‘And then what? Drecht has all the rations and the weapons,’ said Sara. ‘He’ll find us eventually.’
A dangerous, reckless anger burnt in her voice.
‘We can’t fight, Sara,’ warned Arent. ‘It would be suicide.’
‘Fight today or die tomorrow, what difference does it make?’ she said fiercely.
‘Because if we flee today, we might find a way to flee tomorrow and the day after, until rescue comes,’ said Arent. ‘Surviving isn’t winning. It’s what you do when you’ve lost. Besides, this is Old Tom’s island. We were brought here for a purpose, which means the Eighth Lantern won’t be far behind.’
That brought a glint to Sara’s eyes. ‘You think we can seize a ghost ship?’
‘After everything it’s done to us, I think a ride back to Batavia is the least it can do.’
Giddy excitement crackled between them.
Somewhere distant, Drecht called Arent’s name. He was walking down the shoal, hands cupped to his mouth, searching for the mercenary.
‘I have to go,’ said Arent.
‘You should know, not all the passengers will come with us,’ said Sara.
Arent looked stunned. ‘What? Why?’
‘Some of them will think Drecht’s offer is fair, either because it doesn’t affect them, or because they think living is worth the price.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That’s because you’ve never had to,’ said Sara, her hair blowing around her face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll try to spread the word only amongst the sympathetic. Just know we won’t be saving everybody.’
They looked at each other frankly. They had believed they would die on the boat. Now they believed they would die here. There were no barriers any more, no secrets. The Saardam had taken much, but at least it had also taken those.
‘Then we’ll save who we can,’ he said.
77
Ancient branches clawed at Arent’s cheeks as he headed into the deep jungle. Nothing stirred, even the sea breeze couldn’t worm its way in here. Arent had told Drecht he was going hunting, but, secretly, he wanted to scout out an escape route for the passengers. If all went well, they’d slip away quietly in the night, but when it all went wrong, he’d want to know what they were being chased towards. This was Old Tom’s island. Whatever it had planned for them was in this jungle. He didn’t want them stumbling on it blind.
The interior of the island was a strange, twisted place. Tree trunks split at the base, the sections reaching into the air like the fingers of some monstrous beast. There were huge red flowers standing half his height from the ground, each one a collection of fleshy threads, sticky enough to catch the flies that landed on them. Butterflies the size of petals thrashed inelegantly through the air, while petals the size of plates shaded him from the worst of the sun’s heat.
Unseen creatures were skittering through the undergrowth, claws clambering through the branches. During his first hour in here, he’d thought every one of those noises had an empty belly and ideas about his throat. He’d nearly run back to the shoal, which was reason enough to keep moving forward. Fear was too brittle a material to make good decisions from.
Sweat rolled down his face, the air so humid it seemed to hang from the branches. He sucked breaths in wet lumps, his body in agony.
Sara hadn’t wanted him to go by himself. She’d argued and protested, demanding she come along. It had taken every argument he had to convince her he’d be safer alone, moving quickly and quietly.
The last person to care for him like that was his uncle.
Loss grew like a bubble in his gut.
It made no sense, he thought. He wasn’t a boy any more, and the man he’d met in Batavia wasn’t the same man who’d raised him. He’d beaten Sara. He’d slaughtered the population of the Banda Islands. He’d consorted with a devil. He’d locked Sammy in a cell, which would certainly have killed him.
These were the acts of a monster, and yet … deep down, Arent still loved him. He grieved his death. Why would that be? How could that be?
Wiping the tears from his eyes, he pressed on, noticing a trail of broken branches. Somebody had passed through here. A few steps further on, the trail widened. This hadn’t been done recently, thought Arent. The hacked branches had already started healing.
The trail stretched out ahead of him. This was the work of months, by a dozen or more men.
He followed it cautiously, finally entering a large clearing, where three long log huts had been built around a stone well, with a pail lying by its side. Keeping to the treeline, he searched for inhabitants, but there was nobody around. There hadn’t been for months, to judge by the huge spiderwebs spun across the doors and shutters.
Arent darted out of the trees and pressed himself to the wall of the nearest hut, working his way around to a set of shutters. He tried tugging them open, but they were latched from the inside.
He carried on to the door, which was in full view of the other huts. There was still nobody around, and the muddy ground didn’t show any footprints.
It was deserted.
‘Or abandoned,’ he muttered, opening the nearest door and stepping into the gloom, disturbing the spiders which skittered into the thatched roof. Inside were thirty double bunks in orderly rows, though they didn’t appear to have been slept in for some time.
There was another door at the far end of the hut, which he headed for. On the way, he spotted a mother-of-pearl button on the floor, a piece of thread still tangled in its hole. It was expensive, the sort of thing Crauwels might have worn. ‘Someone was living here,’ he said to himself, blowing dust from it. He stared at the bunks. ‘A lot of somebodies,’ he added.
His heart began to thud.
He opened the second door with more confidence. Beyond it was a supply room. Shelves were filled with bulging sacks, crates and clay pots stoppered with corks.
Taking a clay pot down, he jiggled the cork loose and sniffed the contents.
‘Wine,’ he murmured.
The lid of the crate had been hammered shut, but he drove his elbow into its centre, cracking the wood. Using his fingers, he pried the shards away to find it filled with salted beef. Another contained tack.
His dagger ripped open the top of the nearest sack, revealing the barley within. There was enough food here to feed the survivors of the Saardam for weeks.
He let the grains run through his hand.
This was Old Tom’s island, so this was likely where it intended to berth his new followers. They’d be warm and well fed, and would likely be grateful.
Arent’s fist closed, holding the last of the barley tight. This wasn’t right.
Old Tom wouldn’t build this. What did a devil care for gratitude? The daemonologica described a creature intent on slaughter and destruction that left nothing behind except depravity. Its followers were sent into the world to cause suffering. Nothing mentioned two solid meals and a good night’s sleep first.
No king he’d fought for had ever treated his soldiers this well. They got stinking stew and dirty old blankets in the mud.
Troubled, Arent left the hut and lifted the cover off the well. Aside from a few dead insects, the water was clean. Cupping his hand, he tried it. It was sweet and refreshing. After splashing some on his face to cool down, he inspected the other huts.
Both were equally well provisioned.
There was room for hundreds of people in this camp and the huts must have been stocked recently, because nothing would keep long in this heat. Drecht had butchered the injured for nothing. This food and ale would keep the survivors alive for months, if they required it.