He removed the etched cylinder and twirled it between his long fingers. “I have it, but you won’t see me use it to fight. Only to make my opponent yield.”

“What are the markings on the side?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s getting late, Cobane.”

“One last question and I’ll leave you alone.”

On his back, he squinted over at me.

“Do you ever think what would have happened if Obi Solomon had plotted against the Mandarin and Pacific-Asian armies? In that case, the Kongo would hold the secrets of combat art.”

His eyes gleamed. “Arika Cobane, are you questioning the wisdom of the Great Obi Solomon?”

The way he said it brought his whispered words to my mind, If I don’t see you again, Cobane, know this… you must question everything. “No,” I said, “I’m not questioning his wisdom. But—”

“But what?” Hosea propped himself up again.

I bit my lip, unable to stop the spiral of my own curiosity. In the last days of the War, the Kongo outnumbered its enemy two to one. Kongo women as well as men were trained warriors, berserkers in battle, superior in size and strength to any other people on Earth. It’s said that one male and one female, fighting back to back, could take out a platoon of combatants. If the Last War had continued to the bitter end, the Kongo would have prevailed.

“I’ve studied it for years,” I said, finally. “For years, and I still don’t understand. Why did Obi Solomon sign an agreement that allotted our people so little? When the tasks were divided, why did he lead his people to choose the most difficult portion of all? Why did he—?”

I pressed my lips together. Underscoring my doubt was the picture I had tried so desperately to forget. The one of Obi with his perfect hand on his fancy English clothing. He had fraternized with the enemy before the Compromise, which means that—I shoved a fist against my mouth.

“Cobane?”

My eyes flew open. Hosea waited for me to finish. I cleared my throat and said all I dared. “It seems to me,” I whispered, my tongue as dry as sand, “it seems all of America was ours for the taking and he—he just gave it away.”

“Is that right?” Hosea asked, his eyes bright.

My heart beat hard as our eyes locked. “I don’t know. Yes!” The word flew out before I could stop it. “The workers toil endlessly, while people in the North spend their days learning and experimenting. We achieved peace, but the best life went to the English.”

Hosea didn’t answer me except to lay back down. “Go to sleep, Cobane.”