The Celestial Globe: The Kronos Chronicles: Book II

by Marie Rutkoski

  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 cap
tain. 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.

  It was a long walk from his suite to the Thinkers’ Wing, but the prince prided himself on facing people whose lives he was about to change. There was honor in that.

  Because the prince was fairly crackling with energy, he couldn’t help looking at Mikal Kronos with disgust. The frail clockmaker shuffled when the prince entered the room, and a scrap of metal floating in the air abruptly crashed to the man’s feet. Mikal Kronos bowed, but the prince knew it was not out of respect. There was anger in the clockmaker’s stooped shoulders, and grief, and worry.

  “Your Highness,” the clockmaker began, “I am making some progress.”

  “Do you know what my favorite fairy tale was as a child?”

  Master Kronos opened his mouth, then closed it, no doubt afraid the question was a trap.

  “I had none,” the prince continued, “for I never enjoy hearing the same story told twice.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I shall explain. I do not care about your clock. I do not care about you. I do not need you.” Suddenly furious with himself, the prince corrected his words. “I have never needed you, or your invention.”

  As soon as the words were uttered, a peace settled over the prince. He imagined the Mercator Globes. He caressed them with his mind.

  “Your Highness, if you no longer want me to rebuild the clock’s heart, then . . .” The question on Mikal Kronos’s face was plain: Then what will become of me?

  “I have other plans for you.”

  WEEKS DRAGGED BY. Rodolfo thought of the now-empty laboratory in the Thinkers’ Wing, and the date on Novak’s letter, and wondered if he had not made a terrible mistake. When the prince looked in the mirror, he saw the bluish shadows of sleepless nights—there, right under his eyes. He touched the delicate skin and thought of storms, sea battles, and sunken ships.

  Had something gone wrong? Why had he received no news? Where was Novak? Most important, where was the Terrestrial Globe?

  The prince smoothed pale powder over his cheekbones, hiding the shadows. He must remain calm.

  But that afternoon, at a luncheon twittering with lords and ladies, someone dropped a fork. The metallic sound of it hitting the floor rang through the prince’s head like an evil bell. He thought of the clockmaker and his annoying daughter, who was somehow still missing. She was just as absent as the Terrestrial Globe.

  Rodolfo stood up from the table and left the room.

  He stalked to his suite, and ordered everyone to leave him alone. He stood before the enchanted window in his chambers. The lilacs were in bloom. It was far too early in the year for this, and snow still blanketed the ground, but much can be accomplished with magic. The sight of the flowers should have put him in a fine mood. Their purple softness had never failed to soothe him with their beauty.

  Instead he made a fist, but he did not punch the window. Even in his frustration, he was aware that punching was something dirty men did in tavern brawls. His fingers curled, he backhanded the windowpane. It did not shatter, for the window was enspelled rock. The prince knew this—and his bloodied knuckles knew it, too.

  Why did the thought of the clockmaker’s daughter disturb him so?

  He remembered when he had interviewed her—here, in this very room. She had been bold for a servant. Her voice had a country twang that set his teeth on edge. But there had been something mysterious about her . . . Rodolfo cursed himself. He should have listened to his instincts. The girl had reminded him of something. He knew now that her face resembled her father’s. But it was more than that. He was certain that he had seen her face—her face, not just her father’s—before.

  Suddenly, he understood. Petra Kronos looked like the statue of Life on the clocktower her father had designed. The prince recalled how, a year ago, he had told Master Kronos that he thought the designs for that statue were too plain. But the clockmaker had stood firm, so the prince had allowed it.

  He strode across the room and down the hallway, wrenched open the double doors, and called for his carriage.

  It was not long before he stood before the Staro Clock in the center of his city. His people stared at the unexpected sight of their prince, but he ignored them. He watched the silver minute hand sweep over the clock’s face to join the golden hour hand. When they met, the clock began to toll. The blue doors opened and statues began to file out, but the prince had eyes for only one. There she was: Petra Kronos, the statue of Life.

  This was love. Even Rodolfo recognized this, though he knew very little about the subject. Mikal Kronos loved his daughter. The prince could see it in every carved line of the statue’s face.

  His own father was an obstacle. Someone who simply would not die. His mother was an idiot. Rodolfo suffered during every dinner of every night of every visit to the Austrian court. There, he could not escape his parents’ presence, and the empress was fond of trying to be witty. She never seemed to realize she was telling only one joke, and it was about herself.

  The blue doors shut.

&nb
sp; The prince closed his eyes. He was doing something that was rare for him: reevaluating his position. When he had learned that a gawky girl had breached every measure of his castle’s security to steal from him, he had wanted nothing more than to tear her to pieces. He was enraged not merely by the fact that she had taken precious objects and destroyed others. She had also made him look weak. He was nineteen, the youngest of Emperor Karl’s three sons, and he could not afford to be seen as a ruler whose castle had become a playground for a girl and a Gypsy. So Petra Kronos would have to die—publicly, unpleasantly.

  But . . .

  The prince pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes still shut. The features of the statue were not beautiful, but they haunted him, and that fact alone made him realize that Petra Kronos had to be special. Indeed, she must be, if she had been able to deceive him and destroy the most important piece of her father’s clock. And she had escaped the Gristleki—how had this been possible? His scouts had hauled back the four blood-soaked bodies. Had she killed the Gristleki? All four? And where was she?

  The prince was forced to conclude that the girl had hidden talents, and he wanted to know what they were. She would be more interesting to him alive than dead. She could be useful.

  Prince Rodolfo opened his eyes, and they blazed with something that those who had watched him build his collection in the Cabinet of Wonders knew well.

  It was possession.

  He would have the globes. He would. And he would have Petra Kronos, too.

  17

  The Only One Left

  HAVE YOU taken leave of your senses? Astrophil asked. Do you realize that you have just purchased Orlando Furioso, an epic poem in Italian?

  Did I? Petra replied. I thought it was a recipe book.

  Petra walked away from the stall. Astrophil risked poking his head out of her hair for a better look at the book she held against her chest.

  But you loathe cooking. And Dee’s servants prepare all the food. And you—you—he spluttered—you did not think it was such a book. You cannot fool me. Even you are not so oblivious as to think that a recipe book could be so finely bound. Why, look at that Moroccan leather. The letters are tooled with gold, and—