Sara shifted her weight uncomfortably, staring at the harbour. Dolphins were playing in the water, leaping and twisting in the air, disappearing back beneath the surface with barely a ripple.
‘Please, my lady. You must convince your husband to delay the fleet’s departure while Arent investigates this matter.’
Arent started at that. The last time he’d investigated a case had been three years ago. Nowadays, he kept out of that side of things. His job was to keep Sammy safe and trample underfoot whatever bastard he pointed his finger at.
‘Questions are swords and answers are shields,’ persisted Sammy, still staring at Sara. ‘I’m begging you: armour yourself. Once the
3
Under Batavia’s burning sky, Sara Wessel walked the length of the procession, feeling the scouring eyes of the courtiers, soldiers and sycophants upon her. She went like a condemned woman: shoulders square, eyes down and fists clenched by her sides. Shame reddened her face, though most mistook it for heat.
For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Arent. He wasn’t hard to spot, standing a clear head and shoulders taller than the next man. Sammy had put him to work inspecting the body, and he was currently picking through the leper’s robes with a long stick that had previously been used to carry baskets.
Feeling Sara’s gaze upon him, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. Embarrassed, she snapped her head forward again.
Her husband’s damnable horse snorted, kicking the ground angrily as she approached. She’d never got along with this beast. Unlike her, it enjoyed being underneath him.
The thought drew a wicked smile, which she was still wrestling from her face as she came upon him. His back was to her, his head bowed in hushed conversation with Cornelius Vos.
Vos was her husband’s chamberlain, foremost among his advisors and one of the most powerful men in the city. Not that it was obvious by looking at him, for he managed to carry his power without charisma or vigour. Neither tall nor short, broad nor thin, his mud-coloured hair topped a weathered face devoid of any distinguishing features, beyond two luminous green eyes that always stared over the shoulder of whoever he was speaking to.
His clothes were shabby without being ragged, and there hung about him an air of such potent hopelessness one would expect flowers to wilt as he walked by.
‘Is my personal cargo boarded?’ asked her husband, ignoring Sara.
‘The chief merchant has seen to it, my lord.’
They didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Her husband couldn’t stand being interrupted and Vos had served him long enough to know that.
‘And matters have been arranged to ensure its secrecy?’ asked her husband.
‘Guard Captain Drecht attended to it personally.’ Vos’s fingers danced at his sides, betraying some internal calculation. ‘Which bring us to our second piece of important cargo, my lord. May I ask where you wish to store The Folly during our voyage?’
‘My quarters seem appropriate,’ declared her husband.
‘Unfortunately, The Folly’s too large, sir,’ said Vos, wringing his hands. ‘Might I suggest the cargo hold?’
‘I’ll not have the future of the Company packed away like an unwanted piece of furniture.’
‘Few know what The Folly is, sir,’ continued Vos, momentarily distracted by the splashing oars of an approaching ferry. ‘Even fewer know we’re bringing it aboard the
‘A clever thought, but the cargo hold remains too exposed,’ said her husband.
They fell silent, puzzling the matter over.
Sunshine beat at Sara’s back, thick beads of sweat gathering on her brow and rolling down her face, clogging the white powder Dorothea applied so liberally to conceal her freckles. She yearned to adjust her clothes, to remove the ruff around her neck and tug the damp material away from her flesh, but her husband hated fidgeting as much as being interrupted.
‘What about the gunpowder store, sir?’ said Vos. ‘It’s locked and guarded, but nobody would expect something as valuable as The Folly to be housed in there.’
‘Superb. Make the arrangements.’
As Vos walked towards the procession, the governor general finally turned to face his wife.
He was twenty years older than Sara, with a teardrop head, which was bald except for a tonsure of dark hair connecting his large ears. Most people wore hats to shield them from Batavia’s harsh sunlight, but her husband believed they made him look foolish. As a result, his scalp glowed an angry crimson, the skin peeling and collecting in the folds of his ruff.