The constable nodded, seeming to take courage from the thought.
Because of the constable’s missing arm, the sailors were unable to tie his hands around the mast, so they were using his waist instead, his belly sagging over the ropes. With each pass around, they apologized under their breath to the helpless old man.
Arent placed the jug of wine on the deck where the constable’s eyes could cling to it. “Rest of this bottle’s yours when this is over.”
Arent stepped away, watching as Drecht stuffed the constable’s mouth with a mound of dirty hemp. Whatever he thought about this, he didn’t let it show. He was just a soldier going about his duty.
Wind snapped the sails; waves slapped the hull. Everybody was staring at the governor general, waiting for this sharp, thin creature to pass his sentence.
“A heinous crime has been committed,” pronounced Haan, once the constable was gagged. “Something of great value has been stolen.” He gave the accusation time to settle. “I believe the constable to be the culprit, but I do not believe he acted alone. Until the stolen object is returned, a random member of the crew will be lashed every morning, every day.”
The sailors howled in protest.
The governor general has just set fire to the Saardam, thought Arent.
“Twenty hard lashes whenever you’re ready, Guard Captain,” Haan demanded, nodding to the drummer to begin again.
Drecht uncoiled the lash and drew back his arm.
He timed his strike to match the beat of the drum. It was a small mercy but a mercy nonetheless. Knowing when the pain was coming would help the constable brace himself for it.
The whip cracked, ripping into the constable’s flesh, bringing a scream of agony and groans of disgust as blood splattered the faces of the nearby sailors.
“Does anybody wish to confess or admit knowledge of this crime?” said Haan, making the offer of a drawn-out, painful death sound benevolent.
Meeting no response, Drecht raised the whip again.
Twenty were ordered and twenty were given, despite the constable collapsing unconscious after twelve.
It was a mercy.
When all was done, Drecht dropped the lash on the ground.
A cold breeze was swirling, raising goose bumps on the constable’s skin, which was now slick with sweat.
Arent took out his dagger and sawed through the ropes binding the old man to the mast, catching his limp body before it fell. Gentle as he could, he carried him through the crowd and toward the sick bay.
The drumbeat stopped, the crew dispersing back to their duties, carrying their hatred with them.
High up on the quarterdeck, Vos watched them go with his hands clasped behind his back, his face a veil, his thoughts shifting darkly behind it.
54
Hunched over her writing desk, Lia hummed happily as she copied the artificer’s instructions from one parchment to another. The original was by her left hand, and it was covered in odd sketches of cogs and tracks, suns and moons and stars, instructions written in Latin. Most people wouldn’t have thought the symbols any less infernal than those in Kers’s daemonologica.
Not that Lia let herself be distracted by such thoughts. She concentrated on what was before her, for it was an exacting document, perfect in every detail. It had taken her three weeks to scribe the original in Batavia, each blotted letter, drop of sweat, and smear of ink reminding of that awful period. Despite the terrible heat, her father had confined her to a locked room, refusing to allow her to leave until the work was done.
Lia hadn’t been allowed any company, for fear it would distract her into making a mistake, but her mama came anyway, singing softly, cradling her when she was tired, and hiding under the bed when her papa came. Even now, the thought of her mother, emerging from under the bed covered in dust, filled her with such an overwhelming love, she almost had no place for it.
There was an insistent knocking.
Lia quickly began covering everything up, but Creesjie’s voice quelled her panic. “It’s me, dear heart,” she said, opening the door a crack and slipping through quickly.
Behind her, Lia saw Marcus and Osbert playing with the pair of spinning dancers she’d made for them in Batavia. They were chasing them up and down the corridor under Dorothea’s supervision. The boys thought them magic. Lia thought them a nimble piece of woodworking. Sometimes she wished she were young enough to share in their glee. Her mother had tried to occupy her, but the fort had been a lonely place for a little girl to grow up.
Still, it had given her more time to build.
Coming up to the writing desk, Creesjie picked up the almost-finished model of the Saardam, turning it around in her hands. It was perfect in every detail. Even the string rigging was in order. “Is that what Sara asked you to build?” she asked, amazed.
“Yes,” said Lia. She reached over, removing a hidden clasp that allowed the ship to break in half. Within, Creesjie could make out all the decks. Lia tugged open a small door. “I’ve calculated the spaces in the hull where a smuggler’s compartment could be built and cargo stored without it affecting the ballast of the ship.”
“There are dozens,” said Creesjie.
“Yes,” agreed Lia.
Putting the wooden ship down, Creesjie stared at the plans scattered around the desk, running an affectionate hand through Lia’s long black hair. “You’re a wonder to me,” she said. “You make such miracles.”
Lia blushed, enjoying the compliment.
Smoothing her dress, Creesjie sat down on the edge of bunk. “I wanted to…” She reconsidered. “I shall see your father tonight. Should I bring back more plans?”
“Yes, please,” said Lia, sifting through documents. “I need another hour or more on these, but then I’ll be done.”
Creesjie coughed awkwardly. “I never asked whether you were… I mean, are you comfortable with what we’re doing?”
“Comfortable?” asked Lia, tipping her head in almost exactly the same way her mother did when she was uncertain of what was being asked of her.
“Is it what you want?” asked Creesjie forthrightly. “Your mother’s been very adamant, but I thought perhaps you might have some other ideas.”
“Mother says if I go back to Amsterdam, Father will eventually make me marry somebody I don’t want to,” said Lia, still struggling to see Creesjie’s point.
“Your mother says that,” said Creesjie, leaning forward. “What do you think? Do you think it’s bad to marry somebody chosen for you?”
“I don’t know,” said Lia carefully, this entire conversation a labyrinth. “You’ve had arranged marriages before, haven’t you?”
“My first. The second I chose. And perhaps the third, if I throw over Count Astor for Vos.”
“He’s a duke, Aunt Creesjie.”
“Vos said he was a count.”
“I’m certain he would have said a duke. He’s usually quite reliable.”
“Well then, I’d be tossing away a duke,” continued Creesjie, waving the rank away.
“But I thought you hated Vos?”
“Yes, part of me does,” she acknowledged, her tone suggesting that part of her was of little importance. “He always struck me as the smallest of men, but his proposal is very appealing. And it shows an ambition I didn’t think he had, which was the thing I disliked most about him.”
“But you don’t love him,” said Lia, puzzled.
“Oh, you truly are your mother’s daughter,” said Creesjie, watching her affectionately. “Love can be feigned, dear heart. You can even convince yourself of it if you try hard enough, but it’s impossible to spend an imaginary fortune. Marriage is an inconvenient convenience. It’s the shackle we accept for our safety.”
“Mama says she’d rather be free than wealthy in a cage.”
“An argument we frequently enj
oy,” Creesjie snorted. “Unlike your mother, I don’t believe women can be free, not while men are stronger. What use is the freedom to be assaulted in the first dark alley we come across? We can’t fight, so we sing, we dance, and we survive. Cornelius Vos adores me, and if he becomes wealthy, he would make for a fine marriage. My sons will be well educated, protected, and heirs to a future worthy of them. If I cast off that protection for some imaginary freedom, what will become of them? Where will they live? How will they eat? What will their future be? And what of myself? I’d be at the mercy of any lustful man who had the strength to put his hands upon me. No, no, no. Marriage is the price I pay for the privilege of nobility, and I consider the price well spent. Poverty is the most dangerous thing for a woman. We’re not well suited to a life on the streets.”
“But do you like being married?”
“Not always,” admitted Creesjie, her blond hair catching the light.
Lia looked at it enviously. It was like spun gold.
“My first husband was a wretch,” said Creesjie without feeling. “But my second husband, Pieter, was the love of my life.” Her voice came alive, the way a bush could suddenly be full of birdsong. “He was charming and eloquent. He could dance and sing, and he made me laugh.”
“You don’t speak of him often,” said Lia, saddened by Creesjie’s wistfulness.
“It’s too painful,” she said. “Every morning, I reach over, expecting to find him in my bed. I hear the door downstairs and think it’s him, returning from one of his trips. I miss him so.”
“Do you think he would have been able to stop Old Tom?”
“He didn’t think so when he forced us to flee Amsterdam, but he made many mistakes.” There was something bitter in that. “And for all my admiration, I must confess that my Pieter wasn’t as clever as your mama. Even so, it’s not the easiest task finding a demon among these men. There’s malice enough on the Saardam to bring heaven to ruins.”
The door flew open, and Sara bustled in breathlessly. “Oh, hello,” she said to Creesjie, snatching the model of the ship from the desk. “Don’t mind me. I’ve had an idea.”
“Sara!” came Arent’s voice from the end of the corridor. “What did you want me to—”
Sara kissed Lia on the forehead. “Thank you for this, dear heart. It’s beautiful.”
And then she was gone, slamming the door shut behind her.
Lia smiled at the place where her mother had been. “I’ve never seen Mama this happy.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” agreed Creesjie, who was obviously glad to change the subject. “It’s a shame. Your mother is wonderful, but she suits your father ill.”
“Why?”
Creesjie took a moment to think about it. “Because he doesn’t need a partner,” she said at last. “He needs a wife, and your mother doesn’t need a husband. She needs a partner.”
“Is that why he beats her?”
Creesjie flinched at the coldness in Lia’s voice.
“I think so,” admitted Creesjie.
“Is that why he hurt her so badly, she couldn’t walk?” pressed Lia, whose face had twisted into something malevolent.
“I’m not trying to persuade you or dissuade you,” Creesjie said uncomfortably, standing up. “I just want you making your decisions for the best reasons, with all the facts laid before you. It’s a terrible thing to betray kin, especially when we don’t understand the price. Regret is the worst thing we do to ourselves.”
“I understand,” said Lia, nodding.
And finally, she did. Creesjie thought Lia was doing all this because she didn’t want to be forced into a marriage once they reached Amsterdam. She thought that hurting her father was simply an unfortunate step along the way. Of course, she had it the wrong way around.
Arranging her skirts, Creesjie took a step toward the door.
“Do you believe there are some things that can’t be forgiven?” asked Lia.
Creesjie’s face flickered, as if trying to make sense of the question.
“Yes,” she said, hollowly.
“Good,” said Lia. “So do I.”
And with that, she returned to the plans on her writing desk.
55
Emerging on the quarterdeck, Sara jammed the model of the Saardam into Arent’s hands. Confusion became wonder as he turned the miniature capstan wheel with his finger. That feature hadn’t strictly been necessary, but Lia wove delight into everything she made. It was one of the things Sara loved most about her.
Arent’s eyes were wide, a foolish smile on his lips. She saw the boy he must have been.
“This is magnificent,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
Sara hesitated. She trusted Arent, but Lia’s secrets were dangerous. She’d been harboring them as long as she could remember, ever since that first old man had heard her muttering about adding barreling in the castle’s cannons to extend their range.
Before she’d known what was happening, a crowd had surrounded her. They’d never heard such words before, let alone from an eight-year-old girl. Sara had managed to usher her away without too many more questions, but it had happened again a few days later, when Lia had idly suggested a stronger design for the fort’s walls to the stonemason.
He’d seen the sense of it immediately, but not coming from a young girl. In fright, he’d marched her to the governor general. That had been the last time Lia had been allowed outside the fort.
“Lia built it,” said Arent quietly, observing her disquiet. “Her cleverness is one of those things people keep tripping over themselves trying to hide. Don’t worry. I’ve seen the trouble Sammy’s intelligence has brought him. I’ll keep it to myself.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Did she invent the Folly?”
Sara opened her mouth to lie, but was defeated by his honest eyes. “How did you guess?”
“I saw the Folly after we retrieved it,” said Arent. “It was obviously clever, but it was also beautiful and elegant. There was something playful about it that made me think it was a toy. This has the same quality.”
Arent inspected the model carefully. “Lia invented the Folly, which makes her the most valuable thing on this ship,” he murmured. “If Old Tom knows, she could be in danger.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Sara said. “If Old Tom comes for my husband, I don’t doubt he’d trade Lia in return for his own life.”
Arent stared at her in disbelief. His uncle and his grandfather had been so worried that Arent’s father would kill him, they’d hired an assassin to murder him in the woods. It was a horrifying act of devotion done from a blackhearted love, but it was love all the same. How could his uncle not be willing to extend that same devotion to his own daughter? How empty must his heart have become to see Lia as nothing more than another breastplate?
“I can’t believe we’re talking about the same man who raised me,” he said.
“Power changes people, Arent.”
Arent looked out at the empty ocean, troubled. He still wasn’t used to it. For the last few weeks, there had always been the reassuring sight of the other ships. Without them, the sea suddenly looked very large and the sky very threatening, and the Saardam very frail.
Arent changed the subject, trying to focus on a fear he could do something about. “What’s the purpose of this model? You said it could help us.”
“I asked Lia to work out the spaces on board where smuggling compartments could be built.” Sara reached inside the ship and pulled open a tiny door. “I thought we could check them one by one. Bosey built them, so if Old Tom was involved in the theft of the Folly, perhaps that’s where the pieces were hidden.”
“If we return the Folly to my uncle, we may keep him from flogging the crew unnecessarily.”
“And prevent a mutiny.”
They were almost to the compartment under the hal
f deck when Larme’s quick, short steps sounded behind them. “Arent,” he called.
“The crew’s in my ear about this fight you organized with Wyck. Now the storm’s passed, they are eager to see the blood they were promised.” Before Arent could respond, he wagged a finger. “I’m asking you to reconsider. Two weeks have passed, and I reckon that’s enough time to let wounded pride heal. He soiled your bunk, but no harm was done past that, which is a better end than most men have gotten out of him. Forget it happened, Hayes. He’ll have somebody else to torment by now. I know him.”
“I want to fight him,” said Arent, levelly.
“You’re being pigheaded and it will get you killed. He’s the best man with a blade I’ve ever seen, and he’s got a fierce temper. If you draw blood, he’s likely to kill you for it.”
“I need my questions answered,” said Arent. “Can you think of another way to get them out of him?”
Larme glared. “No,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Then I’ll see you at dusk.”
Sara eyed him apprehensively but said nothing. There wasn’t any point. They were each going about this investigation in their own fashion, using the tools given to them by God. Sammy observed, Creesjie flirted, and Lia invented. Sara asked questions, and Arent was going to fight, same as he always had.
He was capable of more, she was sure of it. He’d deduced the Folly’s creator after spending a few hours in its company, but for some reason, he didn’t trust those skills. She wondered what had happened to make him doubt himself so completely.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the cargo hold, navigating by candlelight, trying to match the spots on the model to the spots on the ship. It was slow going and disappointing. Bosey and Larme clearly didn’t have as much imagination as Lia, as they’d only built their smuggling compartments in a few obvious places.
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 30
