Tomik had little to do. He stood next to the railing, sweat trickling down his back. He was hot and bored. He had offered to fish with the Maraki who weren’t working the sails, but they had waved him away, telling him to take a nap in the shipmates’ cabin. Tomik left them, but he didn’t go below deck. That’s where Neel was. Tomik looked at the empty blue sea and wondered what to do.

He didn’t want to think about his family and Petra. He knew the Stakans would worry and grieve. But he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t in danger—none that he knew of, at least. Still, Tomik would imagine his family in tears, and Attie howling at the door, and a wave of guilt would overcome him.

So he avoided remembering the Sign of Fire. He also tried not to think about Petra, because just as Treb worried that the Pacolet was sailing toward her and not the globe, Tomik feared that the opposite was true.

Tomik pulled the horseshoe necklace from underneath his shirt and studied it. Neel seemed to have forgotten about it. This surprised Tomik, because it was obvious that the trinket meant something to him. Tomik didn’t guess that this was exactly why the other boy acted as if it didn’t exist.

He flipped the horseshoe over. In tiny letters, and in a formal tone that was unusual for Neel, the horseshoe said, This is Petali Kronos. Be kind to her, for she is bound by blood to Indraneel of the Lovari.

Tomik didn’t understand all of this, but he understood what mattered.

“Blood,” he muttered, with a fresh flare of jealousy. “That’s nothing compared to thirteen years.”

Tomik trusted his friendship with Petra like he trusted his lungs to breathe and his bones to bear the weight of his body. But reading the horseshoe made him feel like spoiling for a fight.

That was when Neel, who was feeling much the same way, slammed into Tomik’s shoulder as he strode across the deck.

Tomik’s chest hit the railing. He gasped in pain.

“’Scuse me,” said Neel sweetly, and kept walking.

“Guess I’m not surprised.” Tomik’s voice was quiet, but there was no wind, so it carried.

Neel turned to face him. “Say what you mean,” he said, switching from Czech to Romany. “If you can.”

“Walk away,” Tomik haltingly replied in Neel’s language. “Your gift.”

Neel stepped closer. “Speak more clearly, lambkin.”

“Bohemia—your fault.”

Neel laughed. “I’ve been blamed for many things, most of ’em true, but no one’s caught me ruining a whole country.”

Tomik shook his head.

“What happened in Bohemia is my fault?” Neel still had a smile on his face, but it was dangerous. “Which is what, exactly? Did your crops fail? Do you feel the need to blame some Gypsy for it? Or maybe you’re thinking of something a mite more personal? I know you can’t blame me for Petra, ’cause her getting attacked by the prince’s beasts happened on your watch, not mine. Wait—silly me, here I’m assuming that you have some kind of watch, that you might look out for her, since you’re supposed to be her friend. But I can’t help remembering that you were nowhere in Prague when she was alone and needed someone, and found me.”

Tomik shook his head again. He summoned all of his concentration to make what he had to say count, and cut deep. “No. Roma, on Loophole Beach. All Bohemia. That is your fault. Why prince lock up Roma? You stole. Prince search you. You are—you make mess. You walk away.”

The Maraki weren’t sure who threw the first punch, but no sooner had the words left Tomik’s mouth than he and Neel were a yelling, twisting mass of limbs.

Two hands reached in, grasped both boys by their hair, and yanked them apart.

“A nightmare, that’s what this is,” said Treb. “I keep thinking I have an extra purse of gold and a cousin with brains, and then I realize I’ve got this.” He shook the boys and they winced. “Neel, why are you more trouble when you actually get your way? This mess is your fault.”

“It isn’t!” he shouted, not realizing that Treb hadn’t heard the whole exchange between him and Tomik. Treb was referring to their fight, nothing more.

Treb released them, and they staggered.

“Go to the crow’s nest, both of you,” he said. “You can yowl at each other all you like up there.”

“Treb!” Neel protested.

“Don’t whine at me, coz. I know you can’t stand him. I can’t stand him. But if you won’t learn how to hate and be silent about it, then shimmy on up there and get it out of your system and out of my way!”

Tomik didn’t understand this conversation. The Romany words were said too quickly. But he couldn’t miss what was expected when Treb hauled him up by his shoulders and set him on the ratlines, the ladderlike structure made from ropes that stretched from the deck to the top of the mainmast.

Treb pointed to the sky. “Up.”

“Maybe he’ll fall,” Neel said hopefully.

Treb reached for him.

“Don’t get grabby with me!” Neel leaped for the bottom rung of the ratlines. “I’m going!” He swung himself up and began to mount the ropes, passing Tomik.

Every day on the Pacolet, Tomik had seen sailors climb the ratlines to reach the sails on each of the two masts. The sails were square-shaped, and grew smaller as they neared the top. Neel passed the course sail. He looked back. “Careful!” he called. “Or you’ll go splat and dead!”

Tomik decided that he didn’t like heights.

The rope creaked beneath his hands and feet. He followed Neel, and began to climb along the topsail. The rocking of the boat grew more violent the higher he went, and the crow’s nest still looked like a brown speck he would never reach.

Tomik squeezed the rough rope until it began to blister his palms. His right leg shook with the strain of his fear. The deck was far below. He froze.

Neel clambered inside the crow’s nest and looked down. “I spy a coward!”

Tomik lunged ahead. His foot slipped, sending his leg into space. The rope snagged the back of his knee. Tomik straightened, caught his breath, and continued to climb. The ratlines angled closer to the mast now, and he climbed past the topgallant sail.

Tomik hauled himself into the crow’s nest, which was little more than an open wooden barrel, and he collapsed on the floor.

Neel was lounging—as much as the small space would let him. The crow’s nest tilted back and forth. “Remember,” he said, “we still got to go back down.”

Tomik glared.

“It gets easier,” Neel said, his voice losing its mocking edge. “A fellow can get used to anything.”

Tomik stood up and leaned over the edge of the barrel. The deck below looked like a slipper. The horizon was a hazy line. His pulse was just beginning to slow when a seagull flew by and dropped a white-green glob on his head.

Neel roared. His entire body trembled with laughter, and tears leaked out of his eyes.

“It’s not funny,” Tomik said.

“Is—too—” gasped Neel.

Tomik considered chucking Neel out of the crow’s nest, but then was struck by how absurd this situation was. He knew he looked ridiculous, with gull droppings oozing through his hair. And Neel did, too, squirming with giggles. In spite of himself, Tomik smiled.

He sat down next to Neel. “I don’t really think it’s your fault.”

Neel stopped laughing. “I don’t either.”

“I just said that about Loophole Beach to make you mad.”

“Well, it worked.”

“But I still don’t like you.”

“Oh, Tom.” Neel wiped away his tears. “Warn me the next time you’re gonna break my heart.”

TOMIK WASN’T SURE how long they were up there. He didn’t doze off, but he didn’t feel awake either. The crow’s nest rocked, and every time Tomik opened his eyes he was surprised by how far he was from his village and everything he knew.

“We’re going down,” Neel said abruptly.

“We are?” Tomik replied, still dreamy.

“Yeah.”

The wind had come back, though it was gentle. It fluttered through Tomik’s hair as they climbed down the ratlines. Neel was right—this did get easier, and by the time Tomik’s feet hit the solid wood of the deck, he was steady.

Kiran was nearby, gutting a fish. He tossed the bloody sac of organs overboard and looked at Tomik. “Well done.”

That was all anyone would ever say about Tomik’s first time on the ratlines, because the entire ship was about to prepare for battle.

Neel raced across the deck, heading aft. He reached Treb and Andras. “I think we’re being followed.”

Treb pulled the pipe from his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

Neel pointed at a dot on the water.

“Hmm,” said Treb.

“Might be nothing,” said Andras.

“Might be. Might not.”

“You bet it’s not,” said Neel. “They’ve been following our path for a few hours now.”

Treb frowned. “I don’t have time for pirate games.”

“The ocean’s a big place,” said Andras. “We can outrace them.”

“We’ll leave ’em in our chop,” Neel agreed.

“In this wind?” Treb scoffed. “It’s as soft as a lady’s breath. Depending on what kind of ship that is, she could gain on us. We can’t risk engaging an enemy ship. With the Terrestrial Globe on board . . .”

The three of them looked at one another.

Treb narrowed his eyes. “Did someone blab our secret in Sallay?”

Andras was stern. “What do you think?”

Neel suddenly remembered the goatherd. “Well, it wasn’t me!”

“Neel,” threatened Treb, “if I’ve got a reason to, I’ll hoist you up into the rigging by your toes.”

“That ship,” said Andras, looking over their shoulders, “is definitely gaining.”

“If they want the globe, it could be to our advantage,” said Treb. “They won’t risk firing on us. Any ship that holds the globe would be too valuable to sink. If they’re after our prize, they’ll pull up alongside the Pacolet and board her. They’ll try to cut us down one by one with swords. But if they’re your average pirates, we can expect cannon fire. We’ll give ’em as good as we get.”

“They could be friendly,” said Andras.

“In these waters?”

“We shouldn’t sink a ship if it means us no harm.”

Treb snorted. “Were you always this soft?”

“They could even be Maraki,” argued Andras. “We can’t see what flag they’re flying.”

Treb paused, considering.

Andras pointed at a far-off knot of dark blue. “There’s a storm coming. The wind’ll pick up.”

“Right,” Treb said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Neel, set up the drogue. We’ll let them believe we’re a slow ship run by inexperienced sailors. They’ll get close, and we’ll see what they’re all about. If we’re being chased for the globe, we’d better find out that our secrets are not as safe as we think. We will not let them board. Andras, get Garil to ready the cannons.”

Andras started to walk away.

Treb called, “Tell him to aim them high!”

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” Tomik asked Neel.

“Nothing.”

Tomik scanned the crew. They were bristling with swords. “Nothing looks a lot like something.”

“Then maybe you ought to get below deck and stop pestering me with questions you know the answers to.”

“I can figure out what’s going on. What I want”—Tomik crossed his arms—“is details. And my knife.”

“What?”

“My glass knife.”

Like every other sailor onboard, Neel had many more important things to do than stop and stare. But that’s what he did.

Both Neel and Tomik sensed that this was going to be a recurring theme with them—trying to figure out who owned what, and who owed what.

“All right,” Neel said. “Follow me. You can help.”

They descended into the belly of the ship until they reached a large wooden door that yawned wide. Nicolas stepped out of the room. There was a sword in his hand, a long dagger at his waist, a knife in his boot, and a second sword strapped to his back.

Neel raised an eyebrow. “How are you going to move with all that?”

“Like a well-armed man,” Nicolas answered, and left.

The air in the room was tangy. It smelled of the oil burning in the lamp that hung from the ceiling, and of well-kept wood, leather, and steel. Weaponry poked out of thrown-open trunks. Neel unlocked a canvas-lined box and took out the glass knife. He handed it to Tomik. Not having a better place for it, Tomik tucked it into his belt.

“Can’t you make some of those glass bombs?” asked Neel. “Like Petra used in Salamander Castle?”

“Sure.” Tomik shrugged. “Just give me several days, a brassica-fueled fire, a glass-blowing pipe, some—”

“Forget it.” Neel walked deeper into the dark recesses of the room, Tomik at his side.

On the floor lay a peculiar object. It was large, long, and shaped like a cone. Its shape had been made by attaching animal skins to a metal hoop, stitching them together, and drawing them down to a point. Ropes braced the cone, running along its sides and coming up over the hoop. A foot above that, the ropes were knotted together to an iron ring.