Both Danny and Akash jumped at the now-familiar French phrase. “Feu-de-joie?” Danny repeated. “What does that mean?”
The lieutenant grunted. “The salute, boy, the gun salute.”
Gun salute. “Thank you, sir.”
The lieutenant gave Akash one last look of disgust before he turned and walked away.
Danny swore. “The assassin might be planning to shoot the viceroy during the salute.”
“How do we stop him?”
Danny shook his head. He had no idea.
There was a sudden commotion as the countdown to midnight began. The soldiers called out “Three! Two! One!” before a tumultuous cheer rose above the tents. Danny clapped along with the rest, but the moment’s impact was lost on him. He was already living several hours from now, in the light of an uncertain dawn.
They found Akash’s tent first. Other sepoys had taken off their shoes outside. Akash did the same, but looked helplessly at Danny.
“What if the real Chopra is inside?”
“Then pretend you’re drunk and sleep on the floor.”
Akash glanced up and down the street, then leaned in, lowering his voice. “There’s nothing we can do if the rebel’s plan is already in motion. You must know that.”
“We’ll see what the morning brings.”
Danny found his own tent and slipped inside, hoping no one would talk to him. A few of the cots were empty. Danny took off his boots and the outer jacket of his uniform, then curled up on a cot with his back to everyone else. He wondered where the real Wilson was, and if he had been assigned to another tent. That was, quite honestly, the least of his worries.
He held the small cog as the other soldiers settled down, wishing that he could Stop time, that he could prevent this disaster from happening.
But this wasn’t Enfield.
Really, who was the villain here? Zavier? The rebels? The British?
He didn’t know.
He was afraid to find out.
Morning came an eternity later, and Danny still had no ideas. The soldiers got up to shave and don their best uniforms, but Danny had to settle for wrinkled trousers.
He found Akash in the mess, where the soldiers shoveled porridge into their mouths like it was a competition. Akash didn’t look like he’d slept, either.
“What are we going to do?” Akash asked.
“Just look out for anything suspicious. If we see an officer, we can try to convince him. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait for Dryden.”
If Dryden was even coming.
And there was still the matter of the clock tower. Danny’s power kept straining toward it; he wished he could duplicate himself and guard the tower with the soldiers inside the city. Zavier was nearby, he was sure of it. He could imagine him on the observation deck of the Prometheus, waiting for his chance to strike.
The soldiers filed out of the mess into a clear yet strangely chilly dawn. The men were in high spirits, their hair slicked back and boots shined to perfection. Danny noticed a few disapproving glances at his messy state.
On the parade grounds, ranks of infantry and cavalry marched with banners and standards fluttering in the wind, their drums puncturing the air with deep, reverberating pulses. The rhythm synced with Danny’s heartbeat and made his chest ache. He looked at the other regiments already in position, flawless squares of bodies all turned toward the dais where the replica of the Queen’s throne sat. Someone had brought a large portrait of Her Majesty and placed it on the throne, a gaudy if necessary reminder of why they were all gathered.
To the right, Danny noticed an assembly of riflemen standing at ease, guns perched on their shoulders. His breath caught.
“That’s them,” he hissed at Akash as they got into position.
“Should we do something?”
Danny bit his lip. A colonel was walking down the line, hands behind his back, making sure not a hair was out of place. Danny was about to draw his attention when a roar went through the ranks. Viceroy Lytton had taken the stage.
Lytton was a composed-looking man with dark hair and an impressive beard. He was neither portly nor broad, but held himself in a way that made him seem large, as if his reputation had a direct correlation to his stature. He cut an interesting figure in a long blue satin mantle, an insignia of Knight Grand Commander sewn onto his breast.
Lytton held up his hands to quiet the cheer before gesturing to the portrait of Victoria.
“This day belongs to our beloved Queen, now Queen-Empress of India. And what a fitting title it is. Her Majesty …”
His voice droned on as Danny looked around, waiting, searching, hoping. Dryden had to come. He had to be here.
“And now, the proclamation.” Lytton stepped back and allowed a man dressed in a herald’s tabard to come forward. The herald began to read the official proclamation in English, then read it again in Urdu. Danny’s eyes kept darting to the riflemen, but not one of them had moved.
Who will it be? When is it coming? Sweat dripped into his eyes and his breathing grew uneven, body humming with the urgent need to move.
If Dryden wasn’t coming, he would need to take matters into his own hands.
One soul against thousands.
The auto sped furiously from Agra to the camp outside of Delhi. Daphne was staggered by the durbar’s size and gaped as they drove past.
Or at least, she thought they would drive past. She rocked forward when Partha slammed on the brakes. Without a word, Harris leapt from the auto.
“Captain, what are you doing?” Daphne demanded, opening the side door.
“Please stay inside, Miss Richards. Partha will take you to the clock tower, where Mr. Hart is.” Harris opened and closed the boot, holding his rifle. “I’m required here.”
“What? But I don’t under—Colton!”
The spirit had thrown open his door and took off running toward the camp, his boots kicking up clouds of dirt. Harris swore and followed. Before Daphne and Meena could get out, the auto jerked forward and they were thrown back into their seats.
“Partha!” Daphne yelled. “Stop!”
“I can’t, Miss Richards.” He glanced back at her, eyes tight with regret. “I apologize.”
Meena shouted at him in Hindi. Whatever she said made Partha clench his jaw, but the sepoy wouldn’t stop. They zoomed into the city, navigating congested streets and earning more than one curse as Partha sped by rickshaws and pedestrians.
Daphne felt the tower before she saw it. It was tall and narrow, trimmed with marble, and topped with a fat bell enclosed by columns.
The street around the tower was teeming with guards. When it became clear they wouldn’t move another inch, Partha parked and got out. Daphne scrambled after him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted over the noise in the street. “Why did Captain Harris go into the durbar? Why didn’t you stop for Colton?”
He gave her that expression again—that same complicated mix of sadness, frustration, and determination.
“I am very sorry you had to get involved in this, Miss Richards,” he said. “Please get as far away from here as possible.”