. How could she even think about risking that for a childish infatuation?

  Eggert saluted, opening the door for them.

  Sara rapped on Reynier van Schooten’s cabin.

  The chief merchant appeared wearing a pair of thin cotton slops and little else.

  As one, the women turned their cheeks in disgust. His room was a tavern, with dozens of empty wine jugs scattered across the writing desk and floor.

  This was how the desperate drank, thought Sara.

  “Old Tom really was listening to me last night,” he said, eying the ladies before him.

  Creesjie snorted in amusement, causing Sara to smile involuntarily. “Did you go to Sander Kers for confession yesterday?” she asked.

  “No.” He gestured toward his cabin. “What would I need to confess for? Governor general’s master of this voyage, which makes me just another wealthy passenger with a trunk full of wine.”

  “You helped my husband smuggle something on board secretly,” said Sara, watching his demeanor change. “Nobody seems to know what it is, but you’ve been drinking heavily ever since.”

  His face was momentarily stricken, overwhelmed by fear and doubt and guilt. For an instant, Sara believed they might hear what they needed, but bile poured out instead.

  “Does your husband know you’re playing thief taker with Arent Hayes?” he asked, cocking his head. “Does he know you’re dragging your daughter into these adventures?” He leered at her. “Maybe I should tell him.”

  “Sander Kers is missing,” interrupted Isabel, pushing in front of him. “If he came to you for confession, you were the last—­”

  “I don’t know anything, and I wouldn’t tell it to a damn Mardijker if I did.”

  He slammed the door shut in their faces.

  46

  “What do we do next?” asked Isabel as they trudged away from van Schoot
en’s cabin.

  Sara considered it, then addressed Lia behind her. “How’s the model of the boat and its smuggling compartments progressing?”

  “I’ve only just started. Why?”

  “Your father brought something aboard he wanted kept secret, and Reynier van Schooten helped him do so. If he confessed what he’d done to Kers and your father found out, maybe that’s why he’s disappeared. That cargo’s on board this ship somewhere, and Bosey’s smuggling compartments seem a good place to start looking. We just have to know where they are.”

  “Don’t forget the letter,” warned Creesjie. “Kers was lured on board the Saardam. If Old Tom was behind that, maybe it’s responsible for his disappearance.”

  “Either way, there’s nothing more we can do for the time being, except wait for Arent to finish his search,” said Sara.

  It was clear the answer didn’t satisfy Isabel, but there was no other course of action open. As with every passenger, her freedom was limited.

  Creesjie removed another scrap of parchment from her sleeve and handed it to Sara. “On other matters, this should cheer you up. It’s the list of names you saw in your husband’s cabin.”

  Bastiaan Bos—­1604

  Tukihiri—­1605

  Gillis van de Ceulen—­1607

  Hector Dijksma—­1609

  Emily de Haviland—­1610

  “I recognize some of these names from the daemonologica,” said Isabel, peering over her shoulder. “They’re all families who fell under Old Tom’s thrall and were investigated by Pieter Fletcher.”

  The girl smelled faintly of paprika. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it made Sara slightly hungry. She wondered why she’d never noticed it before. There were crates of the stuff in the cargo hold. They must have been stored directly beneath where she slept.

  “Do you know why Jan is interested in these names?” wondered Creesjie.

  “I heard him talking with Vos yesterday,” replied Sara slowly, trying to answer the question for herself. “I only caught a little of it, but he admitted to setting Old Tom loose thirty years ago in return for the power he holds. Now he thinks somebody else has raised the demon against him. Arent confronted him, but he wouldn’t say anything more.”

  Creesjie blanched, gripping Sara’s arm. “Jan summoned it?”

  “That’s what he said.” She turned her attention back to Isabel. “Do you know what became of the names on this list?”

  “Pieter Fletcher kept extensive records,” she said, tapping her satchel. “The daemonologica will have the answers.”

  “Then let’s go to my cabin.” Sara peered at Creesjie. “Did you find out anything about Captain Crauwels last night?”

  “I don’t think he’s our demon, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Creesjie. “His family were nobles once, and he’s trying to restore their fortunes. Somehow, he seems to think Jan can help him.”

  “Did you find out how?”

  “No, but I’ll try again tonight. Oh, and I may be able to get more information from Vos on your husband’s connection to Old Tom.”

  “He’s fiercely loyal,” said Sara skeptically. “I’m not doubting your fabled charms, but—­”

  “He asked me to marry him,” interrupted Creesjie, a twinkle coming into her eye.

  “Vos proposed!” exclaimed Lia.

  “Yes, last night, after we were attacked by the Eighth Lantern.”

  “But you’re…” Sara searched for the word. “You’re you, and he’s…”

  “Him,” agreed Creesjie thoughtfully. “Yes, but apparently he’s coming into great wealth, then applying to become the next governor general of Batavia.”

  “Wealth?” Sara’s face became eager. “From where?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d been planning for some time… Oh.” Realization dawned on her face. “Not Vos. Surely not Vos. He’s too…” She struggled for the word. “Dull.”

  “He has influence, and his circumstances are about to change. If Old Tom is possessing anybody, Vos is as likely a candidate as anybody else. My husband yielded him a great deal of autonomy over the years. He was the second most powerful man in Batavia, and it seems he’s reaching for more. We need to investigate this wealth he’s coming into.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Creesjie. “I was going to ask anyway. I’ll need all the details if I’m to take his proposal seriously.”

  “You’re not really considering it?” exclaimed Lia.

  “Why not?” said Creesjie, lightly. “He’s infatuated, weak, and lacking imagination. Consider the life I could build for my boys out of those flaws. Besides, my beauty won’t last forever. I must sell it for the best price I can.”

  Sara shot a look at Isabel, trailing behind. “Would you mind taking the daemonologica to my cabin while I speak with Creesjie?” she asked sweetly.

  Isabel did as she was bid. Once she was away, Sara took hold of Creesjie’s arm.

  “If you marry Vos, what happens to our plan?” she asked in concern. “What about France? What about Lia and me?”

  “Oh, don’t fret, dear heart,” said Creesjie calmly. “That could still be easily arranged. The Folly is much too valuable to be held hostage to my wedding plans, and I’d never abandon either of you.”

  Sara stared at her friend. She was beautiful and loyal, but she lived on whatever breeze stirred that day. She wouldn’t have considered Sara and Lia when considering her marriage proposal, not out of selfishness or spite but simply because she would assume everything would work out in her favor. She wanted their freedom, so she’d have it. In fairness to Creesjie, this was usually how her life went.

  “Did you manage to get the plans last night?” asked Sara, changing the subject.

  Ensuring nobody was around, Creesjie lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing a scroll case tied to the inside of her dress by three loops of material. “Of course,” she said, removing it. “Jan slept soundly throughout. I must applaud you on the efficacy of your tinctures.”

  “Heavens, Creesjie, why didn’t you just leave it in Lia’s cabin?” asked Sara.

  “What if one of the cabin boys had seen it? Or your husband had visited? No, no. I thought it safer to keep it on me.”

  “That’s not the dress I altered,” said Lia, taking the scroll case in both hands.

  “No, I fixed this one myself,” replied Creesjie proudly.

  “And you’ve been walking around with the scroll case strapped to your leg all morning?”

  “I was waiting for the right time to give it to you.”

  Sara shook her head fondly at her friend.

  “I’ll start working on the plans immediately,” said Lia. “I’ll need some new candles, though.”

  “I’ll have the steward fetch them,” said Sara.

  “Perhaps get them somewhere else,” warned her daughter. “Between your model ship and these plans, I’m going to be up late a lot. We don’t want him wondering why I’m going through so many.”

  Lia disappeared into her cabin, clutching the scroll case, leaving only Sara and Creesjie to enter Sara’s cabin.

  The daemonologica was already open on the writing desk.

  Isabel was examining the harp, her head cocked in wonder. Batavia’s taverns made do with flutes, fiddles, and drums, most of them played with more enthusiasm than skill. From her rapt expression, it was obvious she’d never seen an instrument this elegant in her life. The strings were made of sunlight, and the wood was so polished, she could see her own reflection swimming on its surface, like a soul caught under its skin.

  She reached out a finger to pluck one of the strings, but hearing them, her hands shot behind her back. For the first time since they’d met, Sara thought she looked like the girl she was.

  “You’re more than welcome to play it,” said Sara kindly. “I could teach you, if you li
ke.”

  Isabel blanched, embarrassed by the offer. “I don’t mean disrespect,” she said, unable to meet Sara’s eyes. “But that’s not my place, and it’s cruel to offer. Your fingers are perfect for the harp. They’re soft and long. I see them and I know God designed one for the other.” She held out her own hands for inspection. They were calloused and tough, dirty from clambering around the boat. “These hands were designed for the fields, for hard labor and strife. First time I saw Sander, he was being beaten by two footpads in an alley in Batavia. Him being a predikant, I took my knife and slit their throats before they knew I was there. I wasn’t looking for reward, but Sander saw providence in my arrival. He took me in and gave me a witchfinder’s education.” Pride came into her voice. “My mission is divine. I’m the one who’ll put an end to Old Tom. That’s what these hands are for, not fumbling at an instrument I’ll never see again once I’m off this boat.”

  Sara opened her mouth, unsure whether to protest or apologize, but Isabel spared her the decision by tapping the cover of the daemonologica. “I brought the book like you asked,” she said.

  Sara kept her gaze fixed on Isabel.

  “Creesjie, can you see if the daemonologica can help us with those names you took from my husband’s desk?” said Sara. “I’d like to examine Isabel’s baby, if she’s willing?”

  Isabel gasped, her hands flying straight to her stomach. “How did you know?”

  “I saw the fondness with which you stared at Marcus and Osbert during yesterday’s sermon,” replied Sara gently. “You were dreaming of your own baby at that age. I’ve had three myself. I know the look. Besides, you can’t keep your hands from your stomach.”

  As Sara gently felt Isabel’s belly, murmuring periodically in satisfaction, Creesjie began flicking through the pages of the daemonologica, murmuring periodically in disgust.

  “The names were all people my husband suspected of being possessed by Old Tom.” Creesjie cleared her throat and began reading out loud. “‘Bastiaan Bos was a wealthy merchant, but investigation revealed that his fortune had been derived from numerous examples of rare good fortune, each one coinciding with some terrible event in the villages surrounding his lands. The pattern was obvious. We snatched him off the road late one night, and under three days of interrogation, Old Tom’s face was revealed to us. An exorcism was performed, but Bos could not be saved. We cleansed him with…’” Creesjie’s voice became small. “‘Fire,’” she finished limply.