by Jordan Rivet
“Very well,” he said at last. “But you must be exceedingly careful as you travel west.”
“Yes, Father.” It was a testament to Styl’s trust in his daughter—and the ship full of soldiers who would travel with them—that he was willing to send her to smooth things over with their dissatisfied subjects. “We will see all these threats contained.”
“I hope you are right. The rebels may be numerous, as some reports claim, but they are nothing compared to the Obsidian forces.”
“Our armies can stand up to Obsidian,” Mica said fiercely, thinking of her brave brothers, who would be on the front lines in an Obsidian conflict. “Free Windfast soldiers won’t be defeated by the Obsidian King’s poor slaves.”
The emperor sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”
Their new course decided, they soon turned back toward the Silver Palace, riding beneath the bridges that spanned the gaps between the jumbled buildings. Merchants shouted about their wares, and barefoot children darted among the horses and carriages, laughing shrilly. A Blur courier and a short, round woman got into an altercation over the fee for a delivery, and the woman’s hair shifted from red to white and back again as her anger ebbed and flowed. Mica was used to the cacophony by now, but she was looking forward to a break from this overcrowded metropolis. She hadn’t seen much of the empire beyond Amber Island.
“I’m disappointed I cannot visit Silverfell with you,” Emperor Styl said. “I have fond memories of the place. Your mother and I courted there, you know.”
Mica shifted awkwardly in her saddle. She and the princess had never discussed her mother, who died when Jessamyn was young. Mica pictured her own mother instead, a practical, perceptive woman with the strength of ten men and the patience of a hundred.
“I miss her.” She didn’t have to fake the emotion in her voice.
Emperor Styl bowed his head. When he raised it, he was all business once more.
“You may be more effective on your tour of the islands without me looming beside you. On that note, have you made any progress toward choosing a consort?”
Mica waved her hand vaguely. “I have several enchanting possibilities.”
Emperor Styl barked a laugh. “Yes, you’re very convincing, Jessa. In all seriousness, you need to come to a decision soon.” He lowered his voice so their Shield escorts would have no chance of overhearing. “With the agitation in the Twins and Obsidian breathing down our necks, a new alliance would help to renew the ties between the islands.”
“I’m still young.” Mica wasn’t sure what Jessamyn would say to her father in these circumstances. “Perhaps in a few—”
“That was an order.”
Mica shut her mouth. Her horse tossed its head irritably as she fiddled with the reins. She was tempted to tell the emperor he wasn’t really speaking to his daughter, but Jessamyn would have her head for that. She had made the mistake of disobeying the princess before, and she was in no hurry to do it again.
I’m not getting married in Jessamyn’s place either.
“How long do I have?”
Emperor Styl gave her a look she couldn’t read.
“I expect you to announce an engagement before you return from your trip.”
Mica winced. “Yes, Father.” Jessamyn better get well soon, or we’re going to have a problem. Mica had long expected to eschew close ties during her career as a spy. She didn’t know what it would be like for Jessamyn to be under pressure to marry early. Noble ladies must be used to this sort of thing.
“It isn’t so bad, you know.” Emperor Styl’s voice softened. “I had some of my happiest years with your mother. You needn’t be so averse to marriage.”
“I’d love to have what you had with my mother,” Mica said, thinking of the happiness her own parents shared. The emperor looked up, and she rushed on so she wouldn’t have to say more. “Who do you think would be a wise choice for my consort?”
“Are you asking for my advice?” The emperor chuckled—actually chuckled! “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been replaced.”
Mica blanched. “I—”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you about this since you came of age. I’d have given you a deadline sooner if I knew it would sway you!”
He chuckled again, and Mica did her best not to stare. The emperor was downright terrifying in public, and it was beyond strange to see him like this.
“I take it you have someone in mind?”
“You may be determined to snare the most powerful match you can possibly stomach, but I’d urge you to look beyond current political influence and think in larger terms.”
“You mean love?”
Emperor Styl snorted. “I’m being serious here, daughter.”
“Sorry.”
“Any individual lord could fall out of favor with the rest of the nobility, as Lord Ober has so aptly demonstrated recently. You need a match that will represent something larger to the people, regardless of his immediate influence.” They passed through the gates of the Silver Palace, safe from prying eyes and would-be assassins, and the emperor tugged back his hood so he could meet Mica’s gaze. “Lord Caleb, for example, comes from the farthest island in the empire. A match with him would be a symbolic bond across the entire empire. Besides, he’s a fine young man.”
“You . . . you want her—me to marry Caleb?” Mica felt her throat constricting. Her horse danced across the cobblestones of the palace courtyard, sensing her agitation.
“I won’t tell you what to do,” Emperor Styl said. “I am simply saying he’s a viable option, even though his family controls a relatively small part of the empire. His status has risen of late thanks to his bravery on the harbor cruise and in the potioner’s warehouse.”
“Of course, that’s, honestly, yes.” Mica tried to answer with something flippant and Jessamyn-like, but her response came out garbled.
The emperor dismounted, flinging his stallion’s lead at a serving man without looking at him.
“You might also consider a match who ordinarily resides in Pegasus or Winnow,” the emperor continued. “It would send a strong message to choose a man who is not constantly with you at court. I’d caution you not to make a Silverfell match if you can avoid it, though. Our ties with your mother’s people there are still quite strong.”
“Yes, Your High—Father.”
Mica dismounted too, struggling to maintain control of her features. The emperor might have mentioned several options, but he had only named one lord directly. Caleb was his first choice for his daughter’s consort.
It’s not like you could have Caleb anyway, she reminded herself sternly. This isn’t a competition.
Fortunately, Emperor Styl didn’t notice her dismay, still pleased she had agreed to the deadline. “This tour will be the perfect time to explore your options outside of Jewel Harbor. And make sure you take Lord Caleb with you on the voyage. I expect to hold an engagement feast in your honor when you return.”
Feeling slightly miserable, Mica curtsied, dark-red hair obscuring her face.
“Yes, Father. As you wish.”
Chapter Five
“You told him you’d do what?”
Mica rubbed her ear. She had never known anyone who could shriek as loud as Princess Jessamyn.
“It was more him telling me,” she said. “He needs you to go ahead and choose your consort by the time we—”
“Go ahead and choose my consort? Are you daft?”
“He’s the emperor. Did you expect me to tell him no when he gave me an ultimatum like that?”
“Of course not,” Jessamyn said. “You were never supposed to let it get to that point. What did you do? Ask him how long you had?”
Mica’s cheeks warmed. “It’s possible I said something like that . . .”
“Unbelievable.” Jessamyn returned to pulling dresses out of one of her wardrobes and separating them into piles on the floor of her opulent dressing room. She had fired her former handmaids, Ruby an
d Alea, months ago to make sure they wouldn’t find out what she and Mica were up to. She was taking to the task of packing for their trip with the seriousness of a hurricane. “My father has been trying to get me to settle on a match for the past year. I can’t believe you gave in to him like that.”
“He said that with Obsidian and the Twins causing problems—”
“He would say that, wouldn’t he? It’s just like him to use that to his advantage.”
“You don’t think the empire is in danger?”
“The empire is always in danger.” Jessamyn held up a diaphanous silk gown to Mica and studied it critically. “I told you the Windfast is a delicate construct. Weren’t you paying attention? But that doesn’t mean I want to get married right now.”
“Maybe it’s time you told him about the poisoning,” Mica said. “That could buy you some time.”
Jessamyn raised a scarred eyebrow. “Because I’m too hideous to secure a match now?”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“No, but it will be an issue.” Jessamyn turned to face the mirrors and scraped a fingernail down one of the red patches on her neck, as if testing to see if it would peel away.
Mica’s voice softened. “Anyone would be lucky to marry you, Princess, no matter what you look like.”
“Of course they would. I am an excellent catch. Honestly, Micathea, you needn’t project your self-esteem issues onto other people.”
Mica gaped at her. She felt as if she were at sea already, and the deck kept tipping under her feet. She often felt like that around Jessamyn, come to think of it.
“I’m not—”
“It doesn’t matter what’s real in this situation,” Jessamyn said. “That’s the whole point. I will be the Empress of Windfast when my father dies. I could have been born looking worse than this, and every nobleman in the empire would still consider me a fantastic match—and that’s not even taking my delightful personality into account.”
“You are delightful, Princess,” Mica said.
“Don’t be snide, Micathea.” Jessamyn moved over to her glass case full of jewels and perused the crowns displayed on velvet. “As I said, it doesn’t matter that that’s the reality. If I marry someone looking like this, even if he worships me inside and out, others would whisper about how he was taking pity on me. It would take away some of the power that I have worked so hard to build up, never mind the reality.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“No one ever said anything about fair,” Jessamyn said. “You know better than anyone that how you look matters in this world. Until it doesn’t, I will work with what I’ve been given. As it happens, I’ve been given a remarkably skilled Impersonator at exactly the right moment.”
“You’re not saying—”
“Oh yes I am.”
“You want me to genuinely court someone on your behalf?”
“I order you to court someone on my behalf.” Jessamyn waved a ruby-set crown at her as if it were a mace. “And if it comes to that, you will marry them on my behalf too.”
“But—”
“You swore to serve the empire.”
“Not like this. I refuse to—”
“You refuse?” Jessamyn took a step toward her, eyes glittering dangerously. “What makes you think you have that right?”
Mica tried to summon some of that pity she had felt earlier. The princess could be even more intimidating than her father.
“You can’t stay hidden forever,” she said.
“I will do what I have to, and so will you.”
Mica stared at the piles of dresses all over the floor, the jeweled crowns, the costumes that would take her farther away from herself. She felt as if Jessamyn were trying to absorb her, swallowing her with dresses and commands and her uncompromising view of how the world worked. She was chipping away at Mica’s very identity, pushing aside her goals, using her face—her body to serve her needs. The trouble was that one of Mica’s goals had long been to serve the Windfast Empire. She had to do what the future empress said, even though the costs weren’t turning out to be quite what she expected. And Mica still felt guilty about her part in the princess’s suffering. She couldn’t walk away until she figured out how to make amends.
It troubled Mica that the princess refused to show any weakness, any hint that she’d been made vulnerable. The emperor was like that too. Some of the unrest in the outlying islands stemmed from the fact that the imperial family was considered too political and too scheming. If they’d only allow themselves to be seen as real people, maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess.
You’ll be going your own way soon enough, Mica told herself. She would find the barren fortress and figure out how to end the suffering of the Talents at Lord Ober’s hand. Jessamyn could worry about marriage alliances and political unrest. At some point, whether the princess’s face had healed or not, they would have to part ways.
* * *
The evening before their departure from Jewel Harbor, Mica went to see Peet the Blur messenger. She resumed her own face as she climbed the narrow stairs to Peet’s flat in a rickety tenement building not far from the Silver Palace. The door opened a split second after her knock.
“Mica! Are you the real Mica or some other Mimic?”
“Hey, Peet. It’s me.” She shifted through a few impersonations to confirm her identity: her city-woman look, Master Kiev, her favorite scullery maid, and Peet himself.
“That’s good enough for me,” Peet said. “Do you want some cheese? I picked up the good kind from Redbridge on my last run, and I have some bread around here somewhere.”
“Sounds great.”
Mica settled back into her own face (hazel eyes, snub nose, nut-brown hair) while the gangly redhead rummaged around his cluttered little flat for the food. She took a seat at the small table, enjoying the chance to be herself for a few minutes.
Peet had been her primary link to the Masters Council from the Academy before the poisoning. As with Caleb, she had told him she was leaving Jessamyn’s service for another mission two months ago. Being an imposter took up so much time that it was easier to pretend that Mica the Imperial Impersonator had left the city.
“What’re you doing back in the capital?” Peet asked as he set the food on the table and joined her.
“Just stopping by on my way to my next assignment.”
“Oh yeah? I haven’t heard a peep about it.”
“It’s confidential, I’m afraid.”
Peet didn’t press her for more information. He had worked for Master Kiev’s spy network for a few years now, and he knew he would never have all the pieces of any puzzle.
“So what brings you to my door?”
“I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about a place referred to as the barren fortress,” Mica said, “or a place where some kind of Talent suffering began?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Peet tapped a rapid rhythm on his tabletop. “Things have been quiet since that nasty warehouse business. I reckon that was enough Talent suffering for two lifetimes.”
Mica nodded, pushing away her memories of the place, as she always did. She should have gotten to them sooner. She’d been busy with the princess’s tasks, but following orders wasn’t a good-enough excuse.
She cleared her throat. “Have you heard anything about Talents acting strangely?”
Peet took a bite of cheese, chewing thoughtfully. “I saw something odd down at the docks last week, now that I think about it. It was this sailor. He was as fast as a Blur, and he lifted a stack of lumber like it weighed no more than a twig.”
Mica put down her bread. “Are you certain?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him unloading a ship. I could have sworn he was a Blur and a Muscle. Naturally, I thought of you and what happened to our buddy Danil.”
“Which ship was it?”
“A trader called the Greta”—Peet raised a hand before Mica could leap to her feet—“but it left that same day. I
asked the dockmaster. The Greta sails a regular route between the Twins, Silverfell, and Winnow Island, with a stop in Jewel Harbor once a year.”
“They start in the Twins?”
“Dwindlemire, I think,” Peet said. “Nothing unusual about the ship itself, except this Blur-Muscle hybrid.”
“That’s strange enough. You didn’t speak to the man?”
“He wasn’t around when I returned to get another look at the ship. I asked the captain about the fellow—he’s from a village called Dustwood in Silverfell, spent ages telling me about their pear orchards—anyway, he told me he keeps the fellow on as a favor because he’s a relative. His brain is addled, and he falls sick sometimes too. Gets worse every year, the captain said.”
“That’s not good.”
“I’ll say. You hear about the crazy fellow that turned up at that fancy ball?”
“I heard.”
“Think Lord Ober is behind it all?”
Mica made her bottom lip grow and shrink absentmindedly, a habit that was hard to avoid when she wore other faces. “Ober worked on that project with Haddell for a long time. It makes sense that others ended up with unwanted Talents to one degree or another.”
“What about what the captain said? That this other man is crazy too?”
“I’m not sure what to think.” Mica pictured the poor Talent flailing his spindly limbs in the center of the ballroom. That made two people with signs of insanity among the three she had encountered with multiple Talents. Caleb’s abilities wiped him out every time he used them, but he had never shown signs of madness. “I heard a noble lady from Winnow Bay talking about Talents suffering from fatigue and illness recently, and we know Ober experimented a lot. The two could be connected.”
Peet rubbed at the reddish stubble on his chin. He’d begun a valiant attempt to grow a beard since Mica last saw him. “Could there be different side effects for different mixes of Talents, like you only get the madness if you’ve got a bit of Mimic in you?”
“Possibly. Or they could vary depending on which batch of the potion Ober used.” Or perhaps some of the victims hadn’t learned to cope with the strange manifestations of Talent. Caleb had worked hard for the control he had.