‘Because I don’t have to,’ responded Larme, brutally hacking a chunk from the block he’d been whittling. He tossed it into the ocean.
After waiting for the laughter to die down, he pointed towards the bloodied fighters with the tip of his knife. ‘You should fight,’ he said.
‘What?’ replied Arent, confused by the sudden shift in conversation.
‘Fight,’ repeated Larme, as the sailors murmured uncertainly. ‘This is where we settle disputes, but there’s good coin if the odds are right.’
Everybody in the crowd looked at each other, trying to work out which one of them would be foolish enough to fight this giant. Johannes Wyck could do it, suggested somebody, bringing muttered assent.
‘I don’t fight for fun,’ said Arent. Being fundamentally honest, he added. ‘Any more.’
Larme wiggled his knife, yanking it free of the block of wood. ‘They’re not fighting for fun; they’re fighting for money. We’re the ones having fun.’
‘I don’t do that either.’
‘Then you’re up the wrong end of the ship with no reason for being here.’
Arent stared at him helplessly. He had no idea what to say next. Sammy would have noticed something or remembered an important fact. He would have found the key for the human lock before him. Arent could only stand there and feel foolish.
‘If you won’t answer my questions, at least tell me how I can get the boatswain to answer them,’ he tried desperately.
Larme laughed again. It was a vicious, terrible thing.
‘A nice dinner and some soft words in his ear should do it,’ he said. ‘Now cark off, so we can finish this fight.’
Defeated, Arent turned his back and walked away, the jeers of the sailors following him.
17
Dusk arrived in ribbons of purple and pink, a few stars puncturing the sky. There was no land in sight. Only water.
Captain Crauwels ordered the sails furled and anchors dropped, bringing their first day of sailing to an end. The governor general had demanded to know why they couldn’t continue their journey at night, for he knew captains who made good time sailing by moonlight.
‘Is your skill not equal to theirs?’ he’d said, trying to needle Crauwels into rashness.
‘Skill’s no use when you can’t see the thing trying to sink you,’ he’d responded calmly, before adding, ‘If you tell me the names of the captains who sail by night, I’ll tell you the names of the ships they’ve sank and the cargo they’ve lost.’
That had put a swift end to the argument, and now Crauwels was listening to Isaack Larme ringing eight bells, summoning a new watch.
Crauwels loved this time of evening, when his duties to the crew had ended and his duties to the damned nobility had not yet begun. This was his. One hour, around dusk, to smell the air and feel the salt on his skin and find some joy in this life forced upon him.
Going to the railing, he watched the weary crew pass on orders, rub their charms and say their prayers, tapping whatever part of the hull they could reach for luck. Superstition, he thought. It’s the only thing keeping us afloat.
From his pocket, he removed the metal disc he’d given to Arent. Vos had returned it to him earlier, obviously annoyed that he was treating a gift from the governor general so carelessly. He rubbed its surface with his thumb and forefinger, then examined the sky, a troubled frown on his face.
For the past few hours, he’d felt that familiar itch on his skin telling him a storm was building beyond the horizon. The air was growing prickly, the sea subtly changing shade. Opening his mouth, he’d tasted the air. It was like licking a piece of iron dredged up from the seabed.
It would be here in a day, maybe less.
A cabin boy walked past him, carrying a flaming torch to the back of the ship, stretching on his tiptoes to light the huge lantern hanging there.
One by one, the other ships in the fleet followed suit until seven flames burnt in the endless dark, like fallen stars adrift on the ocean.
18
Dinner that night was a torment for Sara, who was much too full of worry to settle to small talk with the other passengers.
Guard Captain Drecht had stationed a musketeer outside the passenger cabins, easing her mind a little, but that had been her last success. Dorothea hadn’t been able to find a passenger who knew what Laxagarr meant, which left only Johannes Wyck to translate. Much as she wished to summon the boatswain to her cabin and interrogate him, she couldn’t risk her husband finding out. Calling for the carpenter had been risky enough, and she’d had a good excuse for doing that.
It was infuriating.
She was the highest-ranking noblewoman onboard, and yet she had less freedom than the lowliest cabin boy.
At least this interminable dinner was almost over, she thought.
The food had been eaten and the cutlery cleared, aside from a great silver candelabrum, its dripping candles casting every face in a sinister light. The leaves of the table had been dropped, making room for the diners to scatter around the great cabin and engage in trivial, mostly tedious, conversations.