‘If that is God’s plan for me, then I welcome it.’
He did, thought Arent. He really did. He’d come across a few pious men in his time and learned to spot the fakers. Piety, true piety, came at a savage cost. God was the only flame that gave them light, the only source of warmth and direction. They saw the rest of the world as a dull grey thing they’d ecstatically set alight to spread their flame. Sander Kers spoke every word as if he were striking the flint.
A silent conversation passed between Crauwels and Larme, a question asked through twitches and small movements of the head, the answer delivered with pursed lips and a slight shrug. It was the language of those who worked at dangerous occupations in close quarters. Arent communicated with Sammy the same way.
The predikant’s gaze bore into Captain Crauwels. ‘Now, do I have your blessing to go about my ministrations?’
Crauwels threw the metal disc into the air again, only to immediately snatch it back down in frustration. ‘My permission, aye. Not my blessing. And it extends only to you, not your ward. I’ll not risk a mutiny over lust.’
‘Captain –’ protested the young woman.
‘Isabel!’ Sander interrupted sternly. ‘We have what we came for.’
She glared from one face to the other, her expression indicating quite clearly that while they had what they had come for, she did not. Sucking her lips in irritation, she stamped out of the cabin.
Sander Kers hobbled after her on his cane.
‘Well, there’s a spot of trouble I had no use for,’ said Crauwels, scratching his eyebrow. ‘Now, you, thief-taker, what do you need from me today?’
Arent bristled at the title. Sammy had always hated being called a thief-taker. He said it was the profession of brawlers and gutter dwellers, fit only for small mysteries easily solved by fists. He preferred to be called a problematary; a title entirely made up and entirely his own, yet one kings had emptied treasuries to employ.
‘Did you have a maimed carpenter aboard?’
‘Bosey, aye. Knew the name for every nail and plank holding this ship together. Didn’t turn up for roster, though. Why?’
‘Sammy Pipps thinks he was the leper who threatened us on the docks.’
Isaack Larme flinched, then tried to cover it by rolling up his chart and hopping down from his stool. ‘I need to check our speed, Captain.’
‘Take the jug of ale out of the helmsman’s hand while you’re out there,’ he said gruffly.
Arent watched Larme leave, resolving to talk to him later, once he had everything he needed from the captain.
‘Can you think of any reason this Bosey would be threatening the Saardam?’ asked Arent.
‘I know he fell afoul of the crew somehow, though I couldn’t tell you how. A captain has to keep his distance from the men much as he can, else there’s no way to govern them. Larme would know more.’
‘On the docks, he mentioned having a master? Know anything about that?’
‘There’s one hundred and eighty sailors on my crew, Hayes. You’re lucky I know his name. Honestly, it’s Larme you need. He’s closer to the rabble than I am.’ He was growing impatient. ‘Is there anything else? I’ve still got a dozen other nuisances to attend.’
‘I need permission to speak with the constable guarding your gunpowder store,’ said Arent.
‘Why?’
‘Sammy Pipps is worried somebody’s planning to blow it up.’
‘Good enough,’ grunted the captain, throwing the metal disc towards Arent, who caught it in his palm. It was heavy and engraved with a double-headed bird. Arent might have mistaken it for a wax stamp, except for the hole in the middle.
‘Show the constable that token and he’ll know you go with my good word,’ he said.
‘A moment,’ said Reynier van Schooten, making a grand show of rising from his chair and going to the table.
He pulled a quill from an ink pot and began scrawling a series of numbers on a piece of vellum. ‘I’m the master of this voyage, and all doors will remain closed to you until I say otherwise. Unfortunately, I can’t give you what you ask until you settle a debt,’ he said, tossing a handful of pounce on the ink to dry it, before handing it to Arent.
‘What this?’ asked Arent, staring at it.
‘It’s a bill,’ responded Van Schooten, his eyes shining.
‘A bill?’
‘For the cask.’
‘What cask?’
‘The cask of ale you broke open on the dock,’ he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It was Company property.’
‘You’re charging me for sparing a man’s suffering?’ demanded Arent incredulously.
‘The man wasn’t Company property.’
‘He was on fire.’
‘Be glad the Company didn’t own the flames,’ said Van Schooten, with that same infuriating reasonableness. ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant Hayes. As per Company policy, we may not render you any service until prior debts have been settled.’
Crauwels growled, snatching the vellum from Arent’s hand and shaking it in the chief merchant’s face. ‘Hayes is trying to help, you dark-hearted wretch. What’s become of you these last two weeks? It’s like you’re a different man.’
Doubt flashed on Van Schooten’s face, but it was no match for his arrogance.
‘Perhaps if he’d come to me first, we could have been spared this unpleasantness, but’ – he shrugged – ‘here we are. My authority must –’
‘Your authority is worth salt!’
The voice had come from an adjoining doorway, where Governor General Jan Haan was red-faced and shimmering with rage. ‘How dare you treat Lieutenant Hayes with such disrespect,’ he hissed, disgust pouring out of him. ‘From this point forwards, you will address him as “sir” and you will show him the same deference you show me, or I’ll have Guard Captain Drecht cut out your tongue. Do you understand?’
‘My lord –’ Van Schooten stammered, glancing between Arent and the governor general, desperately trying to draw some line between them. ‘I … I … no offence was –’
‘Your intentions couldn’t be less important to me,’ snapped the governor general, dismissing Van Schooten with a wave of his hand.
His gaze found Arent, a sudden smile brightening his face.
‘Come, Nephew,’ he said, inviting him inside. ‘It’s time we talked.’
13
The governor general had taken the captain’s cabin. It was twice as large as the others, with its own privy. Furs were piled on the bunk and a rug laid on the floor. Hanging on the walls were oil paintings of famous scenes from the governor general’s personal history, including the siege at Breda.
Arent was in that one. He was the giant covered in blood, carrying his injured uncle over his shoulder, while single-handedly fighting hordes of Spanish soldiers. It hadn’t happened that way, but it was close enough to make him feel sick with the memory. Truth was, they’d hidden under bodies and clambered through middens, holding their breath all the way through the enemy line. He could understand why his uncle hadn’t commissioned that for his wall, though. It was a difficult thing to capture magnificently in oil.
A harried clerk was transferring clothes from a sea chest into drawers, while Cornelius Vos, the governor general’s chamberlain, was arranging scroll cases very precisely on a shelf. It took Arent a couple of glances to really notice him. With his muddy hair and brown clothes, it was difficult to distinguish him from the pillars supporting the roof.
‘I appreciate your intervention, but I can fight my own battles, Uncle,’ said Arent, closing the door behind him.
‘This battle was beneath you,’ responded Jan Haan, waving an agitated hand in the direction of the great cabin. ‘Reynier van Schooten is weak and venal and grasping. That there’s any place for him in this Company I love makes me love this Company a little less.’