Rather than falling back, Wyck swung his arm at Arent’s eyes, momentarily blinding him with blood.
Arent kicked out desperately, catching Wyck in the stomach, ripping the air from him. As Wyck sucked in breath, Arent wiped as much blood as he could from his eyes. His vision was blurry, but good enough to catch Isaack Larme’s nod to somebody in the crowd. Glancing in the same direction, Arent saw the glint of a knife emerging from a sailor’s sleeve.
Circling, Wyck thrust suddenly, trying to manoeuvre Arent so his back was to the hidden blade.
Arent gave him what he wanted, but kept a few steps between himself and the assassin.
When Wyck came again, Arent was ready. Rather than parry, he let the first strike catch his arm. Ignoring the searing pain, he yanked Wyck close and caught hold of his wrist. Roaring, he hurled the boatswain at the sailor with the blade, the two of them cracking together.
Arent was on them in two steps, scooping up the fallen knife and jamming it straight through the second sailor’s hand, pinning him to the deck. Falling on Wyck’s body, he punched him, then leant close to his ear, the overpowering smell of paprika rising into his nostrils.
‘What does Laxagarr mean?’ he demanded.
Wyck ripped the dagger out of the sailor’s hand and drove the point at Arent’s hip.
Growling, the mercenary grabbed his arm, banging it against the deck and sending the dagger skittering. Before he could try anything else, Arent elbowed him in the face, dazing him.
‘What does Laxagarr mean?’ he demanded.
Wyck coughed blood, his eyes unfocused. ‘Old Tom take you.’
Arent hit him again, his fist landing like cannon fire. Something cracked in Wyck’s face.
Sara screamed for him to stop.
‘What does Laxagarr mean?’
‘Go to –’ Arent hit him again, Wyck’s head snapping back. A small, dark, vile part of Arent revelled in it. He’d held his strength for so long, wary of fighting because he knew how it ended. There was a ball of rage held tight at his core that had been there for as long as he could remember. Every insult, every jeer, every slight; that’s where he kept them. They were fuel for the dark furnace he normally kept shuttered.
He raised his fist again.
‘What does –’
‘Trap,’ spluttered Wyck. ‘It means trap,’ he said, coughing blood.
The crowd went silent.
Puffing like a pair of bellows, Arent looked around. The crowd were watching him with the awe of soldiers seeing a bombardment for the first time.
Aside from Old Tom, Wyck was the fiercest, most terrifying thing on the ship. Everybody who’d found themselves on the wrong end of him had suffered, grievously.
Bosey got it worst, but he hadn’t been alone. They all had their scars.
Wyck was what these murderers, malcontents and rapists had nightmares about. And Arent had put him down.
Some delicate, but crucial, balance had shifted on the Saardam.
As the sailors pondered this, Sara broke through the crowd, hugging Arent fiercely.
‘Sara, what will –’
‘Shut up,’ she said, her face pressed against his chest. Finally, she dashed the tears away. ‘I thought you were going to kill him,’ she said.
Arent lifted his forearm, inspecting the slice. It was shallow enough, but it would ache for a week. ‘Laxagarr means trap in Nornish,’ said Arent. ‘When the other sailors asked Bosey what he was working on, that’s what he was telling them.’
Drecht pushed through the crowd. ‘Why didn’t you kill him, you damn idiot.’
‘The dead don’t answer questions,’ replied Arent, returning his dagger.
‘And they can’t ask them,’ responded Drecht. ‘Strength follows strength. You’ve made him look weak in front of his lads. He’ll be coming for you now. He has to.’
‘Somebody’s always coming for me,’ said Arent, staring at Isaack Larme. ‘And they better come damn quick, or I’ll find them first.’
54
Arent staggered into the compartment under the half deck, blood dripping off his fingers. A solitary candle burnt on a cask, discharging thick, foul smoke into the air.
Isabel’s laughter came from the shadows at the rear of the compartment. She was sitting on a stool, talking with Dorothea. They stopped the moment they saw him, their eyes widening in alarm.
‘Did you win?’ asked Dorothea.
‘He won,’ said Sara, opening the box of healing sundries she’d left there earlier, revealing a collection of rags and unguents, corked vials and bags of powder. From beneath them, she took out a hooked needle and a length of catgut.
Dragging the candle a little closer, Sara inspected the wound.
‘You’ll need to take your shirt off,’ she said to Arent. ‘The material’s in the way.’
He did as she asked, uncovering a patchwork of scars and burns, stab wounds and musket holes badly healed.
Isabel murmured a prayer. ‘God made you pay a high price to get here,’ she said devoutly.
‘God didn’t put a sword in my hand,’ he disagreed.
Sara’s hand was already slippery with blood and she had to ask Isabel to thread the catgut for her. ‘Is healing people something you can teach me?’ asked Isabel, frowning at the eye of the needle as she tried to engineer the catgut through it.
‘If you’ve the feel for it, I’d be happy to,’ said Sara, taking the needle from her. ‘Is there an unopened jug of wine anywhere?’
‘I can find one, my lady,’ said Isabel.
‘It’s Sara,’ she said. ‘If there’s none about, ask the steward. Use my name.’
Isabel departed.
Gripping the thread in her teeth, Sara slipped the point of the needle through the edges of Arent’s ragged skin, then looped it and started again. The sting was almost enough to make him wish for the days when he would have let the injury alone, then lain down for a week or two and hoped not to die.
That was what he’d been taught by the army’s stinking old barber-surgeon, who’d told him the bad humours had to be allowed to seep out. Once they were expunged, the body would do its own work, he’d said.
Sammy hadn’t liked that. First time he’d seen Arent injured, he’d stitched him up like a torn jacket. Arent had tried to argue, telling him about the humours and the surgeon’s advice, but Sammy didn’t take it kindly. He’d even pricked him a couple of extra times with the needle to emphasise his disquiet.
He was surprised to find Sara knew the technique also.
‘Where did you learn to do this?’ he asked, watching Sara work.
‘My mother,’ she said distractedly. ‘My grandfather was a healer of some renown. He taught her and she taught me.’
‘Could your father do this?’
She shook her head. ‘He was a merchant.’ Her voice frosted over. ‘My mother used her gifts to save his life after he became ill passing through her village, and he fell in love with her. She was only three guilders away from being a peasant, but my noble father didn’t care. They married and lived happily ever after, except for all the friends he lost because he’d snubbed their well-born daughters.’
She finished another loop.
‘Love nearly destroyed my family,’ she said drily. ‘On the bright side, they had five daughters, so my father had lots of chances to make up for his mistake.’
Sara worked quietly after that, shushing Arent when he tried to talk.
When Isabel returned with the wine, Sara used it to wash the wound, offering the jug to Arent so he could dull the pain.
He hardly touched it.
Having Sara kneeling in front of him like this, even under these circumstances, was proving tricky. Pain was the only thing keeping everything where it ought to be.
Isaack Larme stomped into the compartment, throwing a bag of coins at Arent’s feet. ‘Your winnings,’ he said. Then, leering at Sara, ‘But I reckon you’ve done well enough out of this already.’