‘That’s a matter I prefer not to speak on,’ said Arent, making sure nobody was listening. ‘And I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t mention my connection to the governor general to anybody else.’
‘Of course,’ said Vos frostily. ‘I would not have this position if I struggled for discretion.’
Arent smiled at Vos’s disgruntlement. Clearly, it vexed him that anybody should wish to distance themselves from the privilege of the governor general’s friendship.
‘Tell me of yourself, Vos,’ he said. ‘How did you come to be in service to my uncle?’
‘He ruined me,’ said Vos, without ire. ‘I was a merchant once, but my company came into competition with the governor general. He spread scurrilous rumours about me to my customers, putting my business to the sword, then offered me a job as his chamberlain.’
He spoke in the fond tones of somebody recounting their Christmas feast.
‘And you accepted?’ said Arent, aghast.
‘Of course,’ said Vos, frowning at Arent’s confusion. ‘It was a great honour. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. I had no talent for business, but your uncle recognised my talent for figures. I’m exactly where I belong, and I thank God for His wisdom each night.’
Arent studied his bland face for some suggestion of wounded pride or repressed resentment, but there was nothing. He seemed grateful to have been crushed and added to his uncle’s collection.
Vos took a small lemon from his pocket and dug his sharp fingers into the peel, spraying zest into the air. The mercenary watched him a moment, the boat rocking beneath them.
‘Do you know why Sammy Pipps is imprisoned?’ he asked abruptly, hoping to catch him off guard.
Vos’s body stiffened. ‘No.’
‘Yes, you do,’ disagreed Arent. ‘Is it as bad as my uncle says?’
‘Yes,’ said Vos, biting into the lemon, bringing tears to his eyes.
The word was dropped across the conversation like a rock in front of a cave mouth.
The staircase down to the orlop deck was located opposite Arent’s berth, and an almighty commotion was rising up the steps.
Descending into the gloom, Arent felt like he was being swallowed whole.
A ribcage of thick beams held up the low ceiling, drops of humidity falling like bile. Six cannons were spaced at regular intervals along the bowed walls and the centre of the deck was taken up by the huge capstan wheel, its four long handles used to hoist the anchors off the seabed.
It was swelteringly hot, with passengers expected to bed down wherever they could find space. At a guess, Arent suspected there were around fifty people down here. A few experienced travellers were stringing their hammocks between the gun ports, where they’d at least have a breeze, but the rest would have to settle for mats on the floor, and the feel of rats scurrying by their bodies in the night.
Arguments raged, sickly passengers coughing, snorting, spitting and vomiting, as they complained about their berths. Sander Kers and his ward, Isabel, were standing at the centre of them, listening sympathetically and offering God’s blessings.
‘The gunpowder store is this way,’ said Vos, nodding towards the aft of the ship.
They hadn’t gone three steps when they were thronged by passengers hurling complaints over each other. An irate man tried to prod Arent in the chest, then realised how far he’d have to reach, so prodded Vos instead.
‘I sold everything to buy this’ – he pointed at his hammock disgustedly – ‘berth. There isn’t even room for my possessions.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Vos, plucking the offending finger away like a piece of dirt. ‘But I have no say over your accommodations. I had very little say over my own …’
He trailed off, distracted by something.
Following his gaze, Arent saw two sandy-haired boys with prominent ears darting across the deck, trying to tag each other. They were dressed identically in yellow hose and brown breeches, pressed tunics and short capes.
This was noble attire. Compared to the worn-out boots and faded clothes the rest of the passengers wore, it was painfully conspicuous. Their pearl buttons alone would have paid for one of these families to take quarters upstairs.
‘Boys!’ hollered Vos, bringing the two young nobles to an immediate halt. ‘I’m certain your mother doesn’t know where you are, and I’m certain she wouldn’t approve. Up to the cabins with you.’
The boys muttered, but trudged up the stairs as ordered.
‘They’re the sons of Creesjie Jens,’ explained Vos. He spoke her name with such yearning, he was momentarily rendered human. At short acquaintance, Arent had assumed Vos’s heart was a ball of parchment, but evidently there was warm blood in there somewhere.
A weeping woman broke through the crowd, tugging Arent’s sleeve.
‘I’ve two children,’ she complained, sniffling into a handkerchief. ‘There’s no light, no air. How will they endure eight months of this?’
‘I’ll talk to –’