‘Is your skill not equal to theirs?’ he’d said, trying to needle Crauwels into rashness.
‘Skill’s no use when you can’t see the thing trying to sink you,’ he’d responded calmly, before adding, ‘If you tell me the names of the captains who sail by night, I’ll tell you the names of the ships they’ve sank and the cargo they’ve lost.’
That had put a swift end to the argument, and now Crauwels was listening to Isaack Larme ringing eight bells, summoning a new watch.
Crauwels loved this time of evening, when his duties to the crew had ended and his duties to the damned nobility had not yet begun. This was his. One hour, around dusk, to smell the air and feel the salt on his skin and find some joy in this life forced upon him.
Going to the railing, he watched the weary crew pass on orders, rub their charms and say their prayers, tapping whatever part of the hull they could reach for luck. Superstition, he thought. It’s the only thing keeping us afloat.
From his pocket, he removed the metal disc he’d given to Arent. Vos had returned it to him earlier, obviously annoyed that he was treating a gift from the governor general so carelessly. He rubbed its surface with his thumb and forefinger, then examined the sky, a troubled frown on his face.
For the past few hours, he’d felt that familiar itch on his skin telling him a storm was building beyond the horizon. The air was growing prickly, the sea subtly changing shade. Opening his mouth, he’d tasted the air. It was like licking a piece of iron dredged up from the seabed.
It would be here in a day, maybe less.
A cabin boy walked past him, carrying a flaming torch to the back of the ship, stretching on his tiptoes to light the huge lantern hanging there.
One by one, the other ships in the fleet followed suit until seven flames burnt in the endless dark, like fallen stars adrift on the ocean.
18
Dinner that night was a torment for Sara, who was much too full of worry to settle to small talk with the other passengers.
Guard Captain Drecht had stationed a musketeer outside the passenger cabins, easing her mind a little, but that had been her last success. Dorothea hadn’t been able to find a passenger who knew what Laxagarr meant, which left only Johannes Wyck to translate. Much as she wished to summon the boatswain to her cabin and interrogate him, she couldn’t risk her husband finding out. Calling for the carpenter had been risky enough, and she’d had a good excuse for doing that.
It was infuriating.
She was the highest-ranking noblewoman onboard, and yet she had less freedom than the lowliest cabin boy.
At least this interminable dinner was almost over, she thought.
The food had been eaten and the cutlery cleared, aside from a great silver candelabrum, its dripping candles casting every face in a sinister light. The leaves of the table had been dropped, making room for the diners to scatter around the great cabin and engage in trivial, mostly tedious, conversations.
Sara had taken herself to a chair in the corner, begging a few minutes’ rest to overcome a headache. It was a ploy she’d used before at social engagements and it usually yielded at least twenty minutes of solitude after the initial barrage of concern had waned.
Sitting silently in the shadows, she tried to make sense of the strange gathering before her. Mostly it was senior officers Sara didn’t recognise, aside from Captain Crauwels, who was resplendent in a red doublet and crisp white hose, his silk ribbons immaculately tied and buttons polished, each one catching the candlelight. It was a different outfit from the one he’d worn during the day, but equally well tailored.
He was talking to Lia, who was peppering him with seafaring questions. Initially, Sara had worried that her daughter was letting her cleverness slip. She often did when she was excited, but Lia was wearing her best disguise – the vacuous expression of a dim noblewoman trying to impress a suitor.
Crauwels seemed to be enjoying it. In fact, it was the most comfortable he’d appeared all evening.
He was a peculiar man, she thought. Caught at the crossroads of his own contradictions. For all his fine clothes, he was a ruffian at heart. Honeyed words greeted the nobles, but he was coarse and short-tempered with everybody else. His feast was lavish, and yet he ate very little of it. He drank from his own bottle of ale rather than the wine served, and urged on the conversations around him, even while speaking little, and becoming impatient when anybody else spoke to him. There was no doubt he wanted to impress, and equally no doubt that he was uncomfortable with the people he was trying to impress.
Her eyes drifted to Sander Kers, who was lurking near the windows with Isabel, scrutinising their fellow diners.
He’d been avoiding her all evening.
At first she’d thought him merely awkward – happier to observe conversation than participate in it – but as the hours had gone by, she’d begun to discern a pattern. He wasn’t interested in people; he was interested in their arguments. At every raised voice, he would lean forward eagerly, his lips parting, only to sag in disappointment when the argument dissolved into good-natured laughter. He would then mutter something to Isabel, who’d nod her agreement.
As far as Sara could tell, his ward had said nothing all night, but she wore her silence comfortably. For some, such as Creesjie, being quiet was the loudest thing they could do. It demanded investigation.
Isabel was the opposite. Those watchful eyes were filled with candour. They did the work her mouth would not, admitting every moment of doubt and fear and surprise.
There was a noise from the doorway and Sara’s heart leapt, hoping to see Arent finally arriving. But it was only the steward bringing more wine.
She shook her head, annoyed at her own eagerness. She wanted to know what he’d discovered, but his chair had remained empty, as had that of Viscountess Dalvhain, who hadn’t been able to attend because of ill health.
This, at least, had given the diners something to gossip about.
After trading theories on the imprisonment of Samuel Pipps for a full hour, they’d moved on to discussing Dalvhain’s wealth and lineage, but it was all speculation. Nobody in the room had ever met her, aside from Captain Crauwels, who spoke gruffly of a sickly woman with a cough that could knock the leaves off a tree.
‘Dalvhain,’ murmured Sara, worrying at it.
As a girl, she’d been forced to memorise reams of heraldry, ensuring she’d never shame her father by not immediately knowing who a wealthy stranger was at a party, but she didn’t recognise the name Dalvhain.
Creesjie’s laughter rose above the chatter. She wasn’t capable of sitting in her cabin and moping. She thrived on good cheer, which was handy because it was Creesjie’s great gift to be able to convince people that her day had been a wretched grey thing before their arrival.
Currently, she was talking with Chief Merchant Reynier van Schooten, her fingertips resting lightly on his forearm. By the rapt look on his face, the chief merchant’s heart was already twisting itself in knots.
Sara couldn’t understand why Creesjie was bothering. Van Schooten was a vexatious creature, permanently drunk and apparently incapable of conversing without spite. It was a measure of this evening that everybody else kept the table between themselves and him.
As ever, Cornelius Vos was standing a little way away, hands behind his back, watching Creesjie with the expression of pained longing he always wore in her company.
Pity mixed with frustration in Sara’s breast.
Vos was a decent sort, with a great deal of power and, presumably, wealth. There would be plenty of suitors happy to share his life, but he pursued the one impossible choice.
Creesjie Jens was the most desirable woman in the Company.