Danny wasn’t able to get a good look at the cantonment that first night, as it was dark and he was medicated. He only remembered speaking to a man with a mustache, Daphne leading him somewhere, and lying down on a bed. This caused minor confusion come morning, and not a small amount of panic.
His boots had been pulled off for him, but his shirt and trousers were dirty and rumpled. For one heart-pounding moment he worried he had lost the timepiece his father had given him as a present years ago—maybe it had fallen while he dangled from the Notus—but was relieved to find it on a spindly table by his bedside. The bed frame was made of hard, twisted rope and covered with only a thin pallet, but the pillow was enormous, decorated with tassels and a yellow-threaded brocade along the edges. There was an imprint of it on his cheek.
Danny’s mouth was paper dry. A tin pitcher sat on a wooden set of drawers, along with a matching cup. He woozily poured some water and downed it all, then eagerly guzzled a second cupful. The water was warm, but he didn’t mind.
In fact, the entire room was warm. He took off his waistcoat and wandered toward the window. He had to blink a few times and remind himself where he was.
The window faced the central road running through the cantonment. A few soldiers were out in the bright morning sun, huddled under the shade of a hut’s thatch-roofed awning as they smoked and played cards. A green parrot preened its feathers in a hole under the awning before taking flight. In the distance, tall palms stood well above the heads of the shorter neem trees, their fronds looking like the many legs of some outlandish insect.
Instead of tents, the cantonment was comprised of long buildings and bungalows. Dirt roads had been laid by hundreds of pairs of feet in broad, yellow avenues, where tufts of grass still stubbornly grew along the edges. Autos trundled down the dusty roads, carrying supplies, soldiers, and visitors from the city.
It wasn’t at all what Danny had expected. Though he had never been in a military barracks before, he had assumed it would look much like a camp from Alexander the Great’s army. But this was a far cry from Macedonia.
England had become a distant dream.
A knock sounded at the door and Daphne peeked inside. Her long hair was tied in a braid that slipped over her shoulder.
“Good, you’re up. We have a meeting with the major soon.”
“Major?”
“Major Dryden. From the notes?”
Danny picked through his muddled brain and realized, yes, he had read that name in the file. Major Dryden was currently in charge of the soldiers stationed at the Agra cantonment, and would be supervising them during their stay.
“You’ll need to change,” she noted, taking in his wrinkled shirt.
“Into what, may I ask?”
Daphne pointed at the corner behind him, where his trunk had magically appeared.
“How—?”
“Some of the soldiers fetched our things from the airship.”
Danny shivered at the word airship. “The captain and the others … Did everyone get off safely?”
She nodded. “There’s going to be an inquiry. At least, that’s what I gathered from all the yelling I overheard last night. The officers are livid an unregistered airship got by them. They have no clue who attacked the Notus.”
Danny pressed his lips into a tight line as he kneeled and unlatched his trunk. Right on top of his clothes and shaving gear was the folded-up parchment that held Colton’s likeness. He caressed the edge of the paper, then dug around until the edge of the little cog scraped his fingers. Breathing a sigh of relief, he drew it out.
“Why did that man want to shoot you?” Daphne wondered aloud. Danny looked over his shoulder at her. Today, she was dressed in tan trousers and a sleeveless blue bodice. A couple beads of sweat showed on her high, smooth forehead. “You didn’t do anything to him. Did you?”
“Except for falling out the hole he blasted into our airship, no.”
“Maybe he knew you were a clock mechanic. Maybe he wanted to prevent us from reaching Agra and finding out what’s going on here.”
Danny grimaced and dug out fresh clothes. “Perhaps. Any chance of food?”
“Change first, then I’ll show you where to go. I haven’t eaten yet either.”
“You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Daphne shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”
She stepped outside while he dressed. He tucked his shirt in, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his hair was beyond fixing without a proper bath. He tried his best to flatten it by dipping his fingers into the pitcher and dragging them through his hair, but stubborn dark locks popped up anyway. He sighed and left with his timepiece in hand.
Outside, the heat descended heavily onto his shoulders and the top of his head. There was an oil or cream the soldiers used to ward off sunburn. He would need to get ahold of some if he didn’t want to end up red as a lobster by noon. Just as pronounced as the heat was the smell, an unexpected mix of woodsmoke, damp humidity, and something both musky and floral.
Wooden benches lined the mess hall, but there were a few open areas with burgundy rugs on the floor and nothing else. Large wooden slats hung from the ceiling, attached to ropes. Their existence baffled him. Some sort of decoration?
Two Indian men were making porridge and heating round, flat bread over an iron stove. They wore red cloth around their heads, and were dressed in simple tunics and loose trousers. Danny had seen a few Indians in London, but there had been something vaguely Europeanized about them. These men were as British as a flamingo.
In this country, Danny realized, he was in the minority. These people would outnumber him a hundred thousand to one.
They probably didn’t speak any English. Danny was trying to remember how to say two in Urdu, the hybrid language of the Indian army, when Daphne did it for him. The servants ladled out two bowls of porridge, two cups of steaming tea, and two rolled-up pieces of bread for each of them.
“Shukria,” Daphne said, and they nodded politely. As she and Danny meandered toward a table, she asked, “Didn’t you practice?”
“I only had a few days,” he mumbled. “I’m horrible with languages. Remind me to speak French when you’re feeling down, I’ll have you in stitches.”
“You know the basics, don’t you?”
She forced him to practice as they ate. The porridge was filling, though it had a nutty spice that he couldn’t name. Danny found the flatbread even stranger. They were called chapatis, and were apparently very popular in northern Indian cuisine. Danny preferred thicker bread. With honey. Or cheese.
My kingdom for a piece of toast with jam.
The tea, however, was the strangest thing of all. It was a milky, spicy concoction that landed wrong on his palate.
“What on earth is this?” he sputtered.
“Chai,” Daphne informed him. “They have British stock, too, but I’m told that chai is the staple here. Some of the officers have taken to it as well.”
It was no English breakfast, but it would have to do.
A private poked his head into the mess, spotting them at once. Danny and Daphne, without uniforms, couldn’t help but stand out. “Are you the mechanics? Major Dryden is ready to see you.”
Danny knocked back the rest of the chai—spices or no, tea was tea—and followed Daphne back into the glaring sunshine.
“Beggin’ your pardon, but your airship caused quite a stir yesterday,” the private said. He was young and stocky with a growth of blond stubble on his jaw. The Indian sun had long since toasted his skin to a healthy tan.
“It was … definitely a stir,” Daphne said when Danny didn’t offer comment.
“Good thing they found a clear place for the ship to crash. Would be a shame to have the local farms destroyed.”
He showed them to a building with a slanted roof and windows with wooden shutters. They thanked him and walked inside, where a long table sat in the middle of the receiving room surrounded by chairs. Three men stood at the head of it, speaking in low tones. One caught sight of them and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Hart and Miss Richards, welcome. Please sit. May we offer you anything? Tea? Water? Nuts?”
“No, thank you,” Daphne said. “We’ve only just had breakfast.”
“Excellent. Sit, sit.” The man gestured to the table and they settled into seats beside each other. The two other officers sat opposite them, while the man in charge took his place at the head of the table. He was the one Danny had seen the previous night—tall, broad-shouldered, with a waxed brown mustache and slicked-back hair. Major Dryden, then. The officers all wore the olive green uniform Danny had seen on the soldiers aboard the Notus, but their medals and decorations varied according to their rank.
“No doubt you’re exhausted after that affair with the airship,” Dryden said. “Nasty business. We have people investigating as we speak. However, that’s secondary to the real issue at hand.”
“The bombings,” Daphne said.
“Exactly so. We have some of our own mechanics looking into it, but Indian mechanics are, ah …” He smoothed his mustache with thick fingers. “Shall we say it’s a different organization?”
Danny resisted the urge to look at Daphne, but he could feel her stiffen at his side. The public didn’t know much about clock mechanics in other countries, though he’d heard the Americans had a union system similar to England’s. Daphne had been part of a committee to promote foreign exchanges, allowing mechanics and apprentices to travel to places like China to gain more experience. She had been eager to launch the exchange program for India, but that was before the bombings around London happened last year.
“We do depend on quite a few of the Indian mechanics, though,” a blond officer interjected.
“Ah, where are my manners? Mr. Hart, Miss Richards, this is Lieutenant Crosby and Captain Harris.” The two officers inclined their heads. Crosby was dark-haired, his skin deeply tanned, while Harris was fair and freckled.
“We actually have a few clock mechanics living in the city,” Harris added.
“Yes,” Dryden said, “so you’ll have some help. It’s a different world here, you know. You’ll need a guide.”
Crosby frowned. “Especially for mechanics so young. How old are the two of you, anyway?”
“Eighteen,” said Danny, followed by Daphne’s “Nineteen.”
Crosby snorted. “Children! What’s the Lead Mechanic doing, sending children to India along with crashing airships and mutineers?”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Dryden said, but not angrily. They must have had this argument before.
“They’re not children at all.” Captain Harris awarded them a smile. He looked to be in his late twenties, and his eyes were a warm, earthy brown. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Hart. You helped bag that terrorist last year. The one bombing the towers around London.”
Danny reacted several ways at once: startled that this man knew of him; flattered by the praise; embarrassed by the same; and despondent at hearing Matthias referred to as a terrorist. Though, in fairness, he supposed that’s what he was.
“I don’t care how many terrorists he’s bagged,” Crosby barked. “London’s one thing, but India’s quite another. Major, you don’t plan to send them up to Delhi, do you?”
Dryden harrumphed. “No, of course not.” He turned to Danny and Daphne. “We believe that the Delhi clock tower may be in danger during Her Majesty’s coronation.”
“When she’s named Queen-Empress of India, you mean?” Daphne asked. “At New Year’s?”
“It may be the perfect distraction to attack the Delhi tower. We hope to prevent this from happening, so it’s imperative the clock mechanics figure out what’s going on before then.” The major fanned his face and glanced toward the back of the room. “It’s too hot in here. Punkah wallah!”
An Indian servant Danny had not seen until now moved to the far wall, where a rope was hanging. When the man pulled on the rope, a wooden slat like the ones Danny had seen in the mess began to flap on the ceiling. It stirred the air and sent down a much needed breeze. Daphne somberly watched the servant as he worked.
“Much better. Now, on to business. The most recent attack occurred in Khurja, to the north. I believe you two should see the wreckage. It might offer some clues.”
The door opened behind them, and the major rose from his seat. “As I said, you’ll have another mechanic as a guide. Here he is now.”
Danny and Daphne turned in their chairs, but were startled when he turned out to be she. The Indian girl was short yet shapely under a long, green tunic with slits on either side and a V-neck collar. Her trousers were baggy but cinched at her ankles, her black hair tied into a braid that hung halfway down her back.
“Ah, where is Kamir?” Dryden asked her.
“He’s unable to come,” the girl replied, her English inflected with an Indian accent. She roamed dark eyes over the two British mechanics. “He’s sick in bed. I am filling in for him.”
Crosby coughed into his fist. “I don’t think—”
Dryden waved him off. “Very well. Everyone, this is Miss Meena Kapoor. Miss Kapoor, may I introduce Daniel Hart and Daphne Richards? They flew in from London last night and are very eager to see Khurja.”
“I’ll take them today, if they wish.” She waited for a response, and they both tripped over the words.
“Oh, that’s—”
“If it’s not a bother—”
“All right.”
Meena raised a sleek eyebrow. Danny could tell she was enjoying this. The officers looked uncomfortable, with the exception of Harris, who was simply amused.
“I’ll make arrangements,” Meena said over her shoulder, turning to leave.
When she was gone, Crosby scoffed. “Sir, shouldn’t we find someone else? Remember that there have been riots. Kamir was qualified to go with them, and he’s experienced.”
“Miss Kapoor is also experienced,” Dryden said.
“She’s just a girl!”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” The Major turned to Danny and Daphne. “Are you two comfortable with the arrangements?”
They stole a look at each other, then nodded.
“Then that settles it. Miss Kapoor will take you to Khurja. Please make any necessary notes and report back to me this evening.”