“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.

Neel snorted. “The chances that fellow speaks Czech are slimmer than a starved snake. We’re in Sallay. He’s a goatherd. Your country is the size of a bug on the map of Europe. Think a little.” Neel tapped his head. “I’m just worried about them.” He nodded at the sailors’ retreating backs.

Tomik shrugged. “It’s your secret.”

“Look, it ain’t necessary for us to like each other.”

“Good.”

“But you’re Petra’s friend.”

“Since the day she was born.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

The expression on Tomik’s face was that of somebody facing a question he had done everything in his power not to consider. He remembered how the light of the Glowstone had vanished on the beach. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“But if you knew she was alive,” Neel pressed, “what would you do to find her?”

“Anything.”

“Would you help me track her down?”

“Help you?”

“No need to sound all cowardly,” Neel said with scorn. “The risk’d be nothing to you.”

“Is your Czech so bad that you have problems with the translation of ‘anything’? If the fact that I’m stuck in Morocco with a band of Sea-Gypsies and a herd of stinking goats”—he pushed away one that was chewing on his shirt—“isn’t proof enough that I’d do whatever it takes to make sure Petra’s safe, I don’t know what else would convince you. I’m just . . . confused. I mean, what do you care? You and Petra were partners in high-risk crime, but you helped her because there was something in it for you. Petra’s said that you’re a friend. But what was she to you but a golden opportunity?”

“She sure was. Maybe not the way you think, though.”

Tomik’s eyes measured Neel. “All right. What can I do to help find her?”

“Have you ever heard of the Mercator Globes?”

Behind them, the hooded head of the goatherd raised a little. Neither boy noticed.

“No,” Tomik said, bewildered. “What does that have to do with—”

“The Loopholes. Remember the Loopholes? How I said they were all over the world? Gerard Mercator was Flemish: a gadje, but a real savvy one. When he discovered that there were ways to leap from a river to a mountain, from one country to the next, he decided that the knowledge of where all the Loopholes are, where they lead, and how to wiggle through them would be more valuable than any price he could name. He spent his life traveling until he was rimed with sea salt and his skin was as brown as a walnut. And he must’ve had a magic way to him, for he crafted two round maps with the power to guide anyone through hundreds of Loopholes: the Terrestrial Globe and the Celestial Globe. From what we know about Mercator, he was a jealous, grasping sort of fellow, and he didn’t want anyone to navigate the Loopholes unless they went to him first. Course, there were plenty of folk who would have been pleased to swipe that power out from under his nose, but Mercator was a step ahead of them. You know how it’s a bad idea to keep all your gold in one place? Well, that’s why Mercator made two globes, and why you’ve got to have both to make them work properly. The globes aren’t small, and it’s harder to steal two hefty things than one, so at least Mercator knew that even if someone managed to steal just a single globe from him, that thief would still have no luck with the Loopholes.”

“And I care about this because . . . ?”

“Because the globes are why we’re in Sallay. Mercator had a taste for traveling, but being a wanderer is a Roma’s life. The Roma found that beach to Bohemia centuries ago, and other Loopholes like it, without the help of any gadje globe. We found them because we were destined to, because we know the world like no other people. The way we figure it, the Mercator Globes belong to us. And, since the Roma are a right tricky sort, we just so happen to already have our hands on one of them.”

Unseen by the boys, the goatherd inched closer.

“And what does Gerard Mercator say to that?” Tomik asked.

“Nothing. He’s dead. What?” Neel said, catching Tomik’s look of accusation. “He died in his fluffy old featherbed, all right? The Roma don’t stoop that low. But we want that second globe. There was a meeting of the leaders of the four tribes—the Lovari, Ursari, Maraki, and Kalderash. The Pacolet was given the job to find the Celestial Globe. You see, the Terrestial Globe shows where the Loopholes are, but we can’t figure out which is connected to which. We know for sure that a Loophole’s a two-way street: each one goes to another location, just like the one on the Portuguese beach connects to that Bohemian forest you were mucking about in. Well, you can guess that it’s kind of important to know where you’re headed before you leap through a Loophole. Over the years, a few brave Roma have studied the Terrestial Globe, and tried out the Loopholes marked on it, to see where they led. But most of the explorers never returned. Probably stepped from a nice, safe place into a volcano and oozed into fiery goo, or something. And it wasn’t even easy for those Roma to enter the Loopholes in the first place, because of the way they’re mapped on the Terrestrial Globe. That globe is speckled with Loopholes, and a speck seems pretty small, but it’s the same size as a dot that marks a whole city. To go through a Loophole, you’ve got to enter its exact location. You can’t just be in the right city. You’ve got to stand on the right cobblestone in a specific street. You can’t just be in the right forest. You’ve got to step on the right blade of grass.

“With the Terrestrial Globe, we know more or less where the Loopholes are. But more or less ain’t good enough. Now, the Celestial Globe’s a big mystery, and we don’t know what it does. We’re hoping that, with both globes combined, we’ll be able to figure out not just the rough idea of where a Loophole is, but how to find its exact entrance, and where you’re going to end up after you enter it.

“The Pacolet has been searching for the Celestial Globe, and our sources pointed to North Africa. Imagine what it would mean for the Roma to slip through Loopholes to wherever we like. We would get rich with good trade. We wouldn’t face problems like what we’ve got with your prince.”

“You would be able to wage war,” Tomik observed warily.

“Huh? Oh, right. I guess I see why you’re saying that. The Mercator Globes would go a long way to surprising an enemy. Wouldn’t be too bad a plan to turn up on someone’s doorstep with a load of troops. But war’s always about land, one way or another, and the Roma’s a nation with no real country. We make our home wherever we please. So why would we bicker and kill over territory? In the history of the Roma, we’ve never fought a battle. If we had, you’d know it.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with—”

“I’ve explained why the Maraki are in Sallay, but not why I’m here. We know that the Celestial Globe’s in these parts, but North Africa’s a big place, so . . . we’re going to see a scryer. That’s my part in all this. I’ll help scry to find the exact location of the Celestial Globe. When that’s done I’ll do my best to steal the globe out of whatever hiding place it’s in. After my expert thieving in Salamander Castle”—Neel straightened his shoulders—“I got a reputation to uphold.”

“A reputation for being an idiot! You’re going to scry? Willingly? That’s like diving off a cliff when you’ve no clue how deep the water is!”

“Pfft.” Neel waved his hand. “It ain’t that bad.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Well . . . no. But Treb needs someone young enough, and someone he can trust. Who better than his own cousin, who also has a fierce talent for busting into locked and guarded places?”

“But a scryer needs a child to be a medium. You’ve got some growing up to do—”

Neel made a noise of protest.

“—but you’re not exactly a child,” Tomik continued. “Look, it’s none of my business. It’s yours, and your mind. If you want to lose it staring into a mirror and speaking a bunch of nonsense that no one’ll probably be able to understand anyway, go ahead.”

“Ain’t you the cautious type. There’s no fun in you. And you’re forgetting the very thing we’ve been talking about this whole time: Petra.”

“We have not been talking about Petra! We’ve been talking about globes and Gypsies and some dead man named Mercator! If you cared about Petra, you’d scry to find out about her.”

Neel heaved an aggravated sigh. “That’s my point.”

“It is?” Tomik gaped. “So you . . . you’re going to ask the scryer where Petra is?”

“No, you are. I’m going to be tranced out and speaking lots of gobbledygook, like you said. The Maraki will let you in the room. They’ll want to keep an eye on you, and they’ll think you don’t know enough Romany to understand what’s going on. And you don’t. It’s one thing for you to play a kids’ riddling game. It’s another for you to figure out a scrying—which, from all I’ve heard, is hard enough to follow when it happens in your own tongue.

“But I’ll teach you a few key Romany words. When Treb’s done questioning me about the Celestial Globe, you jump right on in. You don’t have to worry about understanding whatever I say in response, ’cause I’ll remember that when I snap out of the scrying. That’s how these things work, right? The kids who scry always remember what they see in the mirror.”

“That’s the problem. Sometimes they never remember anything else.”

“You want to know what’s happened to Petra? You’d better start studying how to ask.”

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?”