The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Offcuts of wood, chunks of beam, and broken crates had been discarded at the tree line, and closing the distance, he realized there was more detritus behind. Nails spilled onto the jungle floor from an upturned box, and wooden poles had been stacked against the thick trunk of a tree. Picking his way through the mess, he pressed deeper into the jungle, finding sheets of tattered sail cloth and then a badly damaged yawl.

  It was concealed by massive leaves, and he would have walked right by it except that a few had fallen away, revealing the wooden hull beneath. Tearing free the remaining leaves, he inspected the boat. The seats had been ripped out to make room for a huge triangular frame, which must have fallen over. Arent could still see the nails where it had wrenched away from the hull, smashing one entire side of the yawl.

  The frame had taken up the entire boat, but there was nothing to suggest what its purpose might have been.

  He stared at it for a few minutes before walking back to the huts.

  Thirsty, he returned to the well and took another drink, spotting a sword hilt poking out of the mud. It came free with a satisfying plop, revealing a broken blade beneath. He washed it in the pail, finding very little of interest. It was made of steel and had a basket handle, two sharp edges, and a pointy end. Like all swords, it was great for killing and terrible for shaving. It didn’t tell him anything about the people who’d built the huts, except that they didn’t take very good care of their weapons. The edges were chipped, and rust had eaten through the blade. That was why it had snapped so cleanly. The best way to kill a man with this would be to hope he tripped on it and hit his head on a rock.

  He listened to the jungle rustle. This was the second badly made weapon he’d seen in the past few days. At least this had a proper blade, unlike the leper’s dagger. That had basically been a shard of thin metal and a wooden handle. It was almost…

  “Decorative…” he said slowly as his thoughts bumped into a very large idea.

  Old Tom had told Sara, Creesjie, and Lia that it would leave a dagger under the governor general’s bunk for them to kill him with, and the leper had made sure Arent got a good look at the blade. Why?

  The beautiful thing about fear this large is that nobody will look beyond it. Vos had said that when he tried to kill him. The chamberlain had carved the mark of Old Tom on the wood knowing there wouldn’t be any questions asked once it was found. What if somebody was trusting the same thinking to disguise the dagger’s true nature? Aye, it wasn’t much of a weapon, but don’t worry about that, because it belongs to a demon. You’ve seen its servant holding it, after all.

  But what if the dagger wasn’t the murder weapon?

  Realistically, it couldn’t be. The cabin had been locked. Nobody had entered after the governor general had gone to bed. The only person who could have done it was Jacobi Drecht, but he was a professional soldier. If he’d killed the governor general, he’d have used a real weapon. He wouldn’t have trusted the leper’s dagger to do the job. Nobody would have. And they hadn’t.

  It was decoration.

  An idea came, then another, and another, and another. How did you kill somebody without entering their cabin? What weapon could do it? Who’d wield it?

  “It can’t be…” he said out loud, as the answers arrived in a dizzying rush. “It can’t be…”

  81

  Sara placed Henri’s lifeless hand on his chest.

  This was the carpenter who’d first told her about Bosey when they boarded. A piece of exploding hull had smashed into his chest, crushing everything inside. He’d drawn breath long enough to be placed in a yawl and brought to the island by his mates, but there was no healing this sort of injury. The best she could do was offer comfort, as she had to Bosey on the docks.

  Getting to her feet, Sara wiped away the pebbles that had collected on her knees and glanced around the cave, sorrow opening a hole in her heart. Nearly everybody who’d been brought here had died. Those few who survived wailed in agony, begging for their loved ones. Some would die soon; others would linger. Neither had anything to do with Sara, who’d accomplished everything she could with what she had available.

  God had his own plans for these people. She could only pray they were merciful. After everything they’d been through, they deserved that much, at least.

  Unable to bear the suffering any longer, she stepped into the gray rain and across the shoal to the water’s edge, standing just beyond the reaching fingers of surf. Behind her, above the ridge, the trees rustled, bringing a shiver of dread.

  This was Old Tom’s island, and it had brought them here for some terrible purpose. Whatever its secret, it was likely waiting for them in that jungle, and yet Arent had disappeared inside as if taking himself to the market.

  She’d never met a braver man. Not that he’d accepted her compliment. There wasn’t courage in doing what was necessary, he’d said.

  She sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy loving a man like that.

  Kneeling down, Sara washed her hands in the sea and stared at the distant wreck of the Saardam. The huge crack down the middle had widened, exposing the cargo hold within. Planks were tumbling from its sides into the water, and seabirds whirled above it, like crows circling a dead cow.

  A yawl was returning, filled with casks of treasure. They’d been bringing them over for hours, loading them in a pile under the tree line, a little farther down from the other supplies. Even from here, she could see the chalices and chains, golden plates, jewels and jewelry. Surely, this was the secret cargo her husband had instructed Reynier van Schooten to bring aboard quietly.

  Van Schooten, she remembered with a start.

  She hadn’t seen the chief merchant since the mutiny. He hadn’t been in the cave or on the lifeboat. She looked along the coast anxiously, but the bodies had been piled under a sheet, awaiting burial. Every so often, the ocean would deliver fresh dead, the push and pull of the surf giving their limbs a strange, twitching life. No doubt van Schooten would wash up eventually.

  Sara watched the musketeers drag the yawl up the beach and unload a dozen crates, carelessly spilling gold coins, ornate plates, necklaces, diamonds, and rubies. The musketeers laughed and left them there. Who would bother stealing them? they jested.

  Grunting, they picked up a crate and carried it toward the camp, leaving the rest unguarded.

  Sara stared at the piled-­high treasure.

  This was the same sort of treasure Vos had been trying to hide when Arent confronted him. The chamberlain must have stolen it from her husband—­that was why he admitted to being a thief when accused, even though he hadn’t stolen the Folly.

  But why did her husband have it? He was a merchant. He traded spices for gold. He didn’t barter for chalices and plates, no matter how valuable they were.

  Sara walked over and examined the pile. Picking up plates and cups, she inspected them for markings. Sure enough, she found the crest of the Dijksma family, just as she had on the objects Vos had stolen.

  But there were more crests among them.

  Tugging an ornate sword from its sheath, she discovered the crest of a lion holding a sword and arrows, a banner flying overhead proclaiming Honor et Ars in Latin.

  “Honor and cunning,” she muttered. This was the herald of the de Haviland family. Surely, it was no coincidence Emily de Haviland had been aboard the Saardam.

  She kept digging, finding coats of arms belonging to the van de Ceulens and the Bos family. These were all families Pieter Fletcher had saved from Old Tom’s evil.

  Why would her husband have this? He’d admitted to summoning Old Tom—­could this have been why? To rob them?

  Not rob, she realized with a flash of insight. That wasn’t her husband’s way. What if he’d done to these families what he’d done to her father, Cornelius Vos, and countless others over the course of his life? Ruin them, belittle them, then leave them alive to suffe
r their fall?

  According to the daemonologica, these families had all been traders, merchants, and shipbuilders. People her husband would have needed or been in competition with while he was building his business thirty years ago. What if he’d summoned Old Tom and set it loose on them?

  Pieter Fletcher had thwarted the scheme, then her husband had Old Tom kill him in revenge.

  Except…

  A memory grew nails and began scratching at her. The first time she’d seen the picture of Pieter Fletcher in Creesjie’s cabin, she’d been bothered by it. He’d been resplendent in his beautiful clothes, standing in front of their manor house. He’d even been able to afford Creesjie, who was the natural consort of kings.

  In contrast, Sander Kers had been dressed in rags and, by his own admission, had to beg his congregation for alms to board the Saardam.

  Witchfinding wasn’t a profession you grew rich doing. Yet, somehow, Pieter Fletcher had.

  Creesjie was helping Isabel gather firewood when Sara caught up with her. She was breathless and had to take a minute before asking her question.

  “Did Pieter…” She panted. “Was he…nobility? Did he come from money?”

  Creesjie laughed grimly. “Witchfinders don’t come from money,” she said. “It was a reward for his good works from the families he saved.”

  No, it wasn’t, Sara thought. Rewards were given willingly. Jan Haan had set Old Tom loose on these families, destroying the reputations of his competition and blackmailing those who could be useful to him. Then, when they’d agreed to his terms, he dispatched Pieter Fletcher to “banish” Old Tom and convince everybody the demon was really gone.

  But her husband left his enemies alive. He always did. He enjoyed watching them suffer.

  And one of them had found him.

  When Sara had found the book in Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin, she’d believed it was a mockery of the daemonologica, but what if it had actually been a true account of what had happened all those years ago? Old Tom had destroyed the de Havilands, leaving only Emily alive. She’d grown up seeking revenge. She would have witnessed Pieter Fletcher’s actions firsthand and dedicated herself to tracking him down. She found him in Amsterdam, married to Creesjie and father to two boys. Somehow, he’d recognized her and fled, but she’d followed him to Lille. She’d tortured him, uncovering his conspirators. That would have led her to Sander Kers and her husband.

  No wonder her husband never took off that damn breastplate. No wonder he’d hidden himself away in Batavia, surrounded by high walls and guards.

  How did you kill a man that well protected?

  By luring him out, Sara thought.

  The predikant had received the fake letter from Pieter Fletcher two years ago, instructing him to sail for the city. Her husband had received the fake ascension order from Arent’s grandfather a month before they boarded the Saardam.

  “‘Laxagarr’ is Nornish for ‘trap,’” she muttered, eyeing the wreck again.

  Emily had marked the sail so her husband would know his past had found him. She had left the anagram and the book so he’d know exactly who was to blame. Old Tom brought suffering, and Emily had ensured her husband suffered for what he’d done.

  Sara darted onto the shoal, searching desperately for Arent. The ideas were so big, her head felt like it would collapse under the weight.

  She had to tell him what she suspected.

  He was walking down the beach, casting frantic glances around. Upon seeing her, relief showed on his face.

  They charged toward each other, Sara taking hold of Arent’s arms.

  “I know why this is happening,” she said frantically.

  His eyes went wide. “Good, because I know who’s doing it.”

  82

  “This is a very bad plan,” said Arent as they approached the Saardam in a yawl. The wreck loomed above them, the exposed hull covered in barnacles and seaweed. Fingers of sunlight poked through the cracks in the cargo hold, revealing the seabirds nesting in her ribs. She was monstrous from this vantage point, like some terrible beast had lain down to die.

  “Well, you didn’t have time to come up with a merely bad plan,” responded Sara, who was perched at the bow, keeping watch for the shallows. “Besides, we have to make sure we’re right. And this is the only place to do it.”

  The sea was choppy, and Arent was having to work hard at the oars to keep from crashing into the jagged rocks. They’d told Drecht they were recovering Sara’s harp, something they couldn’t trust anybody else to do. Having listened to her play the instrument for hours every day in the fort, he’d accepted the excuse unquestioningly.

  Arent held the boat steady while Sara leaped out. Tugging the oars inside, he scrambled onto the rock, then dragged the yawl out of the water. The passengers had disembarked here this morning, and the rope ladder still hung down from the waist of the ship.

  Waves crashed against the rocks, throwing sea spray into the air, soaking them both. Struggling to keep his feet, Arent walked toward the aft, looking up at the spot where his uncle’s cabin bulged out of the hull.

  The leper’s handprints were so small, they could easily have been mistaken for dirt until he was up close. They ran from the waterline to his uncle’s cabin and then past Sara’s cabin, to the poop deck.

  “We assumed the leper punched those holes in the hull when it climbed up, but what if they were already there when we boarded?” said Arent. “Everybody embarked on the other side of the ship, so nobody would have noticed them in the harbor.”

  “A ladder, you mean? Do you think Bosey built it?”

  “I do,” said Arent. “He told Sander back in Batavia that he was making the boat ready for his master. I think this is part of what he meant.”

  They walked into the cargo hold through a crack in the hull, the sickly sweet smell of rot immediately engulfing them. The spear of rock that had ended the mutiny in Drecht’s favor sheared straight up through the hull. It was stained with spices.

  A few jewels sparkled here and there in the bilgewater, having been missed by Drecht’s musketeers.

  “Why did my uncle bring the treasure to Batavia?” wondered Arent, picking up an amethyst and shaking the drops from it.

  “Where could he have left it without risking it being stolen, or questions being asked?” replied Sara. “Aside from the jewels, nearly every piece bore the crest of a great family fallen to ruin.”

  “He could have sold the gems and melted down the rest.”

  “You really didn’t know my husband at the end, did you?” There was pity in her voice. “He probably dipped into his hoard when he needed money for some endeavor, but he wouldn’t have seen any of this as treasure. They were trophies. Mementos of his victories, no different to Vos and I. He liked to collect his victims and put us on display.”

  As if it were suddenly hot, Arent tipped his palm, letting the amethyst splash back into the dirty water.

  Without another word, they took the staircase up to the orlop deck, which was slippery with blood. Seabirds feasted on the remains of the dead.

  Sara had expected them to go straight to the passenger cabins, but Arent pushed open the door to the gunpowder store. Kegs had spilled gunpowder across the floor, but it was damp and harmless. The constable’s charm lay among some wooden fragments, having evidently been torn from his neck in the panic of the mutiny.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Sara.

  “Nothing on this voyage happened by accident,” he replied distantly, wiping gunpowder from the charm before pocketing it. He’d return it to the constable later. “The ship was a trap, designed to murder my uncle. Everything was planned years in advance.”

  “Including the three unholy miracles,” said Sara.

  “Only crew members could have rolled the kegs containing the Folly out of here,” said Arent.

 
“Then we’re after three people.”

  “Two,” he disagreed. “Captain Crauwels had to be involved. If Emily de Haviland always intended on bringing us to this island, then he was the only one who could have ensured that happened. He was the ship’s sole navigator.”

  “Maybe the Folly was his payment,” said Sara. “It was valuable enough. It almost bought Lia and I an entirely new life. Crauwels was obsessed with restoring his family’s name. If he sold the Folly, he could have done that.”

  “He knew when the Eighth Lantern would appear, so he knew when he’d be calling battle stations. He just needed a couple of trusted hands to take the kegs containing the Folly down to the cargo hold, and hide them in the smuggling compartments Bosey had built. If we’re right about Emily, she could have easily stolen the key to the Folly’s box.”

  They stared at each other, feeling the sting of the revelation.

  “Do you think Isaack Larme would have been involved?” he asked Sara abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a plan he could help me with, but he was close to Crauwels. They may have worked together.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Sara. “He admitted to finding a piece of the Folly hidden in one of his smuggling compartments, but he said he couldn’t find the rest. Remember how disappointed he sounded. If he was working with Crauwels, why would he have confessed any of that?”

  The steps upstairs were broken, forcing them to tread cautiously. The compartment under the half deck sloped toward the helm, and the dead were piled up against its wall. Aside from the bodies, the signs of battle were everywhere, from the gouges in the wood to the swords still stuck in planks.

  The rock had torn through the ship’s waist, obliterating everything upon it, including the mainmast, which was now in the sea, connected to the ship only by the rigging.

  “Reminds me of a severed arm,” said Sara in disgust.

  Arent was silent. Here was the battlefield he thought he’d escaped.