‘I want to fight him,’ said Arent levelly.
‘You’re being pig-headed and it will get you killed. He’s the best man with a blade I’ve ever seen, and he’s got a fierce temper. If you draw blood, he’s likely to kill you for it.’
‘I need my questions answered,’ said Arent. ‘Can you think of any other way to get them out of him?’
Larme glared. ‘No,’ he admitted grudgingly.
‘Then I’ll see you at dusk.’
Sara eyed him apprehensively, but said nothing. There wasn’t any point. They were each going about this investigation in their own fashion, using the tools given to them by God. Sammy observed, Creesjie flirted and Lia invented. Sara asked questions and Arent was going to fight, same as he always had.
He was capable of more, she was sure of it. He’d worked out The Folly’s creator after spending a short time in its company, but, for some reason, he didn’t trust those skills. She wondered what had happened to make him doubt himself so completely.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the cargo hold, navigating by candlelight, trying to match the spots on the model to the corresponding places on the ship. It was slow going, and disappointing. Bosey and Larme clearly didn’t have as much imagination as Lia, and had only built their smuggling compartments in a few obvious places.
None of them contained The Folly, or anything else.
‘This has to be the last one,’ said Arent, as they reached a large section of wall. ‘I’ll have to go up to the forecastle for the fight soon.’
The compartments were always locked with a peg, and she found it easily enough, pulling it free as Arent lifted the panel from the wall.
A stink rolled out of the dark, sending them staggering backwards, covering their mouths.
‘What’s in there?’ coughed Arent, his eyes watering.
Sara crept closer, holding her candle out in front of her. Sealed in the dark, his throat slit, was the body of Sander Kers.
53
Dusk brought a change of watch, the second mate ringing the bell amidships. The repairs had been ongoing all day, and the ship looked tidy, if not seaworthy. Under a purple and orange sky, Arent followed the throng of sailors and musketeers to the forecastle deck, with Sara walking behind him.
They’d told the captain about Sander’s body and he’d sent sailors to bring it up on deck to be disposed of. Arent had asked him to delay, so Sammy could inspect the corpse that evening, but Crauwels had refused. Everybody knew the dead brought plague if left to rot. Any ship even suspected of being plague-ridden would be held at port for sixty days, the passengers and crew forced to endure onboard until it passed, or killed them.
Crauwels didn’t want to risk it.
Sara estimated that Sander had been in there a couple of weeks, which suggested he’d died the night he disappeared. The night the Eighth Lantern had attacked.
They’d told Isabel, who’d taken the news better than they’d expected. Tears filled her eyes, but her back remained straight. After asking where he’d been taken, she’d gone to pray over the body.
‘Don’t let Wyck nick you here, or here,’ said Sara, pointing to spots on Arent’s legs and chest. ‘You’ll bleed and keep bleeding, and there won’t be anything I can do.’
‘Sara –’
She ignored him. She was speaking quickly and nervously, obviously afraid for him.
The waist was packed with spectators, who parted to let them through, shouting insults or encouragement, depending on which way they’d bet. Ignoring their curfew, passengers from the orlop deck had gathered at the mainmast, craning their necks to see more clearly or standing on the railing for a better view. Creesjie had brought Marcus and Osbert out, and the boys had found some willing shoulders to sit on.
Even the governor general would watch, according to the rumours. Arent was thankful Sara was wearing her peasant clothes, but he was still afraid of her being spotted. He’d begged her not to come but she’d flatly refused his advice.
Arriving on the forecastle deck, Arent saw Wyck at the beakhead, practising with his dagger.
‘He’s good,’ said Sara.
‘He’s very good,’ corrected Arent.
His hands were a blur, the point of the attack changing with every swipe and thrust. More importantly, he kept his feet moving.
Arent felt the first touch of nerves. Despite his size, Wyck was fast and nimble. He would be hard to hit, whereas Arent would be hard to avoid. It didn’t matter whether this was friendly or not. If that blade nicked him in the wrong spot by accident, he was dead.
Drecht appeared in front of him. His hat was pulled down low, a pipe sticking out of his beard. The guard captain glanced at Sara agitatedly, but he knew better than to argue with her. He took the dagger from his waist and held it out to Arent.
‘Guard your body and if you get the chance, put a blade in his throat,’ he warned, lifting the brim of his hat to stare at Arent with those pitiless blue eyes. ‘Every second this fight drags on is to his advantage.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m going to lose,’ argued Arent. ‘Nobody needs to die.’
‘That’s your plan,’ said Drecht. ‘His plan is to lie to you, then kill you quick, and if that fails, to kill you slow. I know men like this. They can’t be trusted.’
Taking the weapon, Arent handed Sara his father’s rosary. ‘Can you keep this safe for me?’
‘I’ll have it waiting when you come back.’
Their gaze lingered, but Arent could feel Wyck’s eyes upon him. He touched Sara’s arm and then stepped into the ring, where Wyck was bouncing from toe to toe.
As the crowd roared for them to start, Arent crouched, putting his arms out in front of him, trying to protect as much of his body as he could. Being tall and wide had its advantages, but not in a knife fight where the key was to make yourself as difficult to hit as possible.
Wyck circled, trying to find an angle.
He thrust quickly, but Arent parried with the edge of his blade, adjusting quickly and slashing back.
Wyck jumped away, laughing at the attempt.
He was as irritating to fight as to talk to, Arent realised.
The sailors howled, urging the boatswain forward, while the musketeers cheered for Arent.
The boatswain came again, slashing and thrusting. Sidestepping the first two strikes, Arent caught the second on his blade, iron scraping along iron as he tried to push Wyck away, but he was strong.
‘Old Tom sends his regards,’ sneered Wyck.
Taking advantage of Arent’s surprise, Wyck punched him in the side, then tried to ram his blade into his belly. Stumbling backwards, Arent avoided the thrust, earning the slightest of nicks.
The crowd roared in appreciation.
Drecht was right. This wasn’t a friendly contest. There would be no quarter. No hesitation. Wyck meant to slit his throat, and he was going to do it at Old Tom’s behest.
‘You have to stop this,’ screamed Sara. ‘This isn’t fake. Wyck’s going to kill you.’
Arent wished he could reassure her, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Wyck. Everybody believed he was defending desperately, trying to keep himself alive until Wyck tired, but that wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t defending, he was watching how Wyck fought, working out his reach and where he left himself open when he attacked.
Wyck was fighting, but Arent was planning.
Seeing Arent distracted, the boatswain charged forward, snarling. This time Arent didn’t take a step back and he didn’t parry. He twisted slightly, letting Wyck’s blade slide past him as he slashed at his opponent’s face.
The boatswain caught the strike on his forearm, blood spraying across Arent’s clothes.