Isabel said a prayer for those lost, having taken up many of Sander’s duties since his death. Sara, Creesjie and Lia watched with their heads bowed respectfully.
When all was done, Crauwels nodded to the sailors, who lifted the bodies one by one, dropping them over the side with a splash.
Five minutes after the funeral began it was over.
There was no point lingering. They all knew there would be plenty more before the voyage was over.
57
As Vos dined with the other passengers, Arent crept into his cabin, finding a room that perfectly reflected its owner. There were no decorations, no fripperies of any kind. Upon the desk were a candle on a tray, a quill, an ink pot, and a bag of pounce. Shelves had been built, each one overflowing with scrolls.
Arent wasn’t sure if he believed Vos was a demon as well as a thief, but his cabin rejected vice of any sort. It spoke of obsession and order, a towering ambition that would be achieved through hard work. If Sammy had seen this place, he would have hurled himself over the edge of the ship, for nothing could be so antithetical to his own tastes, which veered towards sensuous, distracting, and entirely unworthy.
The desk was tidy except for a ledger and three bills. Unfolding them, Arent discovered they were receipts of passage for Sara, Lia and his uncle, along with their cabin assignments. Apparently, Sara was supposed to have been in Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin, but they’d been switched around. The ledger listed orderly lines of profit and expense, no doubt representing his uncle’s wealth and trades.
Abandoning the documents, Arent tapped the floorboards and panels, inspecting them for secret compartments as Sammy had taught him. He shifted a few scroll cases, but it was pointless. The remaining pieces of The Folly weren’t hidden in here. There wasn’t the space.
Departing the cabin, he heard a strange sound coming from across the corridor. It sounded like … hissing, perhaps. A long hiss, then silence, then it started again.
He knocked.
‘Viscountess Dalvhain.’
‘How many times must I tell you people to leave me be?’ came a feeble voice.
‘I can hear hissing.’
‘Then stop eavesdropping,’ she snapped.
He considered pressing the matter, for no strange occurrence aboard the Saardam could be overlooked any longer, but he knew he had to keep watch for Vos. Returning to the quarterdeck, he slipped into the shadows near the mainmast and waited for the chamberlain to finish dinner.
Arent was good at waiting. Half of everything he did for Sammy was waiting. Putting his hands in his pockets, he felt the now familiar wooden beads of his father’s rosary and tried to imagine how it could have arrived in those animal pens.
Short of his grandfather having snuck aboard without him realising, he couldn’t think of a way.
He felt an old warmth in the pit of his stomach.
Right now, he’d have welcomed the old man’s gruff advice.
After he’d left his grandfather’s business, Arent hadn’t returned to Frisia until shortly before boarding the Saardam. He’d found his grandfather much older, but far more forgiving of his choice than he once had been.
They’d talked for two days, and departed as friends.
Now, for the first time in years, Arent missed him.
Dinner ended, the passengers emerging into the darkness. They were sombre, speaking in hushed tones. Sara appeared first, clinging to Lia. Vos followed on Creesjie’s arm. She was laughing gaily, giving every indication of delight in his company.
After a few awkward words at the door to the passenger cabins, Vos came back down the stairs, his entire demeanour shifting. Becoming furtive, he swept the deck for any observation. Arent stayed perfectly still, trusting to the darkness to disguise him.
Vos darted away.
On soft feet, Arent went after him, following him cautiously on to the staircase leading into the hold.
From beneath him, he heard water sloshing.
Staring down the staircase, he saw Vos remove a candle and striker from his pocket, creating a flame at the fourth try. Of course, he’d come prepared, thought Arent – almost admiringly. He’d have to forgo a light of his own for fear of alerting his quarry.
Arriving at the bottom of the staircase, he found the cargo hold restored, the warrens of crates rebuilt. Most of the bilge water had been pumped out, but it was still higher than it had been before the storm. Dead rats floated on the surface.
Thankfully, Vos moved cautiously. It was obvious he hated being down here. Every drop of water and skittering claw caused him to stop and peer around.
One passage looked much the same as another to Arent, but Vos soon found what he was searching for. Kneeling in the bilge water, he began hammering on one of the crates with the pommel of his dagger, listening for the sound it made.
When one struck hollow, he let out a cry of relief, only to immediately shush himself and place a hand to his lips.
As he pushed the dagger under the edge of the lid, Arent crept forward hoping to better see what was in there.
Vos stopped. Frowned.
He cocked his ear, then sheathed his dagger and took off around the corner with his candle.
Arent considered going after him, but he had what he wanted.
Lacking any sort of light, he felt his way along the passage to the crate Vos had cracked open. All he had to do was scoop up the pieces of The Folly and somehow find his way back before Vos returned.
With proof of his wrongdoing to present to his uncle, he could free the constable and have Drecht shackle the chamberlain.
The jagged edges of the crate arrived beneath his fingers.
Pushing his hand inside, he heard the slightest of noises behind him and realised he’d been tricked.
Half turning, something smacked him in the head, sending him crashing into the water.
58
Arent came awake groggily, waves of pain greeting the smallest movement of his head. He was still in the cargo hold, but he’d been tied to a beam, a gag stuffed in his mouth.
He struggled, but the bonds were knotted tight.
Vos was standing next to him, carving the Mark of Old Tom on to a pillar. He’d already completed three of them, though this one was coming along better. The others were clumsy.
Arent wriggled, trying to loosen the ropes. When that failed, he wondered whether he’d been able to stretch his neck and bite Vos’s ear off.
Hearing him struggle, Vos looked over at him. Fear showed on his plain face.
He put the dagger to Arent’s throat.
‘I’ll pull down the gag so we may speak,’ he said urgently. ‘If you try to call for help, I’ll slit your throat, is that understood?’
For all his fear, the threat came easily enough.
Arent nodded.
Tentatively, Vos pulled the gag down, the material scraping across Arent’s whiskers.
‘Not many men can get behind me,’ said Arent. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘I’ve learned to go unnoticed in my years of service to the governor general.’
‘Handy talent for a thief.’
Vos’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. He relaxed.
‘Then you do know,’ he said. ‘Good, that makes this easier. Who else knows? Who’s waiting for me upstairs?’
‘Everybody,’ said Arent. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘And yet you came alone,’ said Vos, tipping his ear to the air. ‘And I hear no steps, no distant chatter, none of the sounds that would indicate anybody else is down here.’ A horrifying grin split his face. ‘No, you’re alone. I think you saw poor, wretched little Vos and mistakenly thought him no threat.’ He wagged his dagger at him. ‘You’re not the first, but one does not rise out of the mud to become the governor general’s chamberlain without putting a few rivals out of the way.’