Tomik was so focused on learning a quick lesson in Romany, and Neel so intent on giving it, that neither of them saw that the goats had disappeared. Nor did they notice that the herder still walked behind the boys, trailing his tattered cloak.
TREB RAPPED ONCE on the door.
“Who’s there?” called a low voice in Arabic.
“Who do you think?” Treb replied in Romany. “Treb of the Maraki, captain of the Pacolet, with his sailors.”
The door opened, and there stood a short, round man with enormous dark eyes, leathery skin, and black hair that stood up in tufts.
“Hello, Vulo,” said Treb.
“Welcome,” the man replied in their language, and waved the captain inside. He watched as the Maraki filed in behind Treb. Vulo nodded at Neel, identifying him as the boy who would scry, the one who had become the subject of many Romany stories.
Vulo’s thick eyebrows lifted when he saw Tomik. “A gadje? How surprising.”
“You’re too right about that,” said Treb.
“Are you sure that you wish to have the boy—Indraneel, correct?—scry in front of an outsider?”
“Not to worry,” Treb said. “That white lad’s no master of Romany. All he knows in our tongue is ‘wagon,’ ‘I drink tar,’ and ‘Fish guts are yummy.’ Anything we say’ll be just a wee bit over his head. He stays.”
“As you see fit,” Vulo replied doubtfully.
At their host’s request, the Roma sat on the floor. Neel tugged at Tomik’s elbow, gesturing for him to follow the others’ lead.
Treb glanced around him at the hard-packed earth covered by a brightly woven rug, round windows like those found in a Roma wagon, and white-painted walls. “It’s a fine house,” he said as Vulo served them coffee. “But don’t you miss the roaming life, Vulo? Don’t you feel . . . boxed up? You’re a Roma.”
“They call me the Owl of Sallay.” Vulo blinked his large eyes. “And every owl needs a nest.”
When each of the guests had placed his tiny cup on the ceramic tray Vulo offered, the short, round man turned to Neel. “Are you ready, Indraneel?”
“Neel,” said the boy.
“It’s best to use proper names for any occasion when the mind is opened, and when one’s very identity is at stake. Don’t you know that?”
“I guess,” Neel muttered.
“You all appreciate the dangers of scrying,” Vulo addressed his guests, “and I presume you care about Indraneel. Remember that the longer I maintain mental contact with him, the greater the risk to his mind. Keep your questions short and simple. Scrying is unpredictable at best. Indraneel might say that an ostrich has stolen the globe and sits on it like an egg. If you don’t understand whatever answer he gives, I don’t care. Keep your peace. Now, inform the outsider.” Vulo pointed at Tomik.
Neel translated. When he finished, he gave Tomik a meaningful look.
The Bohemian nodded.
Vulo drew Neel into the center of the rug. The Maraki and Tomik ringed themselves around the pair, sitting cross-legged.
The Owl of Sallay placed a mirror on the ground, uncorked a tiny jug, and poured olive oil on the flat, silver oval. He and Neel knelt on either side of the mirror. Vulo smeared the oil until the entire mirror gleamed greasily, and then reached to grasp Neel’s face.
Neel pulled away, and looked at Treb. Nervousness flickered in the boy’s eyes.
“You’ll be all right, coz,” said Treb. “Vulo’s an expert scryer. That’s why we came to him.”
“Treb’s correct,” the Owl said soothingly. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Who said I was?” Neel shot back.
Vulo placed his oily hands on either side of Neel’s face. “Just look at me, and relax.” Vulo ran his thumbs across the boy’s cheekbones. Neel stared back. He blinked once. A minute passed. He blinked again. Two minutes passed. Finally, Neel’s yellowy eyes were wide, and as flat as coins. His face was empty of any expression.
“Look in the mirror, Indraneel of the Lovari.”
Neel did.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing.” Neel’s voice was hollow.
“Are you sure? What do you see?”
“My face.”
“Good.”
“A blue wall. A golden bird.”
Vulo pursed his lips. Without tearing his eyes from Neel’s, he said, “Treb, I worry that the boy is seeing random images, which is dangerous to his sanity. I want to wake him quickly. Ask your question.”
Suddenly anxious himself, Treb stammered, “Where . . . Indraneel, where is the Celestial Globe?”
Neel didn’t reply.
There was a rustle from an unexpected corner as Tomik leaned forward and asked in Romany, “Where is Petra Kronos?”
“Shut that gadje up!” Treb yelled.
Tas clamped a hand over Tomik’s mouth, staring at the Bohemian in shock.
“London,” Neel intoned. Then he said an English word: “Cotton.”
“What do you mean, ‘cotton,’ and why are you speaking in English?” Treb leaped to his feet. “Where’s the globe, Neel? Is it in London?”
“London. Cotton.”
“The globe or your blasted friend?” Treb pressed.
“Enough.” Vulo released Neel. The boy slumped forward, his jaw hitting the mirror with a crack.
“There now.” Vulo lifted him up. Neel’s head lolled.
“Is he all right?” Andras asked worriedly.
Vulo frowned at Treb. “I told you not to push him.”
Treb’s face tightened with shame. “I know. I didn’t mean to. It’s his fault!” He hauled Tomik to his feet and shook him. “Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?” he snarled, not caring that he was shouting in Romany, and that the boy looked confused. “If you’ve hurt Neel I’ll—”
“I’m fine,” Neel mumbled. “Just woozy, is all.”
Treb dropped Tomik.
“Looks like I got another bruise.” Neel rubbed his chin. “Why’s everyone so determined to uglify my good-looking face?”
Outside Vulo’s house, just below a rounded window, the goatherd listened to the relieved laughter of the Roma. He slipped away from the wall. As he walked away from the Owl of Sallay’s house, he stepped ever more quickly.