‘It’s already started,’ muttered Sander Kers, disturbed.
He touched her arm and pointed at the quarterdeck where the governor general had boarded earlier. ‘The ritual will work well enough from up there,’ he said, resting his weight on his cane. ‘Come along, Isabel.’
She went reluctantly. She enjoyed a good fight and was eager to see if Arent lived up to his fearsome reputation.
Glancing over her shoulder, she helped Sander slowly up the staircase, every step an agony for him.
The sky was darkening above them. It was monsoon season, and the afternoon frequently delivered violent storms, so Isabel wasn’t surprised to see clouds elbowing their way across the bright blue sky, obscuring the sun before unveiling it again. Shadows drifted across the water, raindrops beginning to patter on the deck as the grand flags of the United East India Company snapped in the wind.
On the quarterdeck, Sander clumsily undid the buckle on the satchel Isabel was carrying, sliding out the huge book contained within.
As drops of rain splatted on the sheepskin wrapping protecting it, he reconsidered.
‘Hold up your apron,’ he commanded. ‘We need to shelter it from the rain.’
Frowning, she did as he asked, prickling at the sharpness in his voice. He was afraid, she realised.
Fear nipped at her like the first embers of fire.
For over a year, he’d taught her his craft, but his stories of their enemy were passionless things – horrifying but distant, the way somebody else’s tragedies always were. Compared to the torments she’d endured before meeting Sander, the labour ahead seemed to have a fairy-tale quality. Foolishly, she’d thought of it as a grand adventure.
But watching Sander’s hands trembling, she now felt the knife to her throat.
Her eyes darted towards Batavia.
It wasn’t too late to flee. By nightfall, she could have the hot dirt beneath her bare feet once again.
‘Your arms, girl!’ scolded Sander, removing the wrapping to reveal the leather-bound cover. ‘Keep the apron above the book. It’s getting wet. There isn’t time to daydream.’
Doing as he bid, she dragged her gaze from the distant rooftops. Whatever danger lurked on this ship, she would not allow cowardice to convince her there was safety in Batavia. She was poor, alone and a woman, which meant every one of its alleys had teeth. God was offering her a better life in Amsterdam. She simply had to hold her nerve.
Resting the heavy book partially on the railing, Sander began turning the vellum pages as quickly as reverence would allow. On the first was a creature with a goat’s body and a haggard human face sitting on a throne of snakes. The next page showed a fanged torment digging its claws into the pile of screaming bodies it was climbing. After that came a three-headed monstrosity with a spider’s body leering at a blushing maid.
On and on, horror after horror.
Isabel turned her face away. She hated this book. The first time Sander had shown her some of its contents, she’d emptied her stomach on the floor of his church. Even now the gleefulness of its evil made her queasy.
Sander finally found the page he wanted: a naked old man with spiny wings riding a monstrous creature that had a bat’s head and a wolf’s body. The old man had claws instead of hands and was using them to stroke the cheek of a young boy being pinned down by the wolf. The creature was snarling, its tongue lolling, as if laughing at the terrified boy’s predicament.
On the opposite page was a symbol that resembled an eye with a tail. Beneath it was a strange incantation.
Pressing his palm against the image, Sander returned his attention to the fight.
Samuel Pipps had started talking and all eyes were upon him. It was like in the stories. Despite being on the ground, despite being manacled and belittled, his authority was absolute. Even the giant seemed cowed.
Rain was falling harder now, running down pulleys and collecting in puddles, seeping through the apron. The sky was soot, cracks of golden sunlight riddling the clouds.
Something made Guard Captain Drecht tense, the sword pressing harder against Arent’s chest.
‘Do it,’ urged Sander Kers under his breath. ‘Do it now.’
8
Holding his dagger to Eggert’s neck, a sword pressed to his chest, Arent had to admit that boarding hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped.
‘Easy,’ he said, gripping the squirming musketeer a little tighter.
He eyed Jacobi Drecht, perfectly steady on the other side of his sabre.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you,’ said Arent. ‘But Sammy Pipps is a great man and I’ll not have him treated ill by piss-stains like this.’ He nodded to Thyman, who was staggering to his feet in a daze. ‘I want the word to go out that Sammy isn’t sport for bored soldiers. From this point on, anybody who lays hands on him won’t live long enough to regret it.’
Arent’s words betrayed none of his uncertainty.
There wasn’t a fouler individual alive than a musketeer in the United East India Company. The job paid poorly and so attracted only the blackest hearts, those content to pursue a reckless course far from home because home was where the hangman was. Once away, their only concerns were amusement and survival, and woe betide anybody who came between them.
The only way to command such men was through fear. Drecht would have to know which offences to turn a blind eye to and which insults required blood. If Drecht didn’t kill him, if he didn’t defend the honour these men didn’t have, they’d call it weakness. For the next eight months, he’d be fighting to get back even a pinch of the authority he’d boarded with.
Arent tightened his grip around the dagger, a drop of Eggert’s blood rolling down the edge. ‘Put the sword down, Drecht,’ he demanded.
‘Release my man first.’
They stared at each other, the howling wind whipping rain at their faces.
‘Your mate cheated you at dice,’ declared Sammy, breaking the tension.
Everybody looked at him, having entirely forgotten he was there. He was talking to Eggert, the musketeer being held by Arent.
‘What?’ demanded Eggert, the movement of his jaw forcing Arent to lower the dagger lest he accidentally put a spare hole in his mouth.
‘Earlier, while you were freeing me from the net, you were scowling at him,’ said Sammy, grimacing with effort as he got to his feet. ‘He annoyed you recently. You kept casting glances towards his coin purse and frowning. I heard it rattling under his jacket as we walked. Yours didn’t, because yours is empty. You’ve been wondering if he cheated you. He did.’
‘He can’t have,’ sniffed Eggert. ‘They were my dice.’
‘He suggested you use them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you took a few rolls, but your luck soured after he won his first pot. Isn’t that so?’
The musketeer picked at the scabs on his bald head in agitation. He was so taken with Sammy’s accusations he hadn’t noticed Arent had released him.
‘How can you know?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘Did he say something?’
‘He had another set of dice in his hand,’ explained Sammy. ‘He switched them when he scooped up your dice with his winnings. At the end of the game, he handed yours back.’
The crowd watching them murmured their surprise at this insight. More than one hushed voice accused him of devilry. It was always the same way.
Sammy ignored them and nodded at Thyman, who was leaning weak-kneed against a wall. ‘Open his coin purse, they’ll be in there,’ he said. ‘Roll them five times and you’ll win five times. They’re weighted in his favour.’