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.”