I searched Hannibal’s kind eyes. In their reflection I saw the political cartoon, the dagger dripping blood. It was on the tip of my tongue to warn her, but I hesitated. There was one open Senate seat, not two—and the last thing I needed was more competition.

Before I could answer Hannibal, a drumbeat blasted—bold and loud. We all jumped. My spoon dropped, splashing broth everywhere. A set of trumpets joined the drums and I covered my ears.

Jetson shouted in my ear. “To the window! They must be making an arrest!”

I barely heard him over the racket: drumbeats, trumpets, chairs screeching back, and a hundred feet clamoring to the Hall windows.

Jetson pulled me through the chaos. He shoved open a space by the nearest window. It overlooked the village. We pressed our faces to the glass, straining to see.

In theory, we knew what was coming. The drums meant that a fugitive was on the run. The culprit’s name would pass by word of mouth, spreading like wildfire beneath the shriek of the trumpets which would stop once the workers took up the cry. We knew in theory, but there hadn’t been an arrest in Cobane for ten years. This arrest, no doubt, had something to do with the secret Rebel meetings.

Jetson put his mouth to my ear. “Obi, the New Seed can’t come soon enough. The workers have become unmanageable since Voltaire’s latest raid.”

I blinked. That was the second time I’d caught wind of this New Seed business. It was, somehow, related to Voltaire’s rebellion. The ruckus rose, drawing my attention outside.

Workers—hooting, grunting, slapping their hands—overtook the drums and trumpets. The ritual was primeval. The Guards sent forth the field hands, like bloodhounds to the chase. They searched every nook and cranny, calling the fugitive by name.

“Can you hear his name?” I asked, suddenly.

“Not from here,” Jetson said. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t. I just—”

“Look, there he is!” Jetson shouted.

I followed his finger. A fleet-footed man sprinted across the field closest to the Schoolhouse. We had an unimpeded view.

“Obi, he’s fast! Look at him go!”

The fugitive headed toward the edge of Cobane territory. If he crossed it, the chase would not follow him out. He’d be left to the bounty hunters, discharged Kongo Guardsmen that roamed the verboten land between Houses.

Most students, in favor of law and order, shouted encouragement to the Guard. I remained silent, biting my lip. The fugitive was fast, but a barrier of workers closed in on either side. They would meet in the middle and trap him.

“I wonder what his crime was,” I said.

“Who cares? They’re going to get him!” Jetson shouted excitedly. “He’ll never make it past that last line of defense!”