The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  None of them contained the Folly, or anything else.

  “This has to be the last one,” said Arent as they reached a large section of wall. “I’ll have to get to the forecastle for the fight soon.”

  The compartments were always locked with a peg, and she found it easily enough, pulling it free as Arent lifted the panel from the wall.

  A stink rolled out of the dark, sending them staggering backward, covering their mouths.

  “What’s in there?” coughed Arent, his eyes watering.

  Sara crept closer, holding her candle out in front of her. Sealed in the dark, his throat slit, was the body of Sander Kers.

  56

  Dusk brought a change of watch, the second mate ringing the bell amidships. The repairs had been ongoing all day, and the ship looked tidy, if not seaworthy. Under a purple and orange sky, Arent followed the throng of sailors and musketeers to the forecastle deck, with Sara walking behind him.

  They’d told the captain about Kers’s body, and he’d sent sailors to bring it up on deck to be disposed of. Arent had asked him to delay so Sammy could inspect the corpse that evening, but Crauwels had refused. Everybody knew the dead brought plague if left to rot. Any ship even suspected of being plague-­ridden would be held at port for sixty days, the passengers and crew forced to endure on board until it passed or killed them.

  Crauwels didn’t want to risk it.

  Sara estimated that Kers had been hidden in the compartment for a couple of weeks, which suggested he’d died the night he disappeared. The night the Eighth Lantern had attacked.

  They’d told Isabel, who’d taken the news better than they’d expected. Tears filled her eyes, but her back remained straight. After asking where he’d been taken, she’d gone to pray over the body.

  “Don’t let Wyck nick you here or here,” said Sara, pointing to spots on his legs and chest. “You’ll bleed and keep bleeding, and there won’t be anything I can do.”

  “Sara—­”

  She ignored him. She was speaking quickly and nervously, obviously afraid for him.

  The waist was packed with spectators, who parted to let them through, shouting insults or encouragement, depending on which way they’d bet. Ignoring their curfew, passengers from the orlop deck had gathered at the mainmast, craning their necks to see more clearly or standing on the railing for a better view. Creesjie had brought Marcus and Osbert out, despite Sara’s protestations, and the boys had found some willing shoulders to sit on. Even the governor general would watch, according to the rumors. Arent was thankful Sara was wearing her peasant clothes, but he was still afraid of her being spotted. He’d begged her not to come, but she’d flatly refused his advice.

  Arriving on the forecastle deck, Arent saw Wyck at the beakhead, practicing with his dagger.

  “He’s good,” said Sara.

  “He’s very good,” corrected Arent.

  His hands were a blur, the point of the attack changing with every swipe and thrust. More importantly, he kept his feet moving.

  Arent felt the first touch of nerves. Despite his size, Wyck was fast and nimble. He would be hard to hit, whereas Arent would be hard to avoid. It didn’t matter whether this was friendly or not. If that blade nicked him in the wrong spot by accident, he was dead.

  Drecht appeared in front of him. His hat was pulled down low, a pipe sticking out of his beard. The guard captain glanced at Sara agitatedly, but knew better than to argue with her. He took the dagger from his waist and held it out to Arent.

  “Guard your body, and if you get the chance, put a blade in his throat,” he warned, lifting the brim of his hat to stare at Arent with those pitiless blue eyes. “Every second this fight drags on is to his advantage.”

  “I’ve told you, I’m going to lose,” argued Arent. “Nobody needs to die.”

  “That’s your plan,” said Drecht. “His plan is to lie to you, then kill you quick, and if that fails, to kill you slow. I know men like this. They can’t be trusted.”

  Taking the weapon, Arent handed Sara his father’s rosary. “Can you keep this safe for me?”

  “I’ll have it waiting when you come back.”

  Their gazes lingered, but Arent could feel Wyck’s eyes upon him. He touched Sara’s arm and then stepped into the ring, where Wyck was bouncing from toe to toe.

  As the crowd roared for them to start, Arent crouched, putting his arms out in front of him, trying to protect as much of his body as he could. Being tall and wide had its advantages, but not in a knife fight where the key was to make yourself as difficult to hit as possible.

  Wyck circled, trying to find an angle.

  He thrust quickly, but Arent parried with the edge of his blade, adjusting it quickly and slashing back.

  Wyck jumped away, laughing at the attempt.

  He was as irritating to fight as to talk to, Arent realized.

  The sailors howled, urging the boatswain forward, while the musketeers cheered for Arent.

  The boatswain came again, slashing and thrusting. Sidestepping the first two strikes, Arent caught the second on his blade, iron scraping along iron as he tried to push Wyck away, but he was strong.

  “Old Tom sends his regards,” sneered Wyck.

  Taking advantage of Arent’s surprise, Wyck punched him in the side, then tried to ram his blade into his belly. Stumbling backward, Arent avoided the thrust, earning the slightest of nicks.

  The crowd roared in appreciation.

  Drecht was right. This wasn’t a friendly contest. There would be no quarter. No hesitation. Wyck meant to slit his throat, and he was going to do it at Old Tom’s behest.

  “You have to stop this,” screamed Sara. “This isn’t fake. Wyck’s going to kill you.”

  Arent wished he could reassure her, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Wyck. Everybody believed he was defending desperately, trying to keep himself alive until Wyck tired, but that wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t defending; he was watching how Wyck fought, working out his reach and where he left himself open when he attacked.

  Wyck was fighting, but Arent was planning.

  Seeing Arent off balance, the boatswain charged forward, snarling. This time, Arent didn’t take a step back, and he didn’t parry. He twisted slightly, letting Wyck’s blade slide past him as he slashed at his opponent’s face.

  The boatswain caught the strike on his forearm, but blood sprayed across Arent’s face, momentarily blinding him.

  Arent kicked out desperately, catching Wyck in the stomach, ripping the air from him. As Wyck sucked in breath, Arent wiped as much blood as he could from his eyes. His vision was blurry but good enough to catch Larme nod to somebody in the crowd. Glancing in the same direction, Arent saw the glint of a knife emerging from a sailor’s sleeve.

  Circling, Wyck thrust suddenly, trying to maneuver Arent so his back was to the hidden blade.

  Arent gave him what he wanted but kept a few steps between himself and the assassin.

  When Wyck came again, Arent was ready. Rather than parry, he let the first strike catch his arm. Ignoring the searing pain, he yanked Wyck close and caught hold of his wrist. Roaring, he hurled the boatswain at the sailor with the blade, the two of them cracking together.

  Arent was on them in two steps, scooping up the fallen knife and jamming it straight through the second sailor’s hand, pinning him to the deck. Falling on Wyck’s body, he punched him, then leaned close to his ear, the overpowering smell of paprika rising into his nostrils.

  “What does ‘Laxagarr’ mean?” he demanded.

  Wyck ripped the dagger out of the sailor’s hand and drove the point at Arent’s hip.

  Growling, Arent grabbed Wyck’s arm, banging it against the deck and sending the dagger skittering. Before he could try anything else, Arent elbowed him in the face, dazing him.

  “What does ‘Laxagarr’ mean?�
� he demanded.

  Wyck coughed blood, his eyes unfocused. “Old Tom take you.”

  Arent hit him again, his fist landing like cannon fire. Something cracked in Wyck’s face.

  Sara screamed for him to stop.

  “What does ‘Laxagarr’ mean?”

  “Go to—­”

  Arent hit him again, Wyck’s head snapping back. A small, dark, vile part of Arent reveled in it. He’d held his strength for so long, wary of fighting because he knew how it ended. There was a ball of rage held tight at his core that had been there for as long as he could remember. Every insult, every jeer, every slight—­that was where he kept them. They were fuel for the dark furnace he normally kept shuttered.

  He raised his fist again.

  “What does—­”

  “‘Trap,’” spluttered Wyck. “It means ‘trap,’” he said, coughing blood.

  The crowd went silent.

  Puffing like a pair of bellows, Arent looked around. The crowd was watching him with the awe of soldiers seeing a bombardment for the first time.

  Aside from Old Tom, Wyck was the fiercest, most terrifying thing on the ship. Everybody who’d found themselves on the wrong end of him had suffered grievously.

  Bosey got it worst, but he hadn’t been alone. They all had their scars.

  Wyck was what these murderers, malcontents, and rapists had nightmares about. And Arent had put him down.

  Some delicate but crucial balance had shifted on the Saardam.

  As the sailors pondered this, Sara broke through the crowd, hugging Arent fiercely.

  “Sara, what will—­”

  “Shut up,” she said, her face pressed against his chest. Finally, she dashed the tears away. “I thought you were going to kill him,” she said.

  Arent lifted his forearm, inspecting the slice. It was shallow enough, but it would ache for a week. “‘Laxagarr’ means ‘trap’ in Nornish,” said Arent. “When the other sailors asked Bosey what he was working on, that’s what he was telling them”

  Drecht pushed through the crowd. “Why didn’t you kill him, you damn idiot?” he scolded.

  “The dead don’t answer questions,” replied Arent, returning his dagger.

  “And they can’t ask them,” responded Drecht. “Strength follows strength. You’ve made him look weak in front of his lads. He’ll be coming for you now. He has to.”

  “Somebody’s always coming for me,” said Arent, staring at Larme. “And they better come damn quick, or I’ll find them first.”

  57

  Arent staggered into the compartment under the half deck, blood dripping off his fingers. A solitary candle burned on a cask, discharging thick, foul smoke into the air.

  Isabel’s laughter came from the shadows at the rear of the compartment. She was sitting on a stool, talking with Dorothea. They stopped the moment they saw him, their eyes widening in alarm.

  “Did you win?” asked Dorothea.

  “He won,” said Sara, opening the box of healing sundries she’d left there earlier, revealing a collection of rags and unguents, corked vials and bags of powder. From beneath them, she took out a hooked needle and a length of catgut.

  Dragging the candle closer, Sara inspected the wound.

  “You’ll need to take your shirt off,” she said to Arent. “The material’s in the way.”

  He did as she asked, uncovering a patchwork of scars and burns, stab wounds and musket holes badly healed.

  Isabel murmured a prayer. “God made you pay a high price to get here,” she said devoutly.

  “God didn’t put a sword in my hand,” he disagreed.

  Sara’s hand was already slippery with blood, and she had to ask Isabel to thread the catgut for her. “Is healing people something you can teach me?” asked Isabel, frowning at the eye of the needle as she tried to engineer the catgut through it.

  “If you’ve the feel for it, I’d be happy to,” said Sara, taking the threaded needle from her. “Is there an unopened jug of wine anywhere?”

  “I can find one, my lady,” said Isabel.

  “It’s Sara,” she said. “If there’s none about, ask the steward. Use my name.”

  Isabel departed.

  Gripping the thread in her teeth, Sara slipped the point of the needle through the edges of Arent’s ragged skin, then looped it and started again. The sting was almost enough to make him wish for the days when he would have let the injury alone, then lain down for a week or two and hoped not to die.

  That was what he’d been taught by the army’s stinking old barber-­surgeon, who’d told him the bad humors had to be allowed to seep out. Once they were expunged, the body would do its own work, he’d said.

  Sammy hadn’t liked that. First time he’d seen Arent injured, he’d stitched him up like a torn jacket. Arent had tried to argue, telling him about the humors and the surgeon’s advice, but Sammy didn’t take it kindly. He’d even pricked him a couple of extra times with the needle to emphasize his disquiet.

  He was surprised to find Sara knew the technique also.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” he asked, watching Sara work.

  “My mother,” she said distractedly. “My grandfather was a healer of some renown. He taught her, and she taught me.”

  “Could your father do this?”

  She shook her head. “He was a merchant.” Her voice frosted over. “My mother used her gifts to save his life after he became ill passing through her village, and he fell in love with her. She was only three guilders away from being a peasant, but my noble father didn’t care. They married and lived happily ever after, except for all the friends he lost because he’d snubbed their well-­born daughters.”

  She finished another loop.

  “Love nearly destroyed my family,” she said dryly. “On the bright side, they had three daughters, so my father had lots of chances to make up for his mistake.”

  Sara worked quietly after that, shushing Arent when he tried to talk.

  When Isabel returned with the wine, Sara used it to wash the wound, offering the jug to Arent so he could dull the pain.

  He hardly touched it.

  Having Sara kneeling in front of him like this, even under these circumstances, was proving tricky. Pain was the only thing keeping everything where it ought to be.

  Larme stomped into the compartment, throwing a bag of coins at Arent’s feet. “Your winnings,” he said, leering at Sara. “But I reckon you’ve done well enough out of this already.”

  “I’m a noblewoman with rank, wealth, and a very sharp dagger,” said Sara, squinting at her stitches. “So a little respect, if you please.”

  “Apologies, my lady,” said Larme, lowering his gaze.

  “You set those boys in the crowd on me,” said Arent levelly. “I caught the nod.”

  “Would have been more if I could spare them,” said Larme, unabashed.

  “Why?”

  “Wyck keeps control of the lads for me, which means I need him more than I need you. You went looking for a fight. I tried to warn you off, but you wouldn’t have it.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know what your plans are for me?”

  “Plans?” said Arent, confused.

  “I don’t intend on spending the rest of this voyage wondering when you’re going to jam a blade in my back. Do what you’re going to do.” The dwarf puffed his chest out as if expecting Arent to stab him right there.

  Sara rolled her eyes and went back to work.

  “I’m not going to kill you, Larme,” said Arent wearily. “If you piled my dead up, you could spit in God’s face from the top. I’m done adding to the sum. That lad you sent after me didn’t have to die, so I didn’t kill him. Same goes for Wyck, same goes for you. Answer my questions, and we’ll end this day as friends.”

 
Larme studied him, obviously trying to find the ambush hidden beneath all his benevolence. It was the same look Eggert had given Arent the day he’d apologized for holding a blade to his neck. Charity was evidently so rare aboard the Saardam, nobody recognized it anymore.

  “You wouldn’t survive an hour as a sailor,” said Larme eventually.

  “Nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” said Arent, inviting him to take the stool opposite.

  Larme appeared doubtful, but he was swayed by the wine Arent pushed toward him.

  “What was in the smuggler’s compartment in the cargo hold?” asked Arent with a grimace as Sara completed another loop. “You emptied it before we got there.”

  “A piece of the Folly.” He caught their shocked expressions, then added quickly, “I didn’t steal it, mind. I was searching for Bosey’s robes like the captain ordered. Figured he might have hid them in one of the compartments, but I found that instead.”

  “Not the entire thing?”

  “No, more’s the pity.” He sounded like a man who’d been too often on the wrong side of fortune’s flipped coin. “A piece would have fetched a good price, but if I’d been able to sell the whole thing, I could have bought a ship of my own.”

  “‘Would have’?” asked Arent. “What happened to it?”

  Larme eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

  “I’m out of patience for the self-­interest on this ship.” Sara sighed. “If you don’t answer our questions fully, I’m going to tell my husband you stole the Folly and watch him cut you into quarters.”

  “All right, all right,” he said hastily. “I destroyed it, after you two almost caught me. Smashed it to bits, then tipped them out of the porthole in the cable locker. I thought it was too dangerous to keep.”

  Arent shared a glance with Sara. She tilted her head, suggesting it was probably true.

  “How did you know it was a piece of the Folly?” she asked.