“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.

“YOU’RE EARLY.”

“Yes, Master Novak.” The goatherd stepped forward, and lowered his hood. His face and hands had been dyed with walnut juice, to blend in with the dark-skinned Moroccans, but his features were European, and he spoke Czech. “I have news.”

“Another tale of piracy?” Novak sighed, leaning back against his chair. “How dull. What is the point of being a spy if no one has any interesting secrets? I might as well go back to Prague.”

“I’m here to tell you about something very interesting. And Prince Rodolfo will think so, too.”

Master Novak had an ordinary face, the kind you forget minutes after seeing it. But now his eyes flared with intensity.

“I heard someone in the market talking about the Mercator Globes,” the goatherd continued. “I thought they were just a myth, but—”

“Tell me everything.”

The goatherd did. “I couldn’t understand them once they began speaking Gypsy, but the ship’s called the Pacolet, and its sailors already have the Terrestrial Globe.”

Novak pursed his lips. “Only one Mercator Globe? One is worthless. You need both to navigate through Rifts.”

“One is better than nothing,” urged the goatherd. “Having one globe means that you’re close to possessing both. And if you have the Terrestrial Globe, no one else can use the power of the globes combined.”

Novak considered this. He nodded. “I’ll send a letter to the prince.”

“But mail travels slowly, and we cannot wait for the prince’s response! That could take a month or more. The Gypsies might be sailing from the harbor even as we speak. Let’s chase the Pacolet, capture it, and snatch the globe.”

“Very well,” said Novak. “We’ll hunt the Sea-Gypsies down like brown foxes.” He stood. “Ready my ship.”

11

A Bargain

ALLOW ME to explain what you are,” Dee had said.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Petra replied hotly.

“Do you know what my greatest skill is?” Dee asked. “Research. On November 17, 1584, at approximately four o’clock in the morning, a woman named Marjeta Kronos gave birth to twins. Am I correct?”

“Why do you have to stick your nose in business that isn’t yours?” Petra bolted for the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. “And why is every door in this house locked?”

“Oh, I did that. I said that my greatest skill is research, but of course I possess several others. Being able to lock a door by merely thinking about it is just one of my talents, and one of the least impressive.”

“People can only have one magical talent.” But then Petra reconsidered. “Though . . . you can scry. You made some kind of connection between our minds. And you can call upon spirits.”

“So it would seem.”

“You also killed the Gray Men.”

“Yes,” he said, “though I did that through very skilled swordsmanship, not magic. I must be modest.”

“And you can magically lock doors? None of that fits together.”

“No, it doesn’t, my dear. Not if you truly believe that a person can inherit only one magical gift. I’m not saying it’s a bad rule to live by. But no rule is without exceptions. I am an exception. And so are you.”

Petra found a chair and sank into it. “A chimera, right? Is a chimera some kind of . . . magical mixture, like Ariel was half dragonfly, half woman?”

“Yes. When I was young, it became clear that I had powers most didn’t. But as I grew up and began to undergo training, it seemed obvious to everyone that I wasn’t like other children with magical abilities. I was an oddity.”

“Imagine that,” Petra muttered.

“No tutor my parents hired could pinpoint the nature of my talent. Was I a scryer? A shape-shifter? Could I see in the dark? Drink fire like water?”

“What can you do, then?”

“Oh, I am sure the details would bore you.”

“Can you . . .” Petra stumbled over a question she needed and feared to ask. “Can you read minds?”

“No.”

“But the link between our minds—”

“Is that, and nothing more. Through it, I can know your location. You could do the same with me, if you bothered to learn how. If I say something to you, using that link, it is not very different from communicating out loud. I cannot guess your secret thoughts. They are behind a closed door, and I do not have the gift to open it.”

“You could be lying to me.”

“You could trust that I am not.”

His brown eyes held hers, and for such a muddy color, they were piercing. Petra looked away.

Dee continued, “Naturally, when my daughters were born, I watched to see how they would develop. They turned out to be normal—well, ‘normal’ in the sense that they each have only one talent, like ninety-nine percent of the magical human population. Like your father, your dear friend Tomik Stakan, and the long-fingered Roma boy.”

“I’m going to stop asking how you know these things.”

“A wise decision. Because you won’t get any answers.”

Petra remembered something. “Ariel called you a ‘deep-searcher.’ ”

“Ah, you noticed. I do search deeply. I gained the habit when I traveled the world as a young man, looking for clues about my own abilities. I saw things you couldn’t imagine, and things you wouldn’t want to. I met the wisest people, the craftiest, the kindest, the laziest, the lost, and those who would cut my throat as soon as cough. I’ve never given up the study of people—what they need, want, and are willing to do. When Madinia and Margaret were born, I became interested in twins, and I discovered that this kind of birth is the most likely to produce chimeras. Especially if one child dies.”

“My twin brother was stillborn,” Petra admitted.

“And what did Ariel call you? ‘Silver-singer.’ ‘Dream-thinker.’ What have you inherited, Petra? Ariel’s first name for you is easy to understand. Your father has an extraordinary gift for metal. You shattered the Staro Clock’s metal heart.”

“I don’t know how I did that. That was an accident.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Really,” she insisted. “The heart probably had some kind of automatic destruction mode and I triggered it.”

“Yes, of course,” Dee said.

Then he snatched a knife from the folds of his cloak and flung it at her.

Without thinking, Petra plucked it out of the air. She stared at the knife in her hand and dropped it to the floor. “You could have killed me!”

“But I didn’t. Come, don’t pout.”

“Pout? You threw a knife at my head!”

“I was reasonably certain you would dodge it. I am impressed that you managed to catch it without doing your fingers any harm. Your gift for metal is obvious. Why deny it? Because you can’t make that blade rise off the floor and dance a waltz like your father could? That is hardly surprising. As a chimera, you possess more than one magical talent. Consider them separately, and you might find that they each seem weaker than they should be. Combined, however, you will have something rare, and very powerful. Now, what might your second talent be, dream-thinker?”

Petra didn’t respond.

“I wonder,” Dee said. “Have you ever had a nightmare that came true?”

She remembered the red brocade flowers.

“Perhaps you heard something that no one else did?”

The scream of the Gray Men, throbbing in her bones.

“Or felt something that wasn’t there?” Dee suggested.

Neel’s ghost fingers, untying the purse tucked under her shirt.

“I believe that you are gifted with mind-magic, Petra Kronos.”

“No,” she said.

“Consider the evidence. For example, you and I enjoy a strong link between our minds.”

“Enjoy?” Petra choked.

“And I forged it easily, Petra, so easily that I confess I was astonished. When you called for help, it was loud, unmistakable, insistent: a clarion call. That takes talent, and usually training.”

“I told you before: I didn’t mean to do that. I wish you’d leave me alone. What am I to you? Just some Bohemian nobody you arm-twisted into doing your dirty work. You saved my life, but your weird and totally unwelcome responsibility to me is over. I have to get back to my country. I’ve got things to do, and a father to find.”

“I think not. You asked me for help, Petra. I interpret that to mean protecting your life and making certain you’re able to do the same. Let me train you for a year, and then I’ll return you to Bohemia.”

“A year? Never.”

“Or you can be locked in a room in my home indefinitely.”

“A month,” she bargained.

He just looked at her.

“I don’t even have a month!” said Petra. “The prince arrested my father!”

“Mikal Kronos is in no immediate danger of dying.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There was nothing to make Petra believe Dee was telling the truth—nothing, except that she desperately wanted to believe him.

“Nine months,” Dee offered.

Petra hesitated. “Six.”

“Nine, and when you leave London I’ll give you all the information I have on your father.”

“Done,” she said.