“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.”