The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Drecht had simply looked inside and told them what he’d found.

  Arent could almost laugh. If Old Tom had brought them here to suffer, it need only let them alone. They’d do the work for no pay, and with twice the glee of any other devils.

  He sighed. “What do you want from me, Larme?”

  “I want you to kill Drecht, you daft bastard. And I want you to do it quickly.”

  “It won’t work,” said Arent. “Drecht’s the only one keeping the musketeers from running wild. If he dies, the rest of us won’t be long after him.”

  “Then we need to get control of his men,” said Sara.

  “Aye,” said Arent, staring at the musketeers gathering supplies near the water. “How hard can that be?”

  78

  Arent left the cave and returned to the makeshift camp. Small fires had been lit under the tree canopy, surrounded by passengers trying to keep dry. The rain was almost mist, but a few minutes in its company was enough to leave everything dripping wet.

  Musketeers were dragging bodies into piles, while others pried the lids off the salvaged casks and crates to make an inventory of their supplies. They called what they found to the constable, who was adding it to a tally. Seeing Arent, the constable threw him a small salute.

  “A crate of cured lamb.”

  “Two crates of tack.”

  “Three barrels of ale.”

  “Four jugs of brandy.”

  “Two jars of wine.”

  “Tallow wax and twine.”

  “Hatchets, hammers, and long nails.”

  It was a pauper’s load, thought Arent. Enough to sustain them for days, not weeks. Two yawls were crossing the rough water, returning from the wreck. Evidently, Drecht had sent men out to claim the last of the Saardam’s supplies and whatever treasure was left.

  Arent and Larme found Drecht sitting on a piece of driftwood, rain tapping on his hat, his legs crossed at the ankles.

  “Where’s your council?” Arent asked Drecht.

  “We’re it, and now you’re here, I’ll call it convened,” said Drecht, tipping the brim of his hat to dislodge the rain that had built up.

  “We should convene everybody,” said Arent, frowning. “There’s few of us left, and these matters affect everybody.”

  Larme coughed. “You’ll want to hear what he has to say before you decide that.”

  Drecht fixed his icy eyes on Arent. “Most of what we’ve salvaged will keep us warm and dry, but unless we can eat nails and drink tar, we’ll still be going to sleep with empty bellies.” He ran a pink tongue around his salty lips. “Nineteen musketeers survived. Twenty-­two sailors and forty passengers, including yourself. We can’t feed them all, which means hard decisions need to be taken about our resources.”

  He gave that a moment to sink in, staring meaningfully at them.

  “These musketeers under my command are murderers and cutpurses, but they’re skilled at surviving, capable of hunting and tracking. These are the men who will keep us alive. My control of them is not absolute, especially when the rations start running low. Sooner or later, they’re going to decide to take what they want rather than wait for it to be given. The clever move is to offer it to them in return for obedience.”

  Drecht flashed a look toward the women, gathering firewood at the trees’ edge.

  “You’re offering rape as a reward,” growled Arent.

  “Not them as married or promised,” interrupted Drecht quickly. “That wouldn’t be Christian. Come now. See the good sense before you, Arent. Sara and you have a bond. I’ve seen it myself. She’d be spared, as would Lia. And you, Larme, take your pick.”

  Arent felt sick. Old Tom had won. It had sought to draw out the very worst of everybody on the Saardam and here at last, it had succeeded. It didn’t even need to bargain anymore. They were dreaming up their own sins, and their own rewards.

  “What about Creesjie Jens?” Arent said witheringly. “I suppose you’ll make the sacrifice and wed her yourself?”

  “I have a wife in Drenthe, and I don’t need another,” said Drecht distantly.

  “What do you have to say on this, Larme?” demanded Arent.

  “Why does that matter?” Larme stared at them balefully. “I’ve a handful of sailors left. Nearly all of them are injured, and none of them are armed. It’s his musketeers we have to worry about. I’m just here to make it seem fair.”

  “But what do you think?” demanded Arent.

  “I think it’s the vilest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, glaring at Drecht. “And I think he’s going to do it whatever we say.”

  “He’s right,” agreed Drecht, without shame. “I’ve got the strength, which means I have the power. And I know it’s the right thing to do. These passengers respect you, Arent. It would go easier if I could make the announcement with you at my side.”

  “What if I say no? Where will I be standing then?”

  “As far away from my saber as possible, if you’re wise.”

  They stared at each other, finding themselves right back where they’d started on the Saardam the first morning, waiting to see who’d run who through first.

  “I want Sara and Lia,” said Arent solemnly. “And Larme has to agree to wed Creesjie, though not touch her. She can’t be left to your men.”

  The former guard captain searched his face for some hint of deception, but Arent had been withstanding the attentions of Sammy for years. He saw only irate compliance.

  “On your honor?” Drecht held out his hand.

  Arent shook it. “Aye.”

  Drecht blew out a breath in relief, unable to conceal his pleasure. “I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, Arent, but I’m glad you’ve seen reason. We need to make sure we have all the supplies secured. Once that’s done, we’ll tell our plan to the passengers. I recommend tomorrow morning, after a hard night on short rations has made clear to everybody what we face.”

  “I’ll need one more thing before that happens,” said Arent as they got ready to depart. “I want Sammy on the rescue boat.”

  Larme sucked his teeth. “It’s a fool’s dash, that,” he said. “We have no navigators left worth the name. Whoever goes, they’ll have few supplies and no bearing to guide them. They’re hoping for fine weather and good fortune, neither of which we’ve had in abundance.”

  “Sammy’s injuries are severe. He’ll die here, or he’ll die out there. I would have him away from this place, with the chance of rescue.”

  “If that’s your wish, then so be it,” said Drecht. “I doubt anybody will object. Larme, I’m leaving you in charge of finding a crew for the rescue boat.”

  “Oh, aye,” he said. “Reckon there’ll be a clamor for a berth on a doomed vessel, do you?”

  “No, which means you should start thinking about which men you’re happy to send to their death.” His face was grave. “We’re in command now, gentlemen. There aren’t any easy decisions left.”

  79

  Sara emerged weary from the cave, staring at her fingers with a profound sense of satisfaction. Three weeks ago, she’d boarded the Saardam hidden so deeply under layers of etiquette and hatred, she’d almost forgotten who she was. But somewhere between the horrors of the storm and the torments of Old Tom, she’d discovered herself again, like a dusty mirror under a shroud. Amid all this misery, she was as happy as she could remember being. For the last hour, she’d practiced her healing without being told it was beneath her station or an affront to her dignity.

  She’d kissed Arent openly.

  She’d been able to go where she wanted, say what she wanted, and let Lia be as clever as she wanted to be without having to reprimand her.

  None of this would be possible once they returned to Amsterdam.

  Drecht had seized the plans to the Folly, leaving Sara without anything to trade for h
er freedom. Lia could probably re-­create it, but it would take years of work, and she wouldn’t be given time. She was of marriageable age, and Sara’s father would immediately seek a good match for her.

  Sara would be chaperoned to the three places she was allowed to go, while her father chose her next husband from a list of suitors she’d never met. The thought of it made her want to walk into the sea.

  “Sara,” whispered Arent urgently, striding down the shoal.

  She turned, her smile at his presence quickly banished by the grim expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Fetch Lia, Creesjie, and Dorothea,” he said. “I have some bad news.”

  “You never bring me any other kind,” she chided gently. “Creesjie’s trying to coax the boys into napping. Whatever it is, I’ll tell her later. I’d like Isabel to hear, though.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “I do. She’s pregnant, Arent. Whatever’s happening, she should be part of it.”

  He nodded, and she quickly delivered Isabel and Lia. After ensuring they went unobserved, he harried them up the verge and into the tree line, out of sight. Once they were ensconced in the jungle, he explained Drecht’s plan.

  “A brothel?” whispered Sara in disgust.

  The rain was falling hard, and the musketeers were busy building shelters for the cargo and sharpening sticks for hunting, but they were also casting hungry glances at a group of women knotting fishing nets on the shoal.

  “When will he do it?” asked Lia, wiping wet hair from her eyes. She was sodden and shivering, wearing the shawl she’d left the Saardam in. There were no more clothes to give her, forcing Sara to wrap herself around her like a blanket.

  “They’re going to tell everybody the plan tomorrow,” said Arent. “Probably with their hands on their swords while they do it.”

  Isabel placed her hand to her stomach in horror.

  “Then we all need to flee tonight,” said Lia. “Can we hide in the forest?”

  “That’s the idea,” said Arent. “I’m going to scout it this afternoon and see if we can find some caves to fortify. Can you spread the word among the passengers, tell them to get ready? Drecht’s planning to hand out some jugs of wine to reward his men’s labors. Once they’re drunk, we’ll slip away.”

  “And then what? Drecht has all the rations and the weapons,” said Sara. “He’ll find us eventually.” A dangerous, reckless anger burned in her voice.

  “We can’t fight, Sara,” warned Arent. “It would be suicide.”

  “Fight today or die tomorrow. What difference does it make?” Sara said fiercely.

  “Because if we flee today, we might find a way to flee tomorrow or the day after until rescue comes,” said Arent. “Surviving isn’t winning. It’s what you do when you’ve lost. Besides, this is Old Tom’s island. We were brought here for a purpose, which means the Eighth Lantern won’t be far behind.”

  That brought a glint to Sara’s eyes. “You think we can seize a ghost ship?”

  “After everything it’s done to us, I think a ride back to Batavia is the least it can do.”

  Giddy excitement crackled between them.

  Somewhere distant, Drecht called Arent’s name. He was walking down the shoal, hands cupped to his mouth, searching for the mercenary.

  “I have to go,” said Arent.

  “You should know, not all the passengers will come with us,” said Sara.

  Arent looked stunned. “What? Why?”

  “Some of them will think Drecht’s offer is fair, either because it doesn’t affect them or because they think living is worth the price.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you’ve never had to,” said Sara, her hair blowing around her face. “Don’t worry. We’ll try to spread the word only among the sympathetic. Just know that we won’t be saving everybody.”

  They searched each other’s faces frankly. They had believed they would die on the boat. Now they believed they would die here. There were no barriers anymore, no secrets. The Saardam had taken much, but at least it had also taken those.

  “Then we’ll save who we can,” he said.

  80

  Ancient branches clawed at Arent’s cheeks as he headed into the deep jungle. Nothing stirred; even the sea breeze couldn’t worm its way in here. Arent had told Drecht he was going hunting, but secretly, he wanted to scout an escape route for the passengers. If all went well, they’d slip away quietly in the night, but when it all went wrong, he’d want to know what they were being chased toward. This was Old Tom’s island. Whatever it had planned for them was in this jungle. He didn’t want them stumbling on it blind.

  The interior of the island was a strange, twisted place. Tree trunks split at the base, the sections reaching into the air like the fingers of some monstrous beast. There were huge red flowers standing half his height from the ground, each one a collection of fleshy threads, sticky enough to catch the flies that landed on them. Butterflies the size of petals thrashed inelegantly through the air, while petals the size of plates shaded him from the worst of the sun’s heat.

  Unseen creatures were skittering through the undergrowth, claws clambering through the branches. During his first hour in here, he’d thought every one of those noises had an empty belly and ideas about his throat. He’d nearly run back to the shoal, which was reason enough to keep moving forward. Fear was too brittle a material to make good decisions from.

  Sweat rolled down his face, the air so humid, it seemed to hang from the branches. He sucked breaths in wet lumps, his body in agony.

  Sara hadn’t wanted him to go by himself. She’d argued and protested, demanding she come along. It had taken every argument he had to convince her he’d be safer alone, moving quickly and quietly.

  The last person to care for him like that was his uncle.

  Loss grew like a bubble in his gut.

  It made no sense, he thought. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and Jan Haan wasn’t the same man who’d raised him. He’d beaten Sara. He’d slaughtered the population of the Banda Islands. He’d consorted with a devil. He’d locked Sammy in a cell that would certainly have killed him. These were the acts of a monster, and yet deep down, Arent still loved him. He grieved his death. Why would that be? How could that be?

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, he pressed on, noticing a trail of broken branches. Somebody had passed through here. A few steps farther on, the trail widened. This hadn’t been done recently, thought Arent. The hacked branches had already started healing.

  The trail stretched out ahead of him. This was the work of months, by a dozen or more men.

  He followed it cautiously, finally entering a large clearing where three long log huts had been built around a stone well, a pail lying on its side. Keeping to the tree line, he searched for inhabitants, but there was nobody around. There hadn’t been for months, to judge by the huge spiderwebs spun across the doors and shutters.

  Arent darted out of the trees and pressed himself to the wall of the nearest hut, working his way around to a set of shutters. He pushed at them, but they were latched from the inside.

  He carried on to the door, which was in full view of the other huts. There was still nobody around, and the muddy floor didn’t show any footprints.

  It was deserted.

  “Or abandoned,” he muttered, opening the nearest door and stepping into the gloom, disturbing the spiders, which skittered into the thatched roof. Inside were thirty double bunks in orderly rows, though they didn’t appear to have been slept in for some time.

  There was another door at the far end of the hut, which he headed for. On the way, he spotted a mother of pearl button on the floor, a piece of thread still tangled in its hole. It was expensive, the sort of thing Crauwels might well have worn. “Someone was living here,” he said to himself, blowi
ng dust from it. He stared at the bunks. “A lot of somebodies,” he added.

  His heart began to thud.

  He opened the second door with more confidence than the first one. Beyond it was a supply room. Shelves were filled with bulging sacks, crates, and clay pots stoppered with corks.

  Taking a clay pot down, he jiggled the cork loose and sniffed the contents.

  “Wine,” he murmured.

  The crate’s lid had been hammered shut, but he drove his elbow into its center, cracking the wood. Using his fingers, he pried the shards away to find it filled with salted beef. Another contained tack.

  His dagger ripped open the top of the nearest sack, revealing the barley within. There was enough food here to feed the survivors of the Saardam for weeks.

  He let the grains run through his hand.

  This was Old Tom’s island, so this was likely where it intended to berth its new followers. They’d be warm and well fed and would likely be grateful.

  Arent’s fist closed, holding the last of the barley tight. This wasn’t right.

  Old Tom wouldn’t build this. What did a devil care for gratitude? The daemonologica described a creature intent on slaughter and destruction, that left nothing behind except depravity. Its followers were sent into the world to cause suffering. Nothing mentioned two solid meals and a good night’s sleep first.

  No king he’d fought for had ever treated his soldiers this well. They got stinking stew and dirty old blankets in the mud.

  Troubled, Arent left the hut and lifted the cover off the well. Aside from a few dead insects, the water was clean. Cupping his hand, he tried it. It was sweet and refreshing. After splashing some on his face to cool down, he inspected the other huts.

  Both were equally well provisioned.

  There was room for hundreds of people in this camp, and the huts must have been stocked recently, because nothing would keep long in this heat. Drecht had butchered the injured for nothing. This food and ale would keep the survivors for months if they required it.

  Going back outside, he walked slowly around the buildings, unable to comprehend such benevolence.