Chainbreaker

by Tara Sim

  “I want you to sit here, out of the way, while I find help,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I won’t leave unless you agree.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  Akash walked to the alley’s mouth, looked both ways, then slipped back into the throng.

  Danny sat at the base of the stone building. It smelled like piss and rotting sewage, but he didn’t care. His mind was riffling through scenarios and theories. What did furious joy mean? How would Viceroy Lytton be targeted? How much time did they have? When would Zavier find him again?

  He laid his forehead on his knees. He couldn’t go back to that airship, to those people. Enfield, Colton, his parents—they needed him. As soon as this was over, he would go back to London and …

  And what? Let Zavier and his cronies destroy more towers?

  “Bollocks,” he whispered. “No one can win here, can they?”

  A noise made him look up, but it was only Akash coming back. He knelt before Danny, out of breath and wearing a victorious smile.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  Danny shifted and did as he was told. Akash unwrapped the scarf, then picked up a wicked set of shears. Danny recoiled.

  “You’re going to chop one of my hands off with those! Where did you get them?”

  “A blacksmith wasn’t looking.”

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you?”

  Akash shrugged. “Meena and I were bored as children. We needed something to pass the time.” When Danny’s lips thinned, he laughed. “We always gave back what we took. Now show me your hands.”

  Danny reluctantly extended his arms again. Akash studied the handcuffs, then wedged the shears between the metal cuff and his right hand. Danny closed his eyes tight, felt a pinching sensation by his thumb, and heard metal clatter to the ground.

  “Once more,” Akash said. Danny peeked as the shears bit into the metal of the remaining cuff, and then he was free.

  He rubbed his wrists. “Now what?”

  “Now, I return these.”

  When Akash came back ten minutes later, Danny said, “The only thing I can think to do is find the highest-ranking officer we can and tell him what we know. That way, the soldiers have more information about the terrorists and the rebels, and they can put a stop to the assassination before it’s too late.”

  Akash frowned, doubtful. “Do you think they will believe you? Major Dryden is one thing, but he’s in Agra.” Danny ignored the hint of accusation in his voice. “No one here will know who you are, nor will they trust you. Especially with me at your side.”

  “We have to at least try. Do you know where the nearest billet is?”

  “I’ve run messages here many times. Follow me.”

  They waded against the stream of people, toward an eastern section of the city. The smell of roasting lamb and potatoes made Danny’s stomach tighten, but he forced himself to stay on course.

  The squat, whitewashed building was separated awkwardly from those around it. Akash gestured to Danny to go in first. He was almost immediately stopped by a British private.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Danny floundered, but Akash thought quicker on his feet. “We need to see the senior officer here.”

  The private raised a self-important eyebrow. “And why is that?”

  “We’re messengers. We bring word from Major Dryden in Agra.”

  The private considered this, eyeing them contemptuously. They were rumpled and likely carried the smell of the alley with them. “Our officers have gone to the durbar already. We’re to follow in the morning. I’m afraid you won’t find who you’re looking for here.”

  “There has to be someone,” Danny insisted. “Surely they left behind a few soldiers in charge.”

  “There’s Corporal Fledger, but good luck speaking to him. He’s busy with the preparations.”

  “May we at least try?”

  Shrugging, the private turned and led them down a hallway. He knocked on a door and a voice barked out, “What?”

  “Messengers to see you, sir. They’re from Agra.”

  The door opened, and a frazzled man with a cleft chin leaned out.

  “Message, then.” He held out his hand.

  Danny cleared his throat. “It’s a verbal report, Corporal.”

  The man clenched his jaw and gestured them inside with a sharp flick of his fingers. Danny caught the private’s disappointed look before the door closed on him. No doubt he was starved for gossip.

  “Spit it out,” Corporal Fledger ordered, returning to his desk where he resumed organizing his scattered notes.

  “Sir,” Danny began, “we have some troubling news. Viceroy Lytton is in danger. We think there may be an attack during tomorrow’s ceremonies.”

  Corporal Fledger put his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “And?”

  Danny blinked. “And? What do you mean, and?”

  “He’s the viceroy. If at least ten people don’t want him dead, he isn’t doing his damn job!”

  “But, the Indian rebels—”

  “What’s this, unhappy Indians? I’ll alert the papers.” Fledger glowered at Akash. “Listen, boys, tell whoever you work for that I’m far too busy to waste time on conspiracy theories.”

  “Sir, if you would just listen—!”

  “The viceroy is guarded day and night. The rajas are too greedy to off the likes of him. And, by God, if one mutiny was snuffed out, so will another if it comes to that. Now, kindly leave me to my work.”

  They were shooed out of the room and the door was slammed in their faces.

  Akash shrugged. “I told you they wouldn’t listen.”

  “They have to! Doesn’t he understand?”

  “I’m sure he’s heard all manner of threats. It’s their job to expect the worst, after all.”

  Danny bit his knuckle, thinking. “We have to do something if Corporal Arsehole won’t. We need to tell the senior officers.”

  “And how will we do that? Sneak into the camp?” Akash saw the look in Danny’s eyes and his own widened. “Really?”

  “It’s the only option we have left.”

  “It isn’t! We can still go to Agra and—”

  “Get caught by Zavier again? Absolutely not.”

  “If a corporal won’t believe us, what makes you think a colonel or a general will?”

  “I don’t know, I just—I just have to do everything I possibly can.” He ran shaking hands through his hair. “First, we need to find a laundry room.”

  Danny picked through the washed sepoy uniforms drying on a rack. “This one looks like it should fit you.”

  “We can’t just take them.”

  Danny snorted. “Says the man who stole from a blacksmith.”

  “I only steal what can be given back.” Akash licked his lips, more nervous than Danny had ever seen him. “What if we can’t return these? If the British officers catch me …”

  Understanding made Danny grimace. “I’ll take the blame, if it comes to that. Besides, we don’t have much choice.”

  Akash grumbled in Hindi as he pulled on the uniform. The closest fitting British uniform Danny could find for himself was tight in the shoulders, and he could see a bit more boot at the ankle than he would have liked. Now that he thought about it, his normal clothes had felt a little uncomfortable lately. Maybe he had grown again. His mother would have a fit.

  Danny pulled a cap down low over his eyes. “There, that shouldn’t draw attention.” Danny rummaged through his discarded trousers, drawing out Colton’s cog. Putting it in his new pocket, he nodded to the door. “Now we need a place to think till morning.”

  They found an abandoned room that looked to have recently housed a couple of officers. Akash worried that said officers might still be in the city, but after a glance at the empty drawers, Danny rather doubted it.

  Hungry, they sat in the dark and murmured pla
ns, all of which made little to no sense.

  “But if we find the viceroy himself—”

  “What do you think he would do?” Akash asked. “Sit us down and discuss his assassination over tea?”

  “It’s what I would do.”

  “Of course you would, but you’re not the viceroy. He is very important, and very busy. We’d never be given a private audience, and we have no idea who the rebels in the camp might be. They could be in his personal guard, for all we know.”

  Danny chewed on his thumbnail. He could hardly see Akash in the darkness, but he heard him tapping his fingers against his thigh. Daphne did the same thing when she was working through a problem.

  “We should have just gone back to Agra and warned the major,” Akash said.

  “Yes, and then have the whole cantonment attacked. Brilliant idea.”

  Akash sighed. A few minutes of silence crept by, and Danny lay down on the hard bed. He wanted to sleep, but his mind kept whirring, desperately seeking a solution.

  “Danny? Maybe … Maybe we should just let it happen.”

  Danny slowly sat back up, staring at the dark shape that was Akash. “What are you saying?”

  Akash shifted. “I don’t want anyone to die, on either side. But maybe, if an attack is inevitable, we should just let it happen. Maybe it won’t even succeed. Us becoming involved might not change anything.”

  When Danny stayed silent, Akash stood and joined him on his bed. “Danny, please listen. Do you know what they call Lytton’s rule? The Black Raj. He’s a man who likes finery—he doesn’t care about the Indian people. Even when a British man killed his Indian coachman, Lytton only fined the man thirty rupees. For killing a man, just because he was Indian.”

  “So all the Indians want Lytton dead?”

  “No, that … that’s not what I mean.” Akash rubbed his hands against his trouser legs. “All I’m saying is that maybe this is over our heads. We shouldn’t risk ourselves and the others on nothing more than a guess.”

  Danny lay down again, nudging Akash off his bed. “You can stay here in the morning, then. I’ll go by myself.”

  Akash stood there a moment longer, then returned to his own bed. Danny listened to their combined breathing in the small space.

  “I’ll go with you,” Akash finally whispered. “I promised Daphne.”

  “That’s not reason enough.”

  “And because I’m concerned for you.”

  Danny closed his eyes and turned onto his side. “Thank you.”

  He hoped he wouldn’t come to regret the decision.

  The next morning was chaos. Corporal Fledger barked orders for privates to hurry to the autos, which awaited them outside the city. They would be spending the next two days at the campgrounds. Tomorrow was New Year’s Day and Victoria’s coronation as Empress of India.

  “Smith, are you a bloody woman? You don’t need all this for one night! Higgins, fix your damned hair, you look like a fool. You two!”

  Danny and Akash, who had tried to sneak past the corporal in the hubbub, froze. The corporal consulted his list, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Auto four, and be quick about it!”

  Danny’s “Yes, sir!” was closely followed by Akash’s “Haan, sahib.” They hurried away from the screaming corporal and into the busy Delhi street, thankful they hadn’t been recognized.

  Danny hesitated and turned toward the Delhi clock tower, as if tethered to its power. He remembered Zavier’s threat all too well. He could stay here in the city. He could try to protect the tower along with the soldiers assigned to guard it.

  But if the rebels succeeded, even more towers would fall, and even more innocent lives would be taken.

  He had to weigh one soul against thousands.

  Hand tight around the small cog in his pocket, Danny turned in the direction of the durbar.

  It was easy enough to follow the other privates toward Delhi’s perimeter, where a row of battered autos waited. Danny and Akash approached an officer with a clipboard, who glanced at the names on their uniforms.

  “Wilson and Chopra, auto four.”

  The driver took off as soon as they were inside. Danny looked behind him as the city grew smaller, hoping that the real Wilson and Chopra wouldn’t look for auto four and already find it gone.

  It didn’t take long to reach the enormous durbar campgrounds. They’d overheard that it had taken thousands of laborers to prepare all the tents, the parade grounds, and even a replica of the throne of England.

  The British driver glanced back at them and grinned at their awe. “The rajas have already come, and what a spectacle they made of it. The viceroy arrived a few days ago. Shoulda seen it, riding in on a big ol’ elephant, cavalry and trumpeters trailing along.”

  Danny did in fact see the elephants on the outskirts of camp. They were clad in chainmail, their faces painted orange and green, with festive streamers hanging from their tusks. He swallowed. As magnificent as they appeared, it wouldn’t take much for one to step on him and crush him into jam. People were meant to ride them?

  They clambered out of the auto when it parked, finding themselves on an avenue between tents that stretched toward the parade grounds. The sheer number of soldiers and servants milling about, combined with the village-like quality of the tent formations, was overwhelming.

  “Chod,” Akash said under his breath. “How are we supposed to find the viceroy in this?”

  The officer who’d waved them inside approached them. “You two, where are your accommodations?”

  “We don’t know,” Danny admitted. “No one told us.”

  The soldier looked furiously through his notes. “Chopra—you’re in E45. Wilson—N15.”

  “But we don’t know where—”

  The officer turned back to his work, arguing with a sepoy in Urdu. Akash tugged on Danny’s sleeve and they ducked around a tent.

  “We should probably split up to cover more ground,” Danny suggested.

  “Let’s at least try to find out where the viceroy is staying.”

  Agreeing to meet back at the same spot around noon, they took off.

  Danny was sweating under a fierce midmorning sun as he weaved through the other soldiers, trying to get his bearings. There was plenty to take in. Large, ornate tents had their flaps pinned back to reveal Indian princes reclining within, sipping cool drinks. Other tents weren’t quite as grand, and Danny noticed that while a few had special banners embroidered with coats of arms and crests, others did not. The poorer rajas could be seen sulking and glaring at the servants of the richer princes. One loudly complained to a British soldier in the middle of the street, his red turban wobbling with anger.

  “I do not see why it is different,” he said. “I would like a banner as well!”

  The soldier rubbed his temples. “It’s only the rajas of the feudatory states who get to have banners, not the independent ones.”

  But the rajas, vain as peacocks, all wanted to outdo one another. The number of servants and the quality of their ornamentation were on full display. Even the entertainment was pitted against each other; many had brought servants who doubled as musicians. One raja had gone so far as to bring a whole corps of Indian bagpipers dressed as Scottish Highlanders, complete with pink leggings so as to look “authentic.” Another boasted a piper with the most enormous yellow headdress Danny had ever seen. There was even a musician with gilded armor, whom Danny felt especially sorry for. But his personal favorite was a poor raja’s attendant who ground out “God Save the Queen” on a hand organ.

  Distracted as he was by his surroundings, Danny tried to look for someone to speak to. Every officer he encountered brushed him aside or barked at him to get back to his duties. Danny got the sinking feeling that Akash had been right after all. No one would listen to a young private with grandiose threats.

  He asked a couple of lesser-ranked soldiers what was going to happen at the coronation the next day, and what they were expected to d
o. He received looks of surprise and contempt, mistaken for a green private who hadn’t bothered to listen to his superiors. Still, he was grudgingly given basic information: the layout of the four durbar sectors, where the viceroy’s camp was, and that all soldiers were expected to attend Lytton’s speech.

  “We even get an extra day’s pay,” a second lieutenant said. “And I heard the ones who were exiled after the Mutiny will be granted amnesty.”

  “They’ll be pardoned?”

  “I expect so.”

  He wondered if Zavier and his rebel friends knew, and if they’d even care.

  Before he went back to the meeting spot, he wandered toward the viceroy’s camp, which was heavily guarded. Tents were neatly lined in two rows that extended all the way to a huge tent. Nearby, an iron structure had been raised, painted in the colors of Her Majesty’s flag.

  Patrolling soldiers gave him disapproving looks. Danny nervously smiled and retreated. There was no way to get to Lytton directly, then; he couldn’t even convince a low-ranking officer to bring Lytton a message.

  Danny stopped in his tracks. Message.

  “Is there a telegraph here?” he asked a passing soldier, who pointed the way to a command tent near the center of the durbar. Danny eventually found the tent where a few officers were flipping through papers and wiring commands through a clunky metal telegraph.

  Danny approached the man handling the telegraph machine and cleared his throat. The man blinked up at him through thick spectacles. Danny didn’t think he was a soldier. All the better.

  “Message needs to be sent down to Agra,” Danny said in his best authoritative voice. “To Major Dryden’s cantonment.”

  The man readied the machine. “And what is the message?”

  Danny forced himself not to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The communication had to be something obvious, but not so simple as to avoid notice. The man waited patiently, and Danny took a deep breath.

  “D.H. in Delhi,” he decided at last. “V.L. requiring his service.” But how to tell them he was in the camp, and not the city? “Er … God save the Queen.”

  The man obediently typed out the message. “Anything else?”

  Danny hesitated. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.