One prick, I thought, as the dream of escape died inside me. One prick of Voltaire’s spear and I’d have been back in the Pit—with her. The girl who’d limped down the hall after Jones, dripping blood and snot. Our eyes too swollen to see the others. But we felt their whispers like hot pokers. Fumbling in my pack, I found Jones’ glass vial. Pulling it out, I gazed at the poisoned pin. Do you need more? Quickly, I stuffed it back in the bag. Tears blurred my vision.

I’d been a fool to dream of freedom. Even if I outwitted Hosea Khan and learned to survive, Jones would never let me go. I knew too much. When I failed to return, she’d set a reward for my capture—and one prick of a bounty hunter’s knife was all it would take to destroy me. I swallowed. I didn’t want to spy, but there was no escape. The only way forward, for me, was back to the Schoolhouse, and to spying for Jones.

Reluctantly, I lifted my gaze to Hosea, in the midst of debate with Voltaire. My ears perked as the phrase “New Seed” drifted back to me. I bit my lip, knowing what I had to do—but hating to do it. With a few quick steps, I was close enough to overhear their conversation.

The Bandits’ Camp

THE BANDITS’ CAMP

The ten of us arrived at a grassy clearing. At its center, another bandit tended an iron pot hung over a fire. The smell of stewing meat made my mouth water.

Following the others, I handed Mary’s reins to Fly Man. With an easy smile, he guided the horses to the edge of the clearing, which was lined with pup tents and bedrolls.

I stuck close to Hosea, who kept up his conversation with Voltaire. So far, nothing pertinent had been said, but I was on high alert. The smallest tidbit could prove valuable to Jones.

The eighth bandit was older than the others. An apron strained over his hefty gut. His bald head gleamed in the firelight as he leaned over to stir the pot. “You boys are late,” he said flatly. “I added more water to the stew. Now you got to wait for it to boil down.”

Voltaire sat down on one of the logs surrounding the fire and addressed Hosea. “You say they’re powered by English technology, but they are here in the Kongo. How is that possible?”

“The technology was paid for by an Assembly grant to an English research center,” Hosea said. “So it has English origins. The swords arrived in the Kongo when the scientist that managed the bioweapon project relocated to the KTC over two decades ago.”

“Your father,” I whispered to myself. Hosea heard and turned to me.

“Dana Kumar relocated to the Kongo twenty-four years ago to assume the Directorship,” I said.