People rattled their coin purses at the ferries rowing back and forth, pushing forward when the name of their ship was called. Children played hide and seek among the boxes, or else clutched their mothers’ skirts, while fathers glared at the sky, trying to shame a cloud out of that fierce blue expanse.
The wealthier passengers stood a little apart, surrounded by their servants and expensive trunks. Grumbling under their umbrellas, they fanned themselves futilely, sweating into their lace ruffs.
The procession halted and the gates began to close behind them, dimming the sound of the braying mob.
A few final stones bounced off the crates, bringing the assault to an end.
Letting out a long sigh, Arent bent double, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead into the dust.
‘How badly are you hurt?’ asked Sammy, inspecting a cut on Arent’s cheek.
‘I’m fair hungover,’ grunted Arent. ‘Otherwise, I’m not too bad.’
‘Did the watch seize my alchemy kit?’
There was genuine fear in his voice. Among his many talents, Sammy was a skilled alchemist, his kit filled with the tinctures, powders and potions he’d developed to assist his deductive work. It had taken years to create many of them, using ingredients they were a long way from being able to replace.
‘No, I stole them out of your bedchamber before they searched the house,’ replied Arent.
‘Good,’ approved Sammy. ‘There’s a salve in a small jar. The green one. Apply that to your injuries every morning and night.’
Arent wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Is that the piss-smelling one?’
‘They all smell like piss. It’s not a good salve if it doesn’t smell like piss.’
A musketeer approached from the direction of the wharf, calling Sammy’s name. He wore a battered hat with a red feather, the floppy brim pulled low over his eyes. A tangle of dirty blond hair spilled down his shoulders, a beard obscuring most of his face.
Arent examined him approvingly.
Most musketeers in Batavia were part of the household guard. They gleamed and saluted and were good at sleeping with their eyes open, but this man’s ragged uniform suggested he’d done some actual soldiering. Old blood stained his blue doublet, which was dotted with holes made by shot and sword, each one patched time and again. Knee-length red breeches gave way to a pair of tanned, hairy legs riddled with mosquito bites and scars. Copper flasks filled with gunpowder jangled on a bandolier, clattering into pouches of saltpetre matches.
Upon reaching Arent, the musketeer stamped his foot smartly.
‘Lieutenant Hayes, I’m Guard Captain Jacobi Drecht,’ he said, waving a fly from his face. ‘I’m in charge of the governor general’s household guard. I’ll be sailing with you to ensure the family’s safety.’ Drecht addressed himself to the musketeers escorting them. ‘On the boat now, lads. Governor General wants Mr Pipps secured aboard the Saardam before the –’
‘Hear me!’ commanded a jagged voice from above them.
Squinting into the glare of sunlight, they craned their necks, following the voice upwards.
A figure in grey rags was standing on a pile of crates. Bloody bandages wrapped his hands and face, a narrow gap left for his eyes.
‘A leper,’ muttered Drecht, in disgust.
Arent took an instinctive step backwards. From boyhood, he’d been taught to fear these wasted people, whose mere presence was enough to bring ruin to an entire village. A single cough, even the lightest touch, meant a lingering, dreadful death.
‘Kill that creature and burn it,’ ordered the governor general from the front of the procession. ‘Lepers are not permitted in the city.’
A commotion erupted as the musketeers peered at each other. The figure was too high up for pikes, their muskets had already been loaded on to the Saardam and none of them had a bow.
Seemingly oblivious to the panic, the leper’s eyes pricked every single person gathered before him.
‘Know that my master’ – his roaming gaze snagged on Arent, causing the mercenary’s heart to jolt – ‘sails aboard the Saardam. He is the lord of hidden things; all desperate and dark things. He offers this warning in accordance with the old laws. The Saardam’s cargo is sin and all who board her will be brought to merciless ruin. She will not reach Amsterdam.’
As the last word was uttered, the hem of his robe burst into flames.
Children wailed. The watching crowd gasped and screamed in horror.
The leper didn’t make a sound. The fire crawled up his body until he was completely aflame.
He didn’t move.
He burnt silently, his eyes fixed on Arent.
2
As if suddenly aware of the flames consuming him, the leper began beating at his robes.
He staggered backwards, falling off the crates, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Snatching up a cask of ale, Arent covered the distance in a few strides, tearing the lid free with his bare hands and dousing the fire.
The rags sizzled, the smell of charcoal singeing his nostrils.
Writhing in agony, the leper clawed at the dirt. His forearms were terribly burnt, his face charred. Only his eyes were still human – the pupils wild, thrashing against the surrounding blue, driven mad with pain.
A scream wedged his mouth open, but no sound passed his throat.
‘That’s impossible,’ muttered Arent.
He glanced at Sammy, who was straining against his chains, trying to see better. ‘His tongue’s been cut out,’ Arent hollered, struggling to be heard over the din of the crowd.
‘Stand aside, I’m a healer,’ came an imperious voice.
A noblewoman pushed past Arent, removing a lace cap and shoving it into his hands, revealing the jewelled pins glittering among her tight red curls.
No sooner was the cap in Arent’s possession than it was snatched away again by a fussing maid, who was trying to keep a parasol over her mistress’s head, while urging her to return to the palanquin.
Arent glanced back towards it.
In her haste, the noblewoman had yanked the curtain off its hook and spilled two large silk pillows on to the ground. Inside, a young girl with an oval face was watching them through the torn material. She was black-haired and dark-eyed, a mirror of the governor general, who sat stiff on his horse, examining his wife disapprovingly.
‘Mama?’ called out the girl.
‘A moment, Lia,’ replied the noblewoman, who was kneeling beside the leper, oblivious to her brown gown piled up in fish guts. ‘I’m going to try to help you,’ she told him kindly. ‘Dorothea?’
‘My lady,’ responded the maid.
‘My vial, if you please.’
The maid fumbled up her sleeve and removed a small vial, which she uncorked and handed to the noblewoman.
‘This will ease your pain,’ the lady said to the suffering man, upending it above his parted lips.
‘Those are lepers’ rags,’ warned Arent, as her puffed sleeves drifted perilously close to her patient.
‘I’m aware,’ she said curtly, watching a thick drop of liquid gathering on the rim of the vial. ‘You’re Lieutenant Hayes, are you not?’
‘Arent will do.’
‘Arent.’ She rolled the name around her mouth, as if it possessed an odd flavour. ‘I’m Sara Wessel.’ She paused. ‘Sara will do,’ she added, mimicking his gruff response.