by Jordan Rivet
An Imposter with a Crown
Empire of Talents Book Two
Jordan Rivet
Copyright © 2018 by Jordan Rivet
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contact the author at [email protected]
For updates and discounts on new releases, join Jordan Rivet’s mailing list.
Cover by Deranged Doctor Design
Edited by Red Adept Publishing
Map by Jordan Rivet
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated in memory of my grandpa,
Keith Frederick Young.
1922-2017
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jordan Rivet
Chapter One
Mica ran her fingers through her dark-red hair. It fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, shimmering in the light of a thousand candles. She wore a midnight-blue gown and a silver tiara, which shone as bright as if a star had come down from the heavens to grace the ballroom. From her sumptuous attire to every detail of her face, Mica looked like a princess.
It was the two hundredth anniversary of the formation of the Windfast Empire, and Mica was hosting the celebratory ball—one of her many duties as the full-time Impersonator for the real princess.
Mica had never been to such an extravagant party. It felt as though half the population of the city filled the Silver Palace’s main ballroom. Black fabric draped the walls, and the candles arranged at different levels gave the impression of a starry firmament enveloping the dancing couples. Tables piled with decadent cakes and savory delicacies lined the room, each surrounded by a horde of chattering guests. Flowers had been shipped in from warmer climes, and the smell of jasmine mingled with the perfumes of the ladies and the sugary aroma of winter wine.
Mica glided across the polished dance floor, searching for a woman she had never seen before. Hundreds of faces whirled by, painted lips, oiled mustaches, and flushed cheeks on display. Spirits were high among the revelers, but Mica ignored the frivolity and concentrated on her mission.
She was looking for a spymistress.
The islands that made up the empire had sent their most prominent nobles and governors to the capital for the anniversary ball. One of these noble ladies could hold the key to a mystery Mica had been trying to solve for nearly two months, ever since she assumed the role of imposter for Princess Jessamyn Styldier, the emperor’s daughter.
Mica had urged the princess to attend the ball herself in the days leading up to the celebration.
“It would be the perfect time to tell everyone what happened to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Micathea,” Jessamyn had said. “The two hundredth anniversary is far too important for such a distraction.” She handed Mica a list of demands to relay to the palace steward on her behalf, including the request for thousands of candles of varying heights. “Now remember: the stars will represent the individuals that make up the Windfast Empire. Even though they’re all from different islands, the effect is more beautiful when everyone is united.”
Mica scanned the list, written in Jessamyn’s elegant hand. “Will the guests know that?”
“They’d better. Otherwise, those lovely wall hangings will go to waste.”
“Maybe you should be there so you can tell—”
“I don’t have all day, Micathea. Let’s discuss the entertainment for the cocktail hour.”
Mica had gritted her teeth as Jessamyn yet again refused to disclose she had been poisoned. Her insistence on maintaining the imposter charade was beginning to worry Mica. Jessamyn seemed to think her disfigured face would return to normal, leaving no one the wiser, but she had shown no signs of improvement in two months. Even Emperor Styl still didn’t know that Lord Ober had nearly killed his daughter.
Mica found Jessamyn’s stubbornness especially frustrating. As long as she insisted on keeping this crime a secret, catching Lord Ober was harder than it should be. He and his wife had fled the capital, and Mica still hadn’t been able to discover their whereabouts. She hoped to make progress on that front tonight.
Heads turned to watch as Mica crossed the ballroom, her lively steps moving in time with the dance music. She wore the princess’s old face—which was stunning. Glowing skin. Big brown eyes. Expressive eyebrows. Rose-red lips. In addition to taking on her features, Mica had worked hard to perfect the energetic mannerisms and charisma that contributed to Jessamyn’s unique allure. The impersonation had to be perfect. She couldn’t make a single absentminded gesture without it being noticed by a dozen pairs of eyes.
Just keep this up for a little while longer, she told herself. When the empire is stable again, Jessamyn will take back her crown, and you can get on with your mission.
Being the center of attention made it difficult to connect with her spymistress, but Mica hoped to get a report from her anyway before the night was over. Based in Winnow Bay, the noblewoman and her network of informants had helped track Lord Ober’s movements. He had kept busy since he left Jewel Harbor, and Mica feared she was running out of time to bring him to justice.
As Mica maneuvered through the candlelit room, she ran through the list Jessamyn had given her of everyone she needed to greet in addition to the elusive spymistress. Mica had studied hard in the weeks leading up to the imperial ball so she could recognize the visitors from across the empire and welcome them with the appropriate levels of enthusiasm or disdain, depending on what Jessamyn wanted to accomplish.
She spotted two of the ladies on her list of targets by the entrance to the palace gardens, chatting with strained smiles on their faces. Ingrid and Elana hated each other—a fact that was well known at court—but they kept up the façade of courtesy that was second nature to all the nobles.
I suppose they’re guests, not targets.
Mica swept toward them. “Lady Elana, Lady Ingrid. How lovely to see you both!”
The women greeted her enthusiastically, both looking grateful for the interruption.
“Princess Jessamyn, you must allow me to borrow your dressmaker one day,” Elana said after she kissed Mica on both cheeks. She had a sharp nose and red hair, like the princess, but where Jessamyn’s hair was a dark mahogany red, Elana’s was bright and coppery. “Where ever did you get that lovely velvet?”
“Now, now.” Mica smiled coyly. “I couldn’t possibly reveal all my secrets.” Also, she had no idea where the velvet came from.
“It’s magnificent on you.” Elana couldn’t quite hide the envy in her voice. Her dress was a silver material designed to shimmer like starlight. She had good taste, but Mica’s midnight-blue gown looked richer and more effortlessly elegant against the starry backdrop of the thousand candles.
“We’d expect no
thing less of our princess,” Lady Ingrid said.
Ingrid wore her customary black, which matched her hawkish features and black hair. She was from Talon, a harsh, rocky island where the people didn’t go in for the frivolities of fashion—as she loved to tell people. Despite her disdain for luxuries, Lady Ingrid spent an awful lot of time living in the Silver Palace instead of in her family’s austere fortress.
“You both look positively effervescent,” Mica said. “I do hope you’re enjoying the evening. I so wanted this to be a night for all my dearest friends to remember.”
“The ballroom looks marvelous,” Elana said.
“Yes, it’s stunning, and the food is exquisite,” Ingrid said. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“You are ever so kind.” Mica resisted the urge to point out that it was the steward and the palace cooks who had outdone themselves. She had learned that nobles liked to take credit for whatever their employees did. They could also compliment each other for hours on end.
Time to make my escape.
She scanned the jewel-bedecked couples swaying around the dance floor, seeking out her spymistress or her next target—guest. “Have either of you darlings seen Lady Lorna?”
“She was dancing with Lord Fritz a while ago,” Elana said. “They probably snuck off somewhere for privacy.”
Ingrid snorted. “They’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Lorna likes his scar,” Elana said. “It makes him look less like a little boy.”
“It’s not just his scar she likes,” Ingrid said. “The boy worships the ground she walks on. Lorna can’t resist flattery.”
“I think they make a delightful couple,” Mica said.
“Never mind them,” Lady Ingrid said. “You still haven’t danced with Lord Riven tonight, Princess. Bellina told me her maid overheard his Shield telling a girl she thinks was a Mimic spy that Lord Riven is losing hope he will ever be chosen as your consort. Has he fallen out of favor?”
“Ingrid, you are too bold!” Elana said in a faux scandalized tone while leaning in to hear the princess’s answer.
Mica was still trying to follow the convoluted path that particular rumor had taken to get to her.
“Well, we’re all wondering,” Ingrid said. “You used to pay more attention to him, Princess.”
“I haven’t decided whom I’ll chose as my consort,” Mica said airily. Jessamyn had been playing her suitors off each other since she reached marrying age, and Mica didn’t intend to settle that particular arrangement on her behalf. “I am young yet, and there are so many spectacular men in the empire.”
“Well, if you don’t want Lord Riven, a few other ladies wouldn’t mind the alliance.”
“Really, Ingrid,” Elana said with a sniff. “Must you be so tactless?”
“Better tactless than witless.”
“Excuse me,” Mica said as the two ladies began giving each other very polite death stares. “I must say hello to the Lord of Old Kings over there. It was ever so nice to see you.”
Mica hurried away from Ingrid and Elana, weaving amongst silken skirts and trying not to trip over polished boots. She still catalogued interesting features out of habit: an attractive freckle pattern, a shapely brow, a set of long gray nose hairs. She’d had precious few opportunities to impersonate anyone but Jessamyn lately. She couldn’t wait to be her old self again, when she would no longer have lords and ladies pretending to hang on her every word while scheming behind her back.
Mica hadn’t been idle over the past two months, even though she’d worn a single face for most of that time. She had used the princess’s vast resources—including her carefully cultivated relationships with the nobility—to root out the corruption in the City Watch, where Lord Ober had recruited partners for his scheme to kidnap Talents—those born with one of four supernatural abilities. Ober and his potioner had then conducted experiments on their captives, all in the name of instilling new and better Talents in those who’d been born without any special capabilities whatsoever. As far as Mica could tell, their most recent breakthrough was that the best way to make a potion effective was to brew it out of Talent bones.
No matter how she felt about her current role, Mica intended to keep using Jessamyn’s influence for as long as it took to stop Lord Ober from continuing his grisly work. The nobles’ conversations might revolve around fashion and affairs and decorations, but she couldn’t forget that the dandies and simpering ladies waltzing across the ballroom in their finery were the most powerful men and women in the empire.
“Princess Jessamyn. It’s about time you welcomed me.”
Mica turned. An old lady she’d never met was marching toward her through the crowd. She had steel-gray hair tied in a bun and a wrinkled face as gaunt and pale as a crescent moon. Her black gown had a high neck and long, lace-trimmed sleeves holding back the chill of the winter evening.
“Lady Maren,” Mica said, perhaps a beat too slowly. “I am so pleased you could make it. How was your journey?”
“I am too old to be long at sea.”
“We simply could not have the celebration without you.”
“Humph. Let me look at you.”
The woman took Mica’s face in her hands and gave her a squeeze somewhere between affectionate and severe. Mica held her breath. Jessamyn had warned her this would be a serious test of her abilities. Lady Maren and the princess’s mother had been close, and Jessamyn had spent many summers visiting Lady Maren in Winnow Bay.
She also happened to be the spymistress.
“You have grown more beautiful than even your mother,” Lady Maren said, releasing Mica’s face at last. “You must visit me in the Bay.”
“That would be delightful,” Mica said. “I remember how I loved the pomegranates on my last visit.”
“How could I forget?” Lady Maren chuckled. “You covered my entire courtyard with those infernal seeds.”
“They were delicious.” Mica had never tasted a pomegranate in her life, but the details the princess had made her memorize before the ball served her well.
“I shall send a Blur with some when I return.”
“Thank you, Lady Maren.” Mica glanced around to make sure none of the revelers were listening in. “Have you an answer to my latest query?”
“You want to know about Ober again? He and that fruit pastry of a wife only stayed a short time on their last visit to Winnow.”
“Did they go straight back to Timbral?”
“For a time. They have been prancing all over the western islands, as you know, but I have heard naught of them for over three weeks.” The old woman put her hands on her ample hips. “Now, where is your father? I must speak with him about the Twins. Trouble is brewing.”
Mica frowned, taking care to use the charming wrinkle that appeared between Jessamyn’s eyebrows when she was concerned. “What kind of trouble?”
“The mountain folk always have one complaint or another.” Lady Maren waved toward the west, the lace on her sleeves floating around her wrinkled hands. “This time there are whispers of secession. Your father must stamp out such talk before it turns to violence.”
“Is it likely to get that bad?”
“We can almost be certain of it with the Twins,” Lady Maren said. The Twins referred to two small islands called Dwindlemire and Cray. They were approximately the same size and shape, and their people alternated between fighting each other and partnering up to create problems for the rest of the empire—much like Mica’s twin brothers, now that she thought about it.
“Are the people of Dwindlemire and Cray working together this time?”
“One report says they are. Another says they’ve skirmished amongst themselves already.” Lady Maren harrumphed, and a passing serving man in palace livery jumped at the sound. “Perhaps I need new spies. My Mimics have been saying the most outlandish things of late.”
“Like what?”
“Something about Talents behaving strangely.”
&n
bsp; Mica gripped her velvet skirts, keeping her voice calm. “Oh?”
“They’re sleeping on the job and claiming illness to shirk their duties. It’s just laziness if you ask me.” Lady Maren paused, looking closer at Mica. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” Mica fought to keep her features from shifting out of shape. “I saw my father speaking with Lord Dolan over by the statue of the first emperor, the one with the gold overlay.”
“Being spoken to by Dolan is more like it,” Lady Maren muttered. “All right, run along and enjoy the dancing, Princess. We’ll speak again before I sail out of this congested chicken coop of a city.”
Lady Maren stomped away, leaving Mica to mull over this rumor, which was more concerning than the old spymistress knew. Talents exhibiting signs of illness and fatigue could mean Lord Ober was trying out his potions on new victims. He had rarely been seen on his own Timbral Island of late. She had never doubted he would continue his experimentation, but she still couldn’t determine the exact location of his headquarters. Her spies had sighted him in so many different places over the past few months that she was beginning to suspect he had sent out an army of Impersonators to throw her off.
The lords and ladies by the nearest dessert table were watching her, whispering behind hands dusted with sugar and cake crumbs. Mica smoothed the worry lines out of her forehead, knowing Jessamyn wouldn’t display such weakness, nor would she stand still for so long. She turned on her crystal heels—and bumped right into the person who had the best chance of recognizing her for the imposter she was: Lord Ober’s nephew, Lord Caleb of the Pebble Islands.