The bearers set the palanquin down, and Daphne hopped out, unimpeded by her Bounding uniform. Behind her, Bess emerged from her own litter, shaking out her skirts. Today she wore her own uniform, a black military-style jacket trimmed with black ribbon over an ordinary blue muslin gown, signaling that she was on duty with the War Office. “You look so official, I feel I should do the same,” she had said that morning as they dressed. “Though this jacket is so very warm, I almost regret the decision. Today is sure to be especially hot.”
At the moment, Bess did not look overheated, merely saying, as she approached Daphne, “It is a beautiful morning, but I hope for all our sakes Captain Fletcher discovers the information he needs quickly. The clear sky suggests the afternoon will be unbearable.”
“I will be happy to return you to the Residence—”
“I can endure a little heat, Daphne, and I admit to some curiosity about the truth behind our nonexistent missionaries. There, the captain is beckoning to us, we should join him.”
Fletcher looked a good deal more cheerful than he had the previous night, smiling pleasantly at them both. “I feel optimistic,” he said, “that we will learn much today. But I would like you both to stay close to me, and observe those to whom I do not speak. Were I an Extraordinary Discerner, I should be able to sense those who feel guilty or angry in the presence of a European simply by being nearby, but being constrained to touch others to feel their emotions, I am limited to perceiving one person at a time. Your observations may show me where best to direct my efforts.”
It sounded reasonable, though Daphne still suspected he was to some degree making work for them. “We will do our best, Captain.”
“The rest of you, spread out, and pay careful attention to the mood of the bazaar,” Fletcher told the other officers. “We will meet here in two hours to share information and make a new decision as to our direction.”
“I will remain in contact with Miss Hanley, just in case,” Phillips said. The ensign spoke with calm confidence now that he had instructions and a purpose. Daphne had grown fond of him over the past few days, once he stopped blushing and stammering in her presence.
“And if for some reason Captain Fletcher changes the rendezvous time or place, I will immediately inform you all of it,” Bess said.
“Agreed,” said Fletcher. “Good luck to you all.”
Once more Daphne followed Fletcher into the bazaar. It was, if anything, more noisy and hot and smelly than the first time, filled with people all shouting at each other in languages Daphne did not understand. They seemed on the verge of breaking into a fist fight, but Fletcher walked through the crowds unconcerned about the potential for violence, so Daphne stayed close and tried to ignore her inner sense that told her to Skip away. Beside her, Bess shared Fletcher’s calm, though she could not know the languages any more than Daphne did. It embarrassed Daphne to be so lily-livered as to fear nothing more than loud conversations.
A hand tugged on her sleeve, and Daphne stopped, startled. It was the wizened, toothless woman who had sold her the bracelet. She patted Daphne’s arm and said something that sounded like a question. “Oh!” Daphne said, and pushed her left sleeve up. “Yes, I am wearing it.” She had not removed it since the day she had purchased it and was not sure why, except that it was beautiful and made her feel connected to this strange country she was now a part of.
The woman smiled and tapped the bracelet, tracing the outline of one of the fire-flowers and saying repeatedly, “Agnidāha, agnidāha.”
“What does that mean? Oh, you cannot understand me, and I cannot understand you, forgive my ignorance!”
“It means… ‘fire-flame’ is, I suppose, the best translation,” Fletcher said, appearing out of nowhere. “It is also the word for an Extraordinary Scorcher, in Hindoostani.”
“She does not suppose I am an Extraordinary Scorcher, does she? Simply because I purchased this bracelet?”
“I believe it is merely coincidence.” Fletcher said a few words to the woman, whose smile became even brighter as she responded. “She says you are bright, like the fire, but you are no Scorcher. It seems she is a Seer, and Dreamed of you before you met the other day. She chose the bracelet for you, as a mark of your friendship for India.”
“Oh! Can you tell her—give her my thanks?”
Fletcher spoke again to the woman, who patted Daphne’s arm again, then pressed her palms together and bowed. She said something to Daphne, and Fletcher said, “She, ah, wishes you good health and prosperity.”
Daphne raised her eyebrows. “That is not what she said.”
“You are observant, aren’t you? What she said was she wished us both happiness and, er, fertility. Apparently she believes we are married. To each other.”
Daphne reddened, and made herself laugh in a lighthearted way. “That is very kind of her, don’t you agree?” She put her palms together and returned the woman’s bow. “I suppose it is a natural mistake.”
“Of course.” Fletcher bowed to the woman, then glanced at Bess, who looked as if she were suppressing laughter. “Shall we move on, ladies?”
Daphne could not look directly at Bess for fear of either erupting with laughter or bursting into embarrassed flames, thus disproving the woman’s assertion that she was no Scorcher. “Certainly, Captain.”
She spent the next hour surveying the crowds that surrounded them as they moved through the bazaar. Most of the faces she examined were not friendly. Though they rarely looked directly at her, their eyes and mouths stilled when the three of them were nearby, and Daphne watched their stiffened, angry bodies and wondered if she should warn Fletcher that the potential for violence was high. Fletcher seemed unaware of it, possibly because he was intent on his many conversations. As the sun rode higher in the sky, Daphne drew closer to Bess and calculated whether she was, in fact, strong enough to convey two passengers at once, should that become necessary.
She became aware of the stranger when they stopped at a sweetmeat stand for Fletcher to carry on a conversation with the owner. She had seen him earlier that day, once or twice, but this was the first time she was aware that he had been following them. He was of no more than average height, his skin darker than most, and his eyes glinted a strangely light color that in his dark face looked like glass struck by sunlight. She had the strongest feeling she had seen him before, not in the bazaar, but somewhere else.
As he turned to walk away, she remembered—he had been at the old palace the day she and Fletcher had gone there. They had stared rudely, challengingly at each other. And now he was here in the bazaar, staring at her again. Fletcher was still carrying on a conversation and sounded intent on it. She should not interrupt him for something so potentially trivial. “Bess, I will return shortly,” she said.
“Daphne, where are you going?”
“I am… investigating. I promise not to go far.” With that, she followed the stranger.
He did not seem to notice she was following him. It was odd, how the crowds parted for him the way they did for her, though in her case it was clearly because she was European, female, and alone. That thought almost stopped her where she strode. Fletcher had said the bazaar was not dangerous, but he had not intended that she and Bess be alone in it, and that had been before the strange dark mood had descended over most of its inhabitants. She shook off her momentary unease and kept going.
The noise was intensifying, the shouting growing harsher and louder, but the stranger continued to walk as if none of it mattered to him at all. Daphne walked faster, feeling a sudden urge to catch up to the man and force him to explain himself—though what he had to explain, she did not know, as all he had done was be mysterious and stare at her in an unfriendly fashion. Men and a few women crowded in on her from all sides. None of them touched her, but Daphne felt again fear and a need to escape. I am not so craven, she told herself, and at that moment discovered her quarry had disappeared.
Someone shouted, a long string of syllables that rang out abov
e the murmuring. A crash echoed through the bazaar, the sound of glass shattering. The crowd’s shouting turned into a roar, and suddenly Daphne was buffeted by grasping hands, surrounded by faces distorted with fury.
She shrieked, wrestled free of the hands trying to lay hold on her, and Skipped straight up. From five hundred feet above, the bazaar was a riot of color—no, it was a riot, an actual riot, bodies swirling and weaving in a pattern that made sense only at this distance. She Skipped again to maintain altitude and surveyed the landscape. The riot was spreading outward from where she had stood, overwhelming stalls and wreaking havoc on those poor souls whose wares were spread on the ground. She could not see Fletcher anywhere—of course she could not; at her height people were mere dots of color, moving with the tide of the mob.
She Skipped back in the direction she thought she had left Bess and Fletcher, but everything looked so different from above, and she had not paid close attention to where she was going—
~Daphne! Daphne!~
“Bess!” she shrieked, not that her friend could hear her.
~Daphne, it is a riot! You must return immediately. We are at the barber’s stall, but we cannot remain here long.~
Daphne Skipped low, skimming the tops of the stalls, darting from place to place as she sought frantically for her friends. Finally, she saw a canvas roof she recognized, and Skipped to find herself only feet from Bess and Fletcher. Madly screaming men darted past, carrying miscellaneous items stolen from the stalls. Some of them were armed with lengths of wood or long knives and were advancing on the barber’s tent.
Fletcher had put Bess behind him and stood armed with one of the tent-poles, a long and awkward weapon. “Lady Daphne!” he shouted. “You must take Miss Hanley and yourself to safety!”
“But what of you?”
“I will be—move!”
Daphne Skipped upward a few dozen feet and looked down in time to see Fletcher wield his ungainly weapon against a man carrying a knife long enough to be a short sword. “Go, now!” he shouted.
Daphne Skipped past him, snatched Bess up, and Bounded them both to the safety of the Residence’s central hall. Bess’s spectacles had slipped down her nose and her hair was untidy, and she was breathing as heavily as if they had run the distance to the Residence instead of Bounding. “You must help him,” she said.
“I cannot Bound to an outdoor location!”
“Then Skip. But—” She tilted her head back. “Ensign Phillips says Captain Ainsworth has been injured. He has not seen Lieutenant Wright. They need your help, Daphne.”
“Tell me where they are,” Daphne said, and ran for the door.
Once in the courtyard, she Skipped to a point near the center of the bazaar, high above the peaks of its canvas roofs. It was pointless, she was too high up to see any of her friends, but it was the best she could manage.
~Daphne, Ensign Phillips says they are trapped on the north side. There is a stall with a blue roof on one side and a display of brass pots on the other, only the pots have been kicked about, so you may not see many of them.~
Daphne had never wished so fervently that Extraordinary Speakers could read minds, for her to send an answering message to Bess. She Skipped northward, then Skipped again, and again, keeping herself some fifty feet above the tallest peaks while she scanned the bazaar. Oh, if only Fletcher had permitted them to wear their red coats, so bright and easy to see! Then they… likely would have incited the riot that much earlier. Perhaps she should stop wishing for things and concentrate on finding Phillips.
There. A blue swathe of canvas, and near it, the glint of sunlight on brass. Daphne Skipped one final time and found herself behind a makeshift barricade. Phillips had concealed them well, because the rioters ignored it, shouting and screaming past it.
“There you are,” Phillips said. His red hair was dark with sweat, and his shirt was torn. “Take him, Lady Daphne. Don’t worry about me.” He knelt on the ground, supporting Ainsworth, who lay still and unconscious. His face was—
The world spun, and flecks of light pulsed before Daphne’s eyes. She found herself face-first on the ground, which felt unnaturally cool against her skin. Breathing deeply and desperately, she said, “Oh, Ensign, I cannot—his face—”
“Are you well, Lady Daphne? Were you injured?” Phillips took her arm just above the elbow and tried to pull her up. Dizzy, swaying, she closed her eyes tight and tried not to inhale too deeply.
“It is the blood—I cannot bear the sight of blood—forgive me, Ensign, I cannot!”
“Stay still,” Phillips said, and Daphne focused on breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, though she could not remember if that was the right way round—should it be in through the mouth, and out through the nose? She heard rustling, and the movement of cloth, almost inaudible next to the shouting of the rioters.
“There. I have cleaned him as best I can,” Phillips said. “Go quickly, before he bleeds again, and don’t look at his face if you can help it.”
Daphne nodded, her eyes still closed. She felt around until she found Ainsworth’s chest, then wormed her arms beneath his shoulders and under his knees. With a grunt, she lifted him—he was a good deal heavier than Fletcher—and heard him groan in pain, then she Bounded to the Residence and set him down in the hallway, quickly and not very gently. “Bess!” she shouted. “Someone needs to care for Captain Ainsworth!” Without waiting for a reply, she ran back outside and Skipped.
It took her only two Skips to return to Phillips’ side. He crouched at the edge of the barricade, eyeing the crowds, and jumped slightly when she appeared beside him. “Where is Lieutenant Wright?” he said.
“Later,” Daphne said, “we must go now.” She hoisted him by the waist until she supported his weight entirely, then Bounded away. Both Bess and Sir Rodney were in the hall, along with a few of the Residence’s native servants. Two of them held Ainsworth between them and were carrying him, limp and helpless, toward the drawing room. Bright blood dripped down the side of Ainsworth’s face, and Daphne turned away, feeling the world whirl about her. No, I will not succumb! she told herself fiercely, chanting it silently to herself before looking back at Ainsworth—and the dizziness claimed her, and she sat hard on the tiles and put her head between her knees.
“Daphne. Daphne, what is the matter? Are you injured?” Bess exclaimed.
Daphne shook her head without raising it. “I am well, it is nothing.” Horror pierced the weary fog surrounding her. “Captain Fletcher—I left him, I forgot entirely!”
“I will tell him you are coming. Go, now!”
Daphne pushed herself to her feet and ran for the door.
The barber’s tent had collapsed when she reached it, the stool cracked into two pieces and strewn across the wreckage of the canvas. Fletcher was nowhere to be seen. The rioters had passed this area, leaving destruction in their wake. Daphne Skipped high enough to survey the area, hoping against reason to see Fletcher or Wright against the sea of humanity whose tides had swept the length of the bazaar. Wrecked tents and canopies were all that was left to the north and west of the bazaar. Rioters still smashed and looted their way eastward. Stall owners, at least Daphne presumed they were the owners, picked their way through the destruction they left behind. It was the saddest thing Daphne had ever seen, and it filled her with rage at those who had so callously smashed the livelihood of their fellows.
She Skipped lower, skimming just feet above the crowds, not caring when they exclaimed and pointed, wishing she dared fall far enough to kick some of them in their sneering, angry faces. Some of them were battered and bloody. Some of them lay motionless on the ground, their limbs contorted in ways that suggested they would never rise again. She Skipped far away from those, breathing deeply. Perhaps if she did not have to smell the blood—no, it made no difference, and she hated herself for her weakness.
She saw no one she recognized, not even the stranger with the glass-bright eyes, certainly not any Europeans. After crossing
the bazaar twice, she Bounded back to the Residence and hurried to the drawing room door. The air was thick with the smell of an oncoming storm and the sharp coppery smell of blood, leaving her dizzy and in need of clear, fresh air. “Bess?” she called out, not daring to enter the room.
“You did not find them?” Bess said, coming to the door. “Daphne, you look very unwell. Are you sure—”
“I hoped they might have returned here. I will search again. Tell them both—tell them to return to the Residence if they can, and if not… I will simply have to find them.”
Safely in the sky once more, Daphne inhaled the fresh, damp air and felt her head clear instantly. She was beginning to tire from all the mad Skipping about, but she could not rest so long as Fletcher and Wright were not safe. She returned to the barber’s stall like a pigeon returning to its roost, feeling obscurely that Fletcher would find his way here of all places, if he could return. Nothing had changed. The bits of stool still scattered across the canvas, which lay draped in great humps across the ground. Daphne could not remember what else had been in the stall to make such lumps.
She picked up a fold and shrieked. Boots, still on someone’s feet. Proper military boots—
She shoved the canvas out of the way; it moved slowly, as if made of iron rather than cloth. Gradually she piled it up to one side. Fletcher lay motionless, curled on one side with his arm up to protect his head. Blood pooled around his body, saturated his shirt. Daphne cried out, and grey mist claimed her vision, clogged her eyes and nostrils with the sharp smell of blood.
In which Daphne saves a life, but refuses to be thanked
he came to herself after an eternity, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, half-collapsed over Fletcher’s body. The faintest groan escaped his lips, startling her back to full consciousness. He was alive. Alive, but for how much longer? If she could not exert herself, it might not be very long.
Daphne forced herself to sit upright and breathe deeply. The stink of fresh blood was everywhere, dizzying her—no, she would not succumb, not now that she had a chance to redeem herself. Carefully, she crouched next to Fletcher’s supine form and wriggled her arms beneath his shoulders and under his knees. How long had he lain there, untended, unnoticed? She had stood right next to him and never realized—well, that line of thought was pointless, and she was stalling.
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