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 his 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.