Nobody saw Sander Kers close the huge book held in Isabel’s hands, hiding the picture of the eye drawn there.
Nobody saw the boatswain, Johannes Wyck, touch his eyepatch in memory.
And nobody saw Arent stare incredulously at the scar on his wrist, which was exactly the same shape as the mark on the sail.
12
Captain Crauwels bellowed instructions down to the helmsman, who was sighting their course through a small window in the helm, setting the rudders by adjusting the whipstaffs. Slowly, like an ox dragging a plough across a field, the
The crew had dispersed to their duties, leaving Arent to stare at the symbol already being washed away in the rain.
The captain had ordered the sail inspected for holes and loose stitching, but nothing had been found and the sheet had been declared wind-worthy. If anybody else was troubled by the symbol, they gave no indication. Most seemed to think it was the result of some strange jest, or an accident in storage.
Arent ran a troubled finger across his scar. He had to stare to see it, as it was hidden beneath a dozen other worse injuries. He’d received it as a boy, not long after the first hairs had sprouted on his chin. He’d gone hunting with his father, the family expecting them back that evening, as normal. Three days later, a merchant caravan had found Arent wandering alone on the road. His wrist was badly gouged and he was sodden, as if he’d fallen in a stream, though there were none nearby and it hadn’t rained. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t remember what had become of him, or of his father.
He still couldn’t.
That scar was the only thing that had returned from the forest with him. For years, it had been his shame. His burden. A reminder of unremembered things, including the father who’d disappeared completely.
How could it be on the sail?
‘Oi, Hayes,’ said Jacobi Drecht.
Arent turned, blinking at the guard captain, who was pressing his hat on to his head as the wind picked up across the water.
‘If you still want to talk to the captain, he’ll be in the great cabin,’ he said, the red feather in his hat twitching like an insect’s antenna. ‘I’m going over now, I’ll introduce you.’
Arent dropped his hand self-consciously behind his back, and followed Drecht across the waist towards the rear of the ship.
He felt as if he were learning to walk again.
Even at this slow pace, the
That’s how he’ll fight, thought Arent. Light-footed, circling. Never stopping. You’d swing at where he’d been, while he put his sword where you would be.
Arent was lucky the guard captain hadn’t run him through.
Luck. He hated that word. It was an admission, not an explanation. It was what you depended on when good sense and skill deserted you.
He’d been lucky a lot recently.
These last few years he’d started making mistakes, seeing things too late. As he got older, he was getting slower. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of his body, like a bag of rocks he couldn’t put down. Near misses were getting nearer, close calls closer. One day soon, he wouldn’t see his killer’s feet, wouldn’t hear their shuffling or catch their shadow drawing up the wall.
Death kept flipping a coin and Arent kept taking the odds. Seemed like madness, even to him.
He should have quit a long time ago, but he didn’t trust anybody else to protect Sammy. That pride seemed ridiculous now. Sammy was in a cell aboard an imperilled ship and Arent had nearly got himself killed before they’d even left Batavia.
‘Shouldn’t have reacted the way I did earlier,’ said Arent, catching hold of a rope to steady himself. ‘Put you in a bad position with your men. I’m sorry for that.’
Drecht’s eyebrows reached for each other in thought.
‘You did right by Pipps,’ he said, at last. ‘Did what you were paid to do. But it’s my duty to protect the governor general and his family, and I can’t do that without the loyalty of these musketeers. Put me in that position again and I’ll have to kill you. I can’t seem weak, because they won’t follow me. You understand that?’
‘I do.’
Drecht nodded, the matter settled.
They passed through a large arch into the compartment under the half deck. It was the width of the ship and ran back like a cave. Hammocks were strung wall to ceiling on the starboard side, curtains hanging between them for privacy.
Arent was berthed in the one closest to the helm, a small, gloomy room where the whipstaffs working the rudders finally emerged after their long journey through the ship. Having set their course, the helmsman was now squatting on the floor with his mate, rolling dice for ale rations.
‘How do you know the captain?’ asked Arent.