Another voice, one I didn’t recognize, answered him. “She one of them. Not safe.” It was heavily accented and paced, as if each word was a struggle to recall. It belonged to a Kongo feral.

“She may be a Keeper, but that doesn’t mean we can murder her,” the Vine Keeper said.

Murder? Very slowly, I rolled my head in their direction and opened one eye. Hosea Khan and, beside him, a giant with a crude club gripped in his hand.

“I assume you’re Crane, the one who sent for me,” Hosea continued.

The giant shook his head. “Not Crane.”

“I was summoned here by the Cobane Champion, Crane Cobane, a man nearly eight feet tall with legs like tree trunks and a birthmark low on his left cheek. How many men in Cobane could fit that description?”

“I sent the message you say, but,” the giant went on, “I do not have the name Crane Cobane. I am that no more.”

Hosea hesitated. “Then what should I call you?”

The giant straightened, growing another half inch. “I am William Whittle. I do not live by the club.”

“Alright, William Whittle,” Hosea agreed.

“And you? Robin says you is Kha.”

Robin—my Robin? My heart began to pound. Suddenly, I recalled where I’d heard the name Crane Cobane. It belonged to the Champion who had won the last seven Jousts. He was a god among the Kongo people, a living legend.

“I am Kha,” the Vine Keeper answered.

“Good. You come,” said the giant. “Quick, no time to waste. The people need you.”

“I will come. But first, I have to help my friend. You hit her hard.”

“No time to help,” the giant protested.

Hosea Khan didn’t respond. A moment later, his arms lifted me from the ground. I shut my eyes quickly as pain consumed me. The cold circle of his silver necklace pressed against my cheek as he laid me on his bed. As the pain ebbed, I opened my eyes again. His face was a shadow.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said.

I moaned.

“Don’t try to talk. You took a bad blow. No more than you deserve. Haven’t you school brats heard of privacy?”

He probed the back and sides of my head with tender fingers. He left for a moment and returned with a white bag.

“You need ice, but you’ll live.”

He pressed the bag against the worst part of the ache and my vision darkened again. I fought it. So many questions. Who was this field hand? Why had he hit me, and why had the new kid answered to the name, Kha? He was Hosea.

“How many are ill?” the Vine Keeper said, returning his attention to the giant.

“Many sick people. Babies, old men. Many—many sick people.”

“Has anyone died?”

“One baby is gone.”