Crauwels regarded him warily. ‘Everything afore the mainmast is the domain of the sailors, everything aft is kept for the senior officers and passengers unless the crew have duties there,’ he explained. ‘Any sailor crosses the mast without permission gets flogged. Any passenger goes the other way is at the mercy of the crew. It’s that way on every ship in the fleet. Even I don’t often venture down that end of the ship.’
The predikant raised an eyebrow. ‘You fear these men?’
‘Isn’t one of them who wouldn’t slit your throat for a free drink, then rape your ward while your blood was still warm,’ interrupted Reynier van Schooten.
His tone was meant to shock, but the predikant gazed at him levelly, while Isabel’s hand tightened around the strap of her satchel. Whatever she thought of the declaration, it didn’t show on her face.
‘Fear is the curse of the faithless,’ said Sander. ‘Upon my brow, a sacred duty has been placed. I mean to fulfil it and I will trust God to protect me while I do so.’
‘You mean to go amongst the crew?’ asked Isaack Larme.
‘Yes, dwarf, and deliver God’s word.’
Larme bridled. ‘They’ll kill you.’
‘If that is God’s plan for me, then I welcome it.’
He did, thought Arent. He really did. He’d come across a few pious men in his time and learned to spot the fakers. Piety, true piety, came at a savage cost. God was the only flame that gave them light, the only source of warmth and direction. They saw the rest of the world as a dull grey thing they’d ecstatically set alight to spread their flame. Sander Kers spoke every word as if he were striking the flint.
A silent conversation passed between Crauwels and Larme, a question asked through twitches and small movements of the head, the answer delivered with pursed lips and a slight shrug. It was the language of those who worked at dangerous occupations in close quarters. Arent communicated with Sammy the same way.
The predikant’s gaze bore into Captain Crauwels. ‘Now, do I have your blessing to go about my ministrations?’
Crauwels threw the metal disc into the air again, only to immediately snatch it back down in frustration. ‘My permission, aye. Not my blessing. And it extends only to you, not your ward. I’ll not risk a mutiny over lust.’
‘Captain –’ protested the young woman.
‘Isabel!’ Sander interrupted sternly. ‘We have what we came for.’
She glared from one face to the other, her expression indicating quite clearly that while
Sander Kers hobbled after her on his cane.
‘Well, there’s a spot of trouble I had no use for,’ said Crauwels, scratching his eyebrow. ‘Now, you, thief-taker, what do you need from me today?’
Arent bristled at the title. Sammy had always hated being called a thief-taker. He said it was the profession of brawlers and gutter dwellers, fit only for small mysteries easily solved by fists. He preferred to be called a problematary; a title entirely made up and entirely his own, yet one kings had emptied treasuries to employ.
‘Did you have a maimed carpenter aboard?’
‘Bosey, aye. Knew the name for every nail and plank holding this ship together. Didn’t turn up for roster, though. Why?’
‘Sammy Pipps thinks he was the leper who threatened us on the docks.’
Isaack Larme flinched, then tried to cover it by rolling up his chart and hopping down from his stool. ‘I need to check our speed, Captain.’
‘Take the jug of ale out of the helmsman’s hand while you’re out there,’ he said gruffly.
Arent watched Larme leave, resolving to talk to him later, once he had everything he needed from the captain.
‘Can you think of any reason this Bosey would be threatening the
‘I know he fell afoul of the crew somehow, though I couldn’t tell you how. A captain has to keep his distance from the men much as he can, else there’s no way to govern them. Larme would know more.’
‘On the docks, he mentioned having a master? Know anything about that?’
‘There’s one hundred and eighty sailors on my crew, Hayes. You’re lucky I know his name. Honestly, it’s Larme you need. He’s closer to the rabble than I am.’ He was growing impatient. ‘Is there anything else? I’ve still got a dozen other nuisances to attend.’
‘I need permission to speak with the constable guarding your gunpowder store,’ said Arent.
‘Why?’
‘Sammy Pipps is worried somebody’s planning to blow it up.’
‘Good enough,’ grunted the captain, throwing the metal disc towards Arent, who caught it in his palm. It was heavy and engraved with a double-headed bird. Arent might have mistaken it for a wax stamp, except for the hole in the middle.
‘Show the constable that token and he’ll know you go with my good word,’ he said.
‘A moment,’ said Reynier van Schooten, making a grand show of rising from his chair and going to the table.