“But, sir, he’s weak and getting weaker. He can’t be away from Enfield for long.”
The Lead eyed Colton again. “I’d like you to work with the clockwork smiths. You showed some prowess in that field when you were an apprentice. I’ll talk to them, let them know the situation, and we can put our heads together to find some contraption to help the boy—er, spirit. Something to make him stronger for now.”
Christopher didn’t seem to like this plan, but to Colton, it sounded perfect. He needed more time to think about what he would do next.
“One thing after another,” the Lead mumbled. “I hope Daniel’s having a better time of it in India, away from all this commotion.”
The note burned in Colton’s pocket.
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.”