The Celestial Globe: The Kronos Chronicles: Book II Page 7

  “What’s he trying to learn Romany for, anyway?” someone asked.

  “He’s sucking up to us.”

  “He’s just trying to get by.”

  “He’s plotting something,” said Neel. “That’s what I’d do.”

  A father of five whose family had been rescued by the Pacolet remarked, “I don’t like the boy any more than most of you, but I still can’t believe we’re selling him. Our people don’t do that. When in the history of the Roma have we ever traded slaves?”

  Everyone looked at Treb. “New times”—he tossed a raisin in his mouth—“new measures.”

  “We could just keep him on board, Treb.” Brishen leaned forward. “He’s young and fit. He’d know the ropes soon enough. He doesn’t complain, and he seems like a helpful sort.”

  “All part of the act,” Neel said. “I’m Lovari. I’d know.”

  “Not everyone’s as underhanded as you,” said Nadia. “Just because you broke into the Bohemian prince’s toy chest and can never shut up about it doesn’t mean—”

  “Neel saved his clan with those stolen jewels.” Andras pointed a carrot at her.

  “Well, while we’re discussing people who don’t belong, why don’t we talk about him?” Nadia retorted. “Neel’s Lovari! He said so himself! Why is he suddenly one of us now?”

  “Nadia,” Brishen whispered, casting his eyes at the Loophole Beach families, “show some tact. Not everyone here is from our tribe.”

  She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean—all I meant is that Neel is counted as one of the Pacolet’s crew. He gets a vote in our decisions, just as if he were Maraki. But he isn’t.”

  “Neel’s here as a favor to me,” Treb said. “End of story. Now, as for the Bohemian lad, I want one thing as clear as a rain-washed sky. There will be no vote on his fate. I’m your captain, and what I say on this matter goes. Tomorrow we’ll arrive in Sallay. We’ll sell him in the market, and he’ll fetch a fine price, too. Then we’ll stock the Pacolet’s larders and sail on. If some of you have gotten fond of him, that’s not my problem. I warned you not to. That little lamb’s for eating.”

  TOMIK’S CELL was darker than dark. The brig was at the very bottom of the ship, in the hold. He wondered what was swimming on the other side of the hull’s wooden wall: sharks, whales, or just a school of tiny fish startled by the great ship sailing past them? He imagined the fish darting away, their scales flashing.

  On Tomik’s first day aboard the Pacolet, he threw up. Repeatedly. He felt like his stomach was trying to crawl up his throat, and his brain sloshed in his head. When Andras unlocked his cell door and led him up onto the deck, Tomik was stunned by the sunlight. The wind stole his seasickness and flew away. From that time forward, he spent every minute he could on deck, letting his skin soak up the salty air. He studied the ship, trying to understand how the sails worked. He listened to the crew, learning their language. He tried fishing, though that wasn’t a success.

  Tomik could almost fall in love with life aboard a ship. In different circumstances. Very different circumstances.

  On hands and knees, he felt his way across his cell. In one corner there was a bowl of food. In another, a chamber pot. During his first night of captivity, Tomik had confused the two, which wasn’t very pleasant. But tonight he didn’t crawl in the direction of either corner.

  His fingers brushed against a small pile of sand. Sitting up straight, he emptied his pockets and felt more grains sifting down onto the pile. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. Andras had said they would reach Sallay tomorrow.

  Tomik pressed the sand under his hands. He wasn’t sure if this would work. He had no fire. But, then again, he did have the heat of his will.

  THE MORNING BEGAN with an argument. Two sailors were yelling at another one. Finally, Treb stepped in, pushing the three apart.

  “They’re fighting over you,” said a voice at Tomik’s side. It was the boy from the beach, the one who spoke Czech so well. “Klara and Brishen just refused to be part of the group taking you to the slave market. Seems to offend their delicate natures.”

  Tomik shrugged. “People don’t like slaughtering livestock, but they’ll eat the meat.”

  “You ain’t the first to make a comparison like that, little lamb.”

  “Stop using nicknames. It’s just something you do so you can forget I’m a human being.”

  “Why no, Pinky. I call things as I see them. Anyway, you never did tell me your name.”

  “Like you care,” Tomik scoffed. He walked to the railing of the ship and looked out. He was transfixed by what he saw.

  The boy went to stand next to him. “Oh. Sallay.”

  The sea was bursting against the rocks around the harbor. The port bristled with ships, and their masts thrust into the sky like a forest of tall trees. “There are so many boats,” Tomik murmured.

  “Plenty of rigs,” the Gypsy agreed. “You got every kind of ship in that port: carracks, caravels, galleons, pinks, junks, snows, lateens—”

  “Are all the sailors on those ships like you?”

  “What d’you mean? You mean, are they all Roma? Nah. But most of us who dock in Sallay are trying to see where we can pick up extra gold on the waves.”

  “Pirates.”

  “Not many sailors like that word, and those who own up to it . . . well, you don’t want to meet them. The ones who stop lying to themselves are the real danger.” The boy worriedly rubbed his forehead. “Look, I’m not jumping for joy at the thought of selling you. It’s not the way I think things should be. But Treb’s our captain, and it’s his call. Doesn’t mean he lacks a heart, though. Him and me have got business to attend to in the city, but before we do that we’ll make sure to find you a good home. We won’t set you up on the auction block. We’ll ask around, see where the slaves are happy. I’ll sort it out with Treb. He owes me.”

  Tomik made no reply.

  “And I’m sorry,” the Gypsy muttered. “For whatever it’s worth.”

  “Not much,” said Tomik.

  THE GADJE WAS QUIET as the small group of Maraki walked along the dock. His hands were bound behind his back with a cord of stout rope. Treb had tied the knots himself, since Andras had given him a dark look when asked. The sailors made their way into the market, which sprang up just beyond the docks that brought so much trade.

  If you could name it, you could buy it here: camels, indigo, American corn, eastern jade, weaponry, spices—and people.

  Neel had been to North Africa before, but never to a city that hummed with so much life, with scents that he wanted to bury his face in, and wares that were so tempting. He was just thinking about stealing some fruit when Tas shouted, “He’s gone! The gadje disappeared!”

  The sailors halted.

  “What do you mean, he disappeared?” Treb bellowed. The Maraki scanned their surroundings. The Bohemian had vanished. “You were supposed to be watching him, not the Persian silver and the Moroccan ladies, you lackwits!”

  “But he was tied up!”

  “Nope.” Neel bent to pick up the frayed rope. “He sawed through it.”

  “With what?” Treb raged. “His fingernails? One of you slipped him a knife, you sad, worthless, pathetic lot of guppies!”

  Neel examined the rope. There was blood on it. Ignoring the Maraki as they traded blame, he scanned the ground and saw a drop of red in the dust a few feet to the left.

  He squeezed past people, searching for blond hair amid the bobbing river of dark heads. He was beginning to worry that he had followed the wrong trail when, several stalls ahead, someone knocked over a cage of birds. Amid the squawking, Neel heard the stall owner cry in Arabic, “Get back here, you white devil!”

  Neel sped up, sprinting past Turkish rugs piled several feet deep. Finally, he spotted it: the yellow head of the gadje, dashing behind a donkey.

  Neel could run quickly, but he had an even more valuable talent. The tips of his fingers itched. As he shouldered past the donkey, Neel felt h
is fingers begin to grow. To anybody’s eyes, even his, Neel’s hands seemed to be the same length as always, but they stretched invisibly beyond his bitten nails. Neel’s ghost fingers unfurled, reached forward, snagged the back of the gadje’s shirt, and hauled him close.

  The boy wheeled around and punched him in the face.

  Neel staggered back. His head reeled in pain, but his ghost fingers didn’t let go. Feeling the Bohemian twist against a grasp far stronger than Neel could ever have with mere flesh and bone, he blinked and tried to focus. “You rotten little—!” The words died in his throat as his vision cleared.

  The gadje was holding a knife. It was as clear as ice.

  “I don’t want to—I want—” the Bohemian stammered. “I just want to get out of here!” He slashed the knife down on Neel’s arm.

  Blood spurted. Shocked, Neel let go but then toppled into the gadje, knocking him to the dirt. The two boys struggled against each other, shoving and kicking. Dazed, Neel was wondering which way was up and where, exactly, the knife had gone, when several hands pulled him away.

  The Maraki surrounded them. Andras grasped the gadje, who was smeared with Neel’s blood. Treb supported Neel.

  “He took a bite out of you,” Treb muttered to Neel in Romany. He pulled aside the torn flap of Neel’s sleeve, exposing the long, throbbing knife cut. “You all right?”

  Neel tried to stand up straight. He turned away from Treb to glance at the gadje, whose shirt had also been ripped open. The blond head hung down. Suddenly, it jerked up, and gave Neel a glare that was equal parts hate and misery.

  A look like that might have struck Neel to the heart, but he was distracted by something else: a small metallic object was swinging from the Bohemian’s neck.

  It was a miniature horseshoe.

  Neel’s ghost fingers seized the gadje’s throat. “Where did you get that?”

  10

  The Owl of Sallay

  BELONG—MY FRIEND—” the gadje choked. “Petra.”

  “How did you get that necklace?” Neel demanded. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know—”

  “Neel! Let him go!” Andras ordered.

  “Who are you?” Neel shook the boy.

  “Tomik,” he gasped.

  Neel’s ghost fingers snapped open.

  “My name is Tomas Stakan.” The Bohemian rubbed his throat. “Tomik, for short.”

  Tomik. Neel knew that name. Petra had always said it with a homesick sound in her voice. Tomik had made the magical glass spheres that saved Neel and Petra as they escaped from the prince’s castle. With a hand pressed on his bleeding arm, Neel scuffed the market dust with his sandal, and his toes knocked against something hard. He crouched down and brushed away the bloody dirt. The knife was gleaming and clear, its hilt rounded and smooth, its blade small but wicked. A knife made out of glass? Neel glanced at Tomik, and felt a grudging respect.

  “We can’t sell him, Treb,” said Neel.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because he already belongs to a friend of mine.”

  ANDRAS CINCHED A STRIP of cloth around Neel’s arm.

  “You sure are a sorry sight, little cousin,” Treb said. “The right side of your face is as raw as fresh meat, and whether you like scars or not, that cut on your arm’ll be a keeper. It hurts to look at you.”

  “No one asked you to.” Neel leaned back against a leather pillow.

  “Here.” Treb handed him an earthenware cup of coffee.

  Neel sipped, looking across the tent at Tomik, encircled by the Maraki. The gadje was silent after his long story. He looked down, tracing a thin cut on his wrist. It must not have been easy to cut the rope that had bound his hands.

  “Are you still up for seeing Vulo about the globe?” Treb asked Neel.

  “Ready as ever.”

  “Good lad!” Treb beamed. “You know how important this is.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Not just to me, but to all the Roma.”

  “Treb, I know.”

  “Of course you do. But before we visit Vulo, there’s still the question of what to do with the Bohemian—Tomik, you call him? I couldn’t be prouder of you, Neel. You caught him while the rest of us were trying to see through sun and dust. Now, I know you said you wanted to keep him aboard the Pacolet, but that’s a poor reward for your efforts. If we were to sell him, you’d get some of the profit—”

  Neel set down the cup. “Petra’d never forgive me.”

  “Sure she would, if she likes you better than him. She wouldn’t say a word against you.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Well, if you want to choose a couple of Bohemians over the welfare of your own people—”

  “Treb, quit it with the Roma guilt trip already, will you? The Pacolet was doing just fine, money-wise, before we ever picked up Tomik. We don’t need an extra purse of gold. Anyway, this isn’t about choosing between people.”

  The captain folded his arms across his chest. “What’s it about, then?”

  “A plain and simple deal.”

  Treb raised his brows.

  “You invited me to come aboard the Pacolet,” Neel said. “You asked me to help find the globe. I wanted to do it, and asked nothing in return. Sailing with the Maraki, the risk, the thrill—that’s my kind of thing. I didn’t even mind the thought of laying my healthy brain on the line. But now that’s got a price. I help you, and we keep Tomik on board with us. And we go back to Bohemia to look for Petra.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Nothing wrong with seeking payment for an honest day’s work.”

  “Neel, I hate to wake you when you’re dreaming, but what’s family for if not to tell you when you’re being stupid? Face reality, little cousin: if what Tomik says about your friend Petra is true, then that means one thing: whether by fire or beast or the Bohemian prince’s executioner, she’s dead. If you think otherwise, you’re living in a fantasy.”

  Neel’s yellow-green eyes narrowed. “It’s my fantasy, then. You give me Tomik and Petra, and I’ll do whatever it takes to steal the Celestial Globe. That’s the deal.”

  Treb stood, looking down at his cousin with disgust. “You can keep the blond lad, but the Pacolet’s going nowhere near Bohemia. We’re not chasing after a ghost. And that’s my final say on the matter.”

  THE MARAKI walked down the streets of Sallay, past orange walls of baked earth that rose on either side. Cube-shaped buildings were stacked one on top of the other. Along the roofs, the monkeys chased the cats and the cats chased the monkeys. People of all colors and countries strode the streets, bartering, begging, thieving, and selling.

  “Is there anything to this city except the market?” Tomik asked Neel. The Bohemian’s freed hands were stuffed in his pockets.

  “Nope.” Neel snatched a date as he brushed past a fruit stall. “That’s what I love about it. There’s always something going on. And behind every one of those haggled deals is a story. Say you’ve got a nice rig. You spy a heavy Spanish boat and board her, find yourself a load of gold ripped from the Americas, and sail off with it into deeper waters. You gotta unload the gold somewhere, right? But are you going to do it in Europe, where someone’ll look at you twice, thrice, and before it’s four times you’re in jail waiting for the hangman? Not likely. In Sallay, gold’s just gold, not something that once belonged to the Spanish who stole it from the New World.”

  “So the New World really exists, then? America’s not just a myth?”

  “Oh, it’s there all right. Haven’t seen those lands with my own eyes. But just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it ain’t there.”

  Tomik glanced at him. “You’ve got some kind of magic, don’t you? You were choking me. I couldn’t feel any hands on my neck, but I could barely breathe. And when we were fighting, I couldn’t break away.”

  “How much did Petra tell you about me?”

  “I know you’re an expert thief,” Tomik said with disd
ain, “and that you’re great at picking locks. You helped Petra break into the Cabinet of Wonders so you could raid it for gold and jewels. Other than that, Petra hasn’t said much about you.”

  “Well, all I know about you is that you weren’t there with her in Prague.”

  Tomik pressed his lips together.

  “And that you’ve got a gift for glass,” Neel added reluctantly, “that kind of saved our hides in Salamander Castle.”

  Tomik flicked a hand, as if tossing Neel’s words away. “And you—do you possess some kind of mind control? Is that why I couldn’t continue punching your face in? Because, in a fair fight—”

  “Says the gadje with the knife to the unarmed man! If I could order minds around I’d lie to mine and forget I ever had any interest in saving your snobby self from a lifetime of cleaning Moroccan privies!”

  “Sorry,” Tomik muttered.

  Neel rolled his eyes. “Sure you are. The only thing you’re sorry about is that I got invisible hands that can knock you flat. Well, your fate’s a sad one, but you’d better learn to live with it. Yeah, I got a gift, one only those with Roma blood inherit. It’s called Danior’s Fingers. I can steal a purse with no one feeling a thing. And you couldn’t do my ghost hands any harm, so don’t even think about it. Even if you’d slashed the air with that shiny knife of yours, you wouldn’t have been able to chop off one invisible pinkie. And the more I concentrate, the farther my ghost hands stretch. I work at it. Gets easier as I get older.”

  “I’m an adult,” Tomik said. “Are you of age?”

  “More or less. Listen, fall back with me a bit. Let the Maraki walk ahead of us.”

  Curious, Tomik slowed his pace. The gap between them and the backs of Treb and the others widened. Goats milled around the boys’ legs, braying and baaing.

  Neel’s voice dropped. “Their Czech’s not great, but Treb speaks it decently. I don’t want them to listen in on this.”

  “‘This’ what?”

  “This secret. A plan.”

  “I’m not sure why you picked me to be your confidant, but if you’re so concerned about privacy, should we really talk around him?” Tomik nodded at the shabbily cloaked goatherd who walked close by.