‘Your man’s over here,’ hollered Drecht from the far end of the waist, waving his hand to be seen over the heads of the crowd. He needn’t have bothered. The jaunty red feather in his hat was impossible to miss.
Two musketeers were wrenching Sammy out of the tangled net, laughing coarsely at what they’d caught and wondering aloud whether they should throw him back.
Outwardly, Sammy was bearing this humiliation stoically, but Arent could see his eyes flickering across their clothing and faces, pulling them apart for secrets.
He wasn’t sure what he’d find.
He knew these two from Batavia. They were an unsightly pair, their uniforms grease-spotted and their faces filthy. The taller of the two was called Thyman. He had green teeth and a patchy ginger beard. The shorter man was Eggert; he was bald, with scabs covering his scalp. He picked at them when he was nervous, which was unfortunate because he was nervous most of the time.
‘Where to, Guard Captain?’ asked Thyman, as Arent and Drecht approached.
‘A cell’s been built in the bow of the ship,’ said Drecht. ‘We’ll take him through the forecastle, and down into the sailmaker’s cabin.’
Passengers and sailors parted to let them through, their whispers rising like a swarm of disturbed flies. Nobody knew why Samuel Pipps was in manacles, though they all had theories. Arent felt partially responsible for that. For the last five years, he’d written reports on each of Sammy’s investigations. At first, they’d been for the eyes of their clients, who’d wanted to ensure their investment was paying dividends, but, over time, they’d become popular with clerks, then merchants and, finally, the public. Now copies of the reports were scribed and dispatched to every port that flew a Company flag. They were performed on stage; bards even set them to music. Sammy was the most famous man in the Provinces, but so fantastical were his adventures, so incredible his deductive methods, that many thought him a charlatan. They accused him of being responsible for the crimes he’d unravelled, believing it was the only way he could have solved them. Others accused him of conspiring with dark forces, trading his soul for supernatural gifts.
As Sammy shuffled across the deck towards his cell, they pointed and whispered, believing their petty suspicions vindicated.
‘Finally caught,’ they said.
‘Too clever by half.’
‘Struck a devil’s bargain and come undone.’
Arent’s glare silenced them momentarily, but the whispers simply sprang up again when he passed, like grass trampled underfoot.
Annoyed by Sammy’s slow pace, Eggert shoved him forward, causing him to trip on his chains and fall. Giggling, Thyman aimed a kick at his rump, but before he could swing his leg, Arent grabbed hold of the musketeer’s shirt and hurled him into the railing with such force the wood cracked.
Snatching up his dagger, Eggert swung wildly at Arent.
With a quick step, the mercenary manoeuvred around the musketeer, catching hold of his arm and twisting it upwards, forcing the point of the dagger to his jaw.
Guard Captain Drecht moved even faster, unsheathing his sabre and thrusting it forward, touching the tip of the blade to Arent’s chest.
‘I can’t have you laying hands on my men, Lieutenant Hayes,’ he warned calmly, lifting the brim of his hat to meet Arent’s eyes. ‘Let him go.’
The sword bit into his chest. A little more pressure and he’d be dead.
7
Amid the clamour of Arent’s stand-off with Jacobi Drecht, nobody noticed Sander Kers climb aboard, which was impressive given his stature. He was tall, thin and stooped, his tatty purple robes hanging from his limbs like rags blown into the boughs of a tree. His wrinkled face was the same shade of grey as his hair.
Behind him, a second, smaller hand emerged over the side, strong fingers trying to find something to grip on to.
Reaching down, the elderly man ineffectually tried to help, but the hand swatted him away, as a panting mardijker woman with curly brown hair appeared. She was much shorter and many years younger than Sander, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a farmer. Her cotton shirt was rolled up to her elbows, her skirt and apron stained.
A cumbersome leather satchel was hanging across her back with a brass buckle fastening it shut. Afraid the splashing water might have wormed its way inside, she checked it hurriedly, offering a small prayer of relief to find it sealed.