‘And now you have The Folly, you won’t have to be the governor general’s chamberlain any longer.’
Vos became confused. ‘The Folly? Is that why –’ He burst out laughing. It was a wholly unnatural sound coming from him. ‘Oh, my dear Arent. Fate has no love of you, does she? I didn’t steal The Folly, though I’m honoured you think I could. I’m afraid you’ve hit upon the right criminal, but the wrong crime.’
The idea obviously tickled him, for he was still chortling as he tugged the gag back over Arent’s mouth, then returned to carving the Mark of Old Tom on the pillar.
‘Odd as it may sound, I’m glad of this,’ he went on. ‘My work requires that I hide myself and pretend to be less than I am, but I was always thinking about my future. I was never content to be the governor general’s favourite hound for ever. It’s pleasant to finally be seen, however accidentally.’
A candle appeared in the distance. A tiny spot of light coming steadily closer.
Vos traced the point of his dagger over the Mark of Old Tom. ‘Fear not, I haven’t succumbed to the creature’s whims, if that’s what you’re thinking. The beautiful thing about fear this large is that nobody will look beyond it. It can explain anything. I’ll carve this mark on to your chest, and everybody will believe the demon killed you. They won’t even think to question it. They’ll want to believe it. People like stories more than they like the truth.’
The candle came closer, rags emerging out of the darkness, the light illuminating the bloody bandages around the leper’s face. Vos had his back to it. Enthralled by his own voice, he didn’t heed Arent’s muffled cries of warning. ‘Old Tom whispered to me, you know. Creesjie’s hand for the governor general’s life. It even offered to leave a dagger under his bunk to use.’ He became thoughtful. ‘I’ll confess I was tempted by its offer, but thankfully I have my own plans.’ He sighed, tapping the dagger against the wood ecstatically. ‘I knew Creesjie would accept me eventually. It was a matter of patience, that’s all.’
The leper was only two paces behind him. Arent strained, jerking his head towards it, screaming through the gag.
Vos furrowed his brow, as if perplexed by a man in Arent’s situation making a fuss. ‘Calm yourself and you may have your final words,’ he said.
The leper was a solitary step away. Arent stopped trying to yell long enough for Vos to tug the gag down.
‘Behind you!’ roared Arent. ‘Behind you, you damn fool!’
Startled by the terror in Arent’s voice, Vos spun around, coming face to face with the leper. From somewhere under the bandages, it hissed, driving a dagger into Vos’s chest, before twisting it.
The chamberlain screamed in agony, the sound echoing around the cargo hold. His body went limp and the leper slowly withdrew its blade, letting Vos collapse with a splash.
The leper stepped over his body, bringing its bloody bandages within touching distance of Arent’s face. It stank of the midden.
Its knife appeared in front of Arent’s face, Vos’s blood still dripping off the edge. It had a crudely carved wooden handle and a strange thin blade that looked like it would snap the very second it was used.
The leper touched the point of the dagger to Arent’s cheek, the metal cold against his flesh.
Arent squirmed trying to pull his head away.
The blade ran down his cheek and along his neck, crossing his stomach. Through its bandages, Arent could hear its rasping breaths. The dead don’t breathe, do they, he thought triumphantly.
The dagger pressed against his stomach, then it stopped suddenly. The leper sniffed him. Then again, deeper this time, as if surprised by something. A hand snaked its way into Arent’s pocket, slowly pulling out the rosary. Cocking its head, it stared at the beads in fascination, letting out that strange animal growl he’d heard with Sara.
For a second, it considered him.
Hissing, the leper blew out the candle and disappeared.
59
Sara didn’t have to wait for the knocking to know that Arent was coming down the corridor. His stumbling steps reverberated through the wood, falling heavily enough to be heard over the harp she was playing for Lia, Dorothea, Creesjie and Isabel.
Opening the door, she saw him carrying a heavy sack over his shoulder, every one of his long labours these last days showing. Blood trickled down his forehead and from the slash she’d stitched up on his forearm. His wrists were rubbed raw. He was soaked through with stinking bilge water, his face so weary she couldn’t imagine how he’d dragged himself up here.
The other women joined her in the corridor, still holding the wine they’d been drinking.
Arriving in front of them, Arent dropped the sack on the floor.
‘Sammy was right about Vos,’ he said hoarsely.
‘He was a thief?’ asked Sara.
‘Yes.’
‘Is this The Folly?’ asked Creesjie, eyeing the sack.
‘No,’ said Arent. ‘Sammy was wrong about that part. Vos didn’t steal it. He stole this instead.’ Arent kicked the bag over, spilling silver plates and chalices, tiaras and diamonds, gold chains and beautiful jewellery.
Creesjie stared at the jewels sparkling by her feet.
‘He told me he was coming into wealth,’ she said, kneeling down to sift through the stones covetously. ‘This must have been what he meant.’
‘This is a fortune,’ said Sara, astonished. She peered at Arent. There was a sickly sheen to his skin, and his eyes were unfocused. ‘Where did Vos get all this?’
‘The leper killed him before he could say.’
‘The leper? You saw the leper?’
‘It saved my life,’ said Arent, resting his weight against the wall. ‘It was going to kill me, but then it seemed to sense my father’s rosary on me. It stole it and left me to wriggle my way out of the ropes.’
‘Vos is dead?’ said Creesjie, momentarily stricken. ‘Oh, that fool!’
While Lia consoled her, Sara placed a hand against Arent’s chest. She could feel his fever through the thin shirt.
‘You need a bed, Arent. You’re burning up,’ she said.
‘Some of these pieces are older than me,’ said Dorothea, who was gleefully piling ring after ring on to her fingers. ‘These suit me, don’t you think?’
She held her adorned hand out for Sara to admire.
‘Wait,’ said Sara, tugging one of the rings off Dorothea’s finger. ‘I recognise this crest. My father made me memorise reams of pageantry when I was a girl. Every coat of arms, every family name, every piece of genealogy. This is the crest of the Dijksma family.’
‘Hector Dijksma was one of the people possessed by Old Tom,’ replied Creesjie, surprised. ‘He was on that list I stole from Jan’s cabin.’
‘Yes, I remember reading about him in the daemonologica,’ said Sara, struggling to recall the exact passage.
‘Dijksma was the second son of a wealthy trading family in the Provinces,’ supplied Isabel. ‘Sander made me study the daemonologica until I could recite every page. Dijksma was possessed by Old Tom in 1609, and it used him to perform dark rituals in the family home. Maids had been going missing from nearby villages for months, and Pieter discovered they’d all been summoned up to the house. He went to free them, but they’d been butchered. He battled Old Tom and managed to exorcise it from Hector, who fled the Provinces before a mob could build him a pyre.’
‘Did the daemonologica ever say what became of him?’
‘No,’ said Isabel. ‘But if this is Hector Dijksma’s treasure, perhaps Vos was actually Hector? Once his family name was ruined, maybe he fled with what was left of his family’s wealth.’