“Destroy this one, then,” Tomik said in Czech. What he had to say was too important to be misunderstood.

“Oh, no.” Treb wagged his finger. “Don’t be so noble, Tom. It’s drastic, and dumb. The globes belong to the Roma.”

After many years of being friends with Petra, Tomik recognized unreasonable stubbornness when he saw it. He looked away from Treb, and back at the globe. He noticed the lines that crossed the sphere and cut it into squares. He had seen latitude and longitude lines before on the flat surface of maps, and knew that they were used for judging distance and travel. But they seemed different on a round shape.

“It looks as if someone has thrown a net over the world,” he said.

“Now all we have to do is haul it in.”

WHEN TOMIK AND TREB emerged from the captain’s quarters, the sails lay flat. There was no wind. Treb turned in a circle, looking at the sky from every direction. “Stow the sails!” he suddenly shouted up at the Maraki in the rigging. “Do it now!”

“Why?” Tomik asked.

“Because if we don’t they’ll be ripped to shreds,” Treb muttered. He strode up to Andras. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“I wasn’t sure—”

“You don’t have to be sure! If you can’t figure out how to prepare for a tempest, then at least give me fair warning when one is squalling up, and leave the thinking to me! Tell Garil and Marko to lash the lifeboats to their skids. Get below deck and bring Nadia, Kiran, and Ashe with you. Take him, too.” He nudged Tomik forward. “Have them latch any portholes shut and reinforce them with wooden planks. Batten all the hatches. We can’t take on any water.”

Tomik was so preoccupied with the fact that he had just been treated like a member of the crew that he didn’t think about being worried. After all, the Pacolet had sailed through storms before. But then Tomik spotted the dread in Andras’s eyes, and realized that whatever was coming, it was no ordinary storm. The sea was still. The wind was dead, the horizon dark, and the sky tinged with green. An eerie quiet surrounded the Pacolet.

“What do we do?” Tomik asked Ashe as they went below deck. Ashe entered the rope room, and passed Tomik short lengths of cord knotted loosely into slings. He copied what she did, and slipped the rope over his head so that the slings crossed his chest, running from his left shoulder to his right hip.

“You heard the captain,” she replied. “We close the hatches, we—”

“No, after that.”

“This is a tempest, Tom. If we had the drogue we’d set it up to slow us down as we hit the waves. But it’s gone. The only thing we can do is lock everything tight, tie down anything loose, blow out the lamps, stay below deck, and hope we don’t get smashed to pieces.” She grinned at him nervously. “Whatever you do, don’t stand too close to me. With the waves, you’ll probably puke.”

Even below deck, Tomik could hear the wind begin to wail. They went into the pantry and starting using the rope to secure casks of food and water.

Suddenly the ship tilted. Ashe and Tomik tumbled into each other. A small barrel fell and split, showering raisins across the room. Then, with a wooden scream, the ship leaned in the other direction. Tomik slipped across the floor and hit a cask. It cracked, springing fresh water.

“No!” Ashe dropped to her knees and pressed her hands against the leak. “Get some pitch, Tom! We need to seal this up!”

But then the Pacolet hit a giant wave. The ship shuddered, and the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling fell to the pantry floor. The lamp burst into a fireball.

Tomik crawled toward Ashe, pulled her hands away from the cask, and smashed his fist against the leak. The wood shattered, water gushing across the floor and over the fire.

The room plunged into darkness.

“Why did you do that?” Ashe wailed.

“There are other water casks,” he reminded her.

“But we don’t know how much we’ll need after the tempest, or even where we’ll end up! We could be blown halfway to America! Fresh water is the difference between life and death on the sea!”

“So is fire,” Tomik pointed out.

Ashe couldn’t argue with that. If the Pacolet caught fire, it wouldn’t matter how many casks of water they had.

Tomik heard her scramble to her feet. She cursed. “My matches are wet.”

Tomik reached into his pocket and pulled out the Glowstone. He squeezed, and pale blue light filled the room.

Ashe squinted at him. “Aren’t you full of surprises.” The corner of her mouth lifted, and some of the anxiety left her face as she tugged him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s finish before things really get bad.”

By the time they reached the mess hall, where the Maraki had agreed to wait out the storm, almost all of the sailors were huddled together. They had already blown out the lamps, and they sat in the dark as the Pacolet rolled back and forth on the waves.

Trying hard to walk steadily, Tomik stared at the floor in the light of the Glowstone. He didn’t see the looks of amazement.

“What is that?” breathed Klara.

“I made it,” Tomik said. He passed the Glowstone to her. He was wobbling on his feet, and desperately wanted to hang on to something. He grabbed the edge of the table and sank down onto the bench.

“I’m glad we didn’t sell you.” Nicolas clapped Tomik on the shoulder.

Tomik gulped. He leaned over and vomited.

“I take that back.” Nicolas stepped away.

“Here.” Someone shoved a pail under Tomik’s chin and he threw up again.

“Better?” Ashe asked.

Tomik nodded, red with shame.

“I doubt you’ll be the only one using this bucket,” Stevo comforted. “The tempest won’t stop anytime soon.”

“Where are the others?” Ashe looked around the room.

“Treb, Andras, Kiran, Tas, and Oti are still on deck, stowing the sails.”

“Still?” Ashe’s voice rose.

“We can’t let the wind tear up our sails, or we’ll be stranded out here.”

Tomik glanced up. “Where is Neel?”

“Who knows.” Nadia rolled her eyes. “He’s probably holed up somewhere feeling sorry for himself. Treb raked him over the coals today.”

“That was supposed to be a private conversation,” Klara said.

“Like you can hide anything on this ship!” Nadia flung up her hands. “What am I supposed to do, pretend I didn’t hear about it?”

“Yes,” Klara replied.

The Pacolet slammed into a wave and several sailors were thrown to the floor.

Brishen stood up. “We have to look for Neel.”

Just then, the Maraki who had stayed on deck walked into the room, soaked with rain and sea spray.

“The sails?” Brishen asked.

Treb scowled.

“We had to leave some of them,” Andras said. “The tempest was too wild. We got below deck a while ago. We’ve been in the hold, making sure the Pacolet’s not taking on seawater.”

“Did you see Neel?” Brishen asked.

Tas frowned. “No. Why?”

Treb scanned the room for his cousin. He swore. “That lad is more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Why is everyone acting like Neel’s playing some kind of game with us?” cried Klara.

“That’s what he does.” Nadia shrugged.

“He could have been swept overboard!”

“Then he’s gone,” Nadia said.

Without thinking, Tomik stood up and staggered out of the room.

The Maraki fell silent. They were so used to Neel taking care of himself, and to his habit of challenging people twice his age, that most of them found it hard to think that he could be in danger. Yet as they watched Tomik walk away, fear flared in their hearts. The Maraki leaped to their feet and began to search the ship.

The last thing Tomik wanted to do was to go on deck, but when Nadia said he’s gone, he realized two things:

Neel was reckless, and he might be Tomik’s friend.

And then there was Petra’s voice, echoing in Tomik’s mind: You owe him.

So there was only one place Neel could be: in the heart of the storm, doing something stupid. And Tomik had to find him.

He fumbled with a batten and unlocked a hatch.

Tomik wasn’t surprised to find that the people who knew Neel best were standing right behind him.

“Move!” Treb reached over Tomik’s head and shoved at the hatch. Then the captain boosted Tomik up through the hole.

Tomik slid over the wet surface of the deck. He scrambled to his feet and clung to the railing.

Treb, Andras, and Brishen pulled themselves out of the hatch.

The sky was black, the Pacolet creaked and moaned, and the rain stung Tomik’s face.

Treb looked up into the rigging. “No,” he whispered.

The shreds of one sail whipped in the wind, but the rest had all been stowed. A small, dark figure was climbing down the ratlines.

The Pacolet hit a tall wave, and water curled like a white claw over the bow.

The ship leaned, and Neel’s legs slipped from the ratlines. He fell, but then dangled in midair, his hands hovering a few feet below the rope. He was hanging on to the ratlines with Danior’s Fingers. Then, with an acrobatic move Lovari children are taught as soon as they can walk, Neel swung the lower half of his body until his feet found the rope.

When he jumped onto the deck, his wet, black hair was flattened against his cheeks and he looked exhilarated. He grinned at Treb.

“I’m going to kill you,” Treb said, and reached to embrace his cousin when the ship suddenly tilted at an alarming angle. Neel tumbled and flew just a few feet past Tomik. His head hit the railing.

Tomik rushed forward. The Pacolet continued to lean left, and Neel’s limp, unconscious body was toppling overboard when Tomik grabbed him. Neel hung over the water.

The ship rocked back to the right. Tomik’s arms felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets, and he knew he couldn’t hold on.

But he didn’t have to. Several hands reached for the rope slings still crossing over his shoulder. Andras and Brishen pulled Tomik away from the railing, and Treb dragged his cousin onto the deck.

The rain poured down, and blood flowed from Neel’s temple onto the wooden planks.

• • •

WHEN NEEL WOKE, the storm was over. He was in the captain’s quarters, and sunlight streamed through the portholes. He shut his eyes. His head was ringing with pain.

He heard Treb’s voice: “Good morning.”

“There ain’t much good about it,” Neel groaned.

“Oh, I don’t know. The sun’s out. We’re still alive. We’re so off course that I barely know how to begin setting us back on track for England, but all in all I’m a fortunate captain. And a fortunate cousin.”

“The sails? I lost one.”

“You lost your blasted mind, is what you did. Sails can be patched up, Neel. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

Neel opened his eyes again.

Treb smiled.

“He’s awake?” Tomik was standing in the doorway.

“Go away,” Neel mumbled.

“Tom can go wherever he likes,” Treb said. “He’s officially in my good graces after saving your life.”

“You did?” Neel blinked at Tomik.

Tomik crossed the room to Neel’s bedside. “Now we’re equal,” he said, knowing that this wasn’t exactly the right Romany word.

“We’re even,” Neel corrected, and offered his hand.

For the moment, that was all they needed to say—and, indeed, all they could say, for soon after they clasped hands, Neel’s relaxed and slipped to his side. Tomik and Treb let him sleep, and went on deck to survey the damage.

The captain looked up at the rigging, shaking his head. “Some of the braces snapped,” he said, referring to the ropes that controlled the sails. “Plenty of repairs to be done.”

“How long will it take to reach England?” Tomik asked.

“A while.”

16

The Statue of Life

ATHRILL RAN DOWN Prince Rodolfo’s spine. He read through the letter a second time.

The Mercator Globes!

Suddenly, all of his dreams seemed real enough to touch. Where they had been pale and blurry, they were now rich with color and drawn with strong lines. He would not be Emperor Karl’s youngest, forgotten son, the ruler of an insignificant country. He would become the emperor himself.

He scanned the letter a third time, and smiled when he saw Stan Novak’s signature. The spymaster of North Africa would be well rewarded for discovering that the globes were not just the stuff of legend. In his letter, the spymaster apologized for acting without the prince’s permission, but the prince heartily approved of the man’s decision. How daring, how right of Novak to chase after the Gypsy ship! It would not be long before Novak returned to Prague, bearing the Terrestrial Globe.

Then the prince’s eyes fell on the date scribbled after Novak’s signature. His smile faltered, for the letter had been written two weeks ago. Mail traveled so slowly. It was painful to wonder whether Novak had succeeded.

But of course he had, the prince assured himself. The spymaster had no other option. As for Prince Rodolfo, he knew that now he had many options. With the promise of the Mercator Globes, certain things and people were no longer useful to him. Why should he crave a patched-up clock built by a broken old man? A handful of gears was nothing compared to being able to navigate the world’s Rifts, and surely Rodolfo’s father would agree. It was no secret that inheriting the title of Hapsburg Emperor was a competition in which his father was the only judge and his brothers were opponents. Yet when Emperor Karl chose his successor, Rodolfo would win.