‘Perhaps he finally remembers what happened to him in the forest, and why the mark of Old Tom now scars his wrist. Perhaps, my lord, he knows what price you had to pay to summon your demon.’
30
The ship reverberated with the sound of the search for the leper’s rags. Crates were being torn open, the crew complaining as their possessions were upended. The sails were furled and the anchors dropped, yawls bobbing near the waist, the fleet captains climbing up the rope ladders. They were a sour bunch, full of complaint. Larme was making himself scarce until they were gone.
He hacked at his carving sourly.
He was sitting on the lion figurehead, which stuck out at the very front of the ship, his short legs swinging in the air as he whittled a piece of wood with his knife. Nobody else came up this far. They didn’t have his agility.
Also, it stank.
The beakhead was behind him. It was a small grated deck where the crew relieved themselves into the water below, smearing the entire prow of the ship. The smell made his eyes water, but it seemed a small price to pay to be left alone.
He twisted his knife, trying to dislodge a stubborn shard from the block. He was in a rotten mood. He usually was, but this one had a cause. It was bad luck to tarry when the seas were fair, in case the wind got the impression they weren’t in need of it any longer. Even worse than that was the threat of pirates. They prowled these waters, and they’d make good sport of a heavily laden merchant fleet caught at anchor.
‘Lepers,’ he spat, tearing the shard loose. ‘As if you don’t have enough troubles.’ He patted the hull, the way somebody would a beloved pet.
The Saardam wasn’t just nails and wood, no more than an ox was just muscles and sinew. She had a belly full of spice, great white wings on her back and a huge horn pointing them home. Each day, they smoothed her coat with tar and mended her torn flesh. They put stitches in those delicate hemp wings and guided her gently through hazards she was too blind to see.
Wasn’t a man aboard who didn’t love her. How they could not? She was their home, their livelihood and their protector. It was more than any other bastard had ever given them.
Larme hated the world beyond these decks. On the streets of Amsterdam, he was something to be beaten, robbed and laughed at. He’d been kicked from pillar to post, then told to cartwheel so he’d entertain people while doing it.
The second he’d set foot on an Indiaman, he knew he was home.
Here was a world built to his size. Didn’t matter if he was half everybody else’s height when he knew how to tack and jib. Aye, the crew laughed at him behind his back, but they laughed at everybody. It was what they did to keep from going mad five months into an ten-month voyage.
If a storm was blowing him overboard, he’d trust any of these lads to put their hand out and catch him. If he was being kicked to death in Amsterdam, he’d trust five others to come and join in.
A chunk of wood fell from his carving. He wasn’t sure what it would be yet. He didn’t have skill enough to make such bold declarations, but it had legs. Four of them, admittedly, but it was still further than he’d ever got before.
Hearing steps behind him, he turned his head to see Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht pushing a musketeer and a sailor up the staircase to the forecastle deck.
Larme knew the boy to be one of the carpenter’s mates, Henri. Johannes Wyck had put some hurt on him after discovering he’d told tales to Sara Wessel. His face was swollen like an old turnip.
The musketeer was Thyman. He’d antagonised Arent Hayes by hurling the thief-taker on to the floor during boarding. He’d got off lightly with it that morning, though not so today. He was growing a black eye. Henri and Thyman had obviously been fighting.
Larme swung himself off the figurehead, then balanced along the smeared edge of the beakhead, before leaping over the railing on to the forecastle deck.
From under the brim of his hat, Drecht’s eyes narrowed. He adjusted his sword.
Isaack Larme didn’t take fright easily – most of a first mate’s job was to be hated in place of the captain – but he gripped his knife a little tighter than he had done. It had been a long time since they’d last met, but most folk didn’t forget a dwarf.
‘That you, Larme?’ asked Guard Captain Drecht.
‘Aye, it’s me,’ he said, not bothering to hide his contempt.
‘I never forget a scowl,’ said Drecht with a grin, the smile dropping from his face when it wasn’t returned.
‘They been fighting?’ asked Larme, rubbing the half-face charm around his neck. Not that it seemed to do much good. Or, at least, it hadn’t for Bosey, who’d kept the other half. Never did have much sense, but he deserved more than to be incinerated on the docks.
‘I heard there’s some special way you deal with that on this ship,’ replied Drecht.
‘Grievances on the Saardam are settled by fists on the forecastle deck,’ explained Larme. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘He stole my hand plane,’ spat Henri, glaring at Thyman.
Larme ran a professional glance up and down the two men, then sighed. He liked a good fight, but this wasn’t going to be one. Squabbles like this nearly always devolved into slaps, and these two gave the air of two overfilled sacks of piss waiting to be flung at each other.
‘Is it proven?’ asked Larme.
‘People saw him,’ sniffed Henri.
‘Do you deny it?’
‘No,’ admitted Thyman, kicking the boards. ‘I stole it, I was caught. Seems fair enough.’
‘Can you give it back?’ asked Larme.
‘I threw it over the side.’
‘Christ’s sake, man,’ said Drecht. ‘Why?’
‘He had things to say about musketeers, sir. One of them was going over the side. Thought you’d prefer if it was the hand plane.’
Drecht smiled under his beard.
‘Come back here after we drop anchor,’ said Larme, in the long-suffering voice of somebody who had seen a lot of hand planes and a lot of Thymans in his time. ‘Thyman, you’ve admitted guilt, so you’ll take the penalty. One hand tied behind your back.’
Thyman started. ‘Come on now, that’s –’
‘Those are the rules,’ growled Larme. ‘You did the cheating, you’ll pay for it. You fight until one of you drops. The rest of us will watch and bet, so put on a good show.’
‘Good enough,’ said Guard Captain Drecht, clapping his hands on the shoulders of the two men. ‘Off you go then.’
As they grumbled away, Drecht took a pinch of something rotten from his bandolier. He was about to touch it to his nostril, when he remembered his manners and offered Larme some.
The dwarf waved it away.
‘Is it true Crauwels knows when a storm’s coming?’ asked Drecht, sniffing the mix. It brought tears to his eyes.
‘It is,’ said Larme.
‘And he’s saying there’s one on the way?’
Larme nodded. Drecht tipped his chin to the blue sky.
‘Reckon he’s got this one wrong,’ snorted Drecht.
‘Hasn’t happened yet,’ disagreed Larme, heading for the staircase. ‘I’ve got to help with the search.’
‘You were there as well,’ yelled Drecht, flinging the accusation at Larme’s back. ‘So, you can save your disdain. We’ve got a long way to go together, you and me. Might as well be friendly about it.’
‘Stay on your side of the ship and I’ll be friendly as you like,’ said Larme, descending the staircase. ‘I might even keep my blade out of your back.’
Drecht watched him go, then stooped to collect the carving Larme had dropped in his haste to be away. His brow furrowed as he turned it over in his hands. He clearly couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be, but it definitely had a wing.