by Jordan Rivet
“I might take you up on that.”
Quinn walked with Mica back through the rows of glittering bottles to the shop door.
“Be careful out there,” she said. “Just because I won’t steal your blood doesn’t mean there aren’t others who know how useful it can be.”
Chapter Eleven
Mica’s mind raced with this new information as she walked back up Potioners Alley with the heavy package under her arm. What if the Obsidians didn’t want the Talents for their labor, but for their blood? If it could be used for cosmetic and healthful properties, what about lending non-Talented soldiers extra strength and speed in battle? Barrels of the stuff would be easier to smuggle out of the city than angry captives with supernatural abilities. She hoped she was wrong. If blood was all they wanted, Danil and the others could already be dead.
Whoever was behind the scheme would find plenty of victims around Jewel Harbor. She considered anew what it would be like to move to the city as a young Mimic if she hadn’t gone to the Academy. She would have no room waiting for her at the Silver Palace. She would have no guaranteed employment. A friendly stranger could easily lure her in, perhaps only to buy her blood—or to drain it from her corpse and ship it back to Obsidian. She had to send word to Master Kiev right away.
Abruptly, she realized she had taken a wrong turn. She was walking down an unfamiliar alleyway, and it was getting darker. Shadows spread from every corner, changing the shapes of the buildings. She couldn’t tell whether or not the walkway arching overhead was one she had seen on her way to Potioners Alley. The streets were less crowded at this hour, and the fading light made every stranger seem threatening, to be avoided rather than approached for help.
She was about to backtrack and ask Quinn for directions when rough voices rose nearby. A group of men was moving toward her, lurching as if drunk. Mica turned into a deserted alley to evade them, this one sheltered completely from the darkening sky. She assumed the body and face of a lean old soldier as a precaution, unfastening her skirt to reveal the loose trousers she wore underneath and flinging the skirt over her shoulder as a cloak. This impersonation wouldn’t dissuade someone who wanted to steal her bundle of expensive potions, but it would keep away worse types of unwanted attention.
The group of men drew closer, laughing raucously. Mica hurried along the alley to where the path rounded a bend. From there she could see a lantern hanging above an archway at the far end, where the alley opened to a busier street. She started toward it, walking carefully to keep from making noise and drawing attention to herself. Another man, presumably another drunk, was sitting on a stoop halfway down the alley with his head resting on his knees, a parcel at his side. She skirted around him, unable to see his features in the darkness. He didn’t look up.
“Oy, what you got there?” a man shouted as he came around the bend behind her.
Mica picked up her pace, moving faster toward the lighted archway. But the man wasn’t speaking to her.
“You, on the stoop. You dead?”
“He’s not dead,” said another voice. “I reckon he’s sloshed.”
“You’re sloshed, mate.”
Boisterous laughter echoed down the alley. Mica was almost to the archway, but she paused to look back. The drunks—three of them—had surrounded the man, who still sat with his head on his knees. One of them kicked him, and he uttered a faint groan.
“Nice clothes you got there,” said the ringleader. “You some lord?”
“You sick or something?” his companion slurred.
“What’s in the parcel, eh?”
The third drunk reached for the bundle, and the seated man snatched it from the stoop so fast his hands blurred. He was a Talent! Why wasn’t he using his supernatural speed to run away?
Mica hesitated, feeling torn. She shouldn’t get involved. She was at the main street, and she could see the faint shimmer of the palace’s silver dome in the distance. But then the lead drunk kicked the man on the stoop again, and indignation boiled through her. People didn’t treat each other like that where she came from.
“You got any coin? Hey! I’m talking to you.”
The bully took a swipe at the man’s head, and he shot his hands up with impossible speed to block the attack. Yes, he had to be a Blur.
Mica made her choice. Nobody hurt Talents on her watch. She applied a few quick changes to her body, thickening her arms and stretching herself as tall as she could without making her legs too thin to use. She added a couple of grisly scars to the soldier’s face and thickened the forehead so she looked like a real bruiser.
The final touch was modifying her voice. “Hey!” she shouted, adopting a deep growl reminiscent of Master Kiev. “Don’t kick a man when he’s down.”
“Mind your own business, yeah?” one of the thieves called.
Mica knew she should just leave. She didn’t need any trouble, and she was already late. But she couldn’t turn away from the poor Blur. She may just be a princess’s errand girl, but serving the empire included defending the weak.
“Go jump in the harbor, you cowards,” she shouted.
The three drunks laughed, and the ringleader pitched toward her. “I reckon it’s four against one.”
“Three, ya fool,” his companion muttered. “Jebson went home hours ago.”
“Find your own payday,” the leader shouted, undeterred. “This one’s ours.”
Mica advanced on her hidden spindly legs. Hopefully they’d interpret her slow steps as menacing. It was too late to stop now.
“I said,” she growled, “go jump your cowardly behinds in the harbor before I haul you all before the emperor’s justice.”
The ringleader scoffed. “What’s old Emperor Styl ever done for us? I ain’t afraid of him.”
His companion started to agree—until Mica got close enough for him to see her modified face. He blanched and started tugging on the ringleader’s sleeve.
“Leave it, mate.”
The third man took a closer look at her grisly face and backed away too. “Yeah, we don’t need that kind of trouble.”
The leader snarled at them and stumbled forward a few steps, muttering about weaklings. Then he focused on Mica, and the blood drained from his face. She must have done a better job on her impersonation than she thought.
“We was just messing with him.” The ringleader lifted his hands. “No harm, aye?”
“Let’s get another drink,” said his friend.
The third nodded fervently. “A man’s gotta drink to forget a face like that.”
The would-be thieves lurched away and disappeared around the bend. Mica maintained a menacing stance until she was sure they had left the alley, then she returned her legs to a manageable thickness and knelt beside the man on the stoop. She was surprised he hadn’t dashed off while his attackers were occupied. He wore a fine wool coat, and the parcel in his arms had torn open, revealing a bolt of expensive pearlescent silk. Some rich merchant who happened to be a Blur, perhaps?
“You’d better find somewhere else to sleep it off,” she grunted, still using Master Kiev’s voice. “Those thugs could—” She broke off as the man lifted his face. “Lord Caleb?”
“Who are you?” Caleb’s voice was hoarse, and his skin was pallid. He wasn’t drunk. He looked ill.
“What happened?” Mica said. “You look terrible.”
“I don’t know you, sir,” Caleb said. His head drifted downward, as if it were slowly becoming too heavy for his body. There was no sign of the Blur speed Mica had seen when he blocked the kick. Had she imagined it?
“Please,” he said, sounding as if every word was an effort, “could you . . . the palace?”
“I’ll take you there.” Mica looped Caleb’s arm around her shoulder, wishing she had the strength of a Muscle as she hoisted him off the stoop. His body was feverish, and he was built more solidly than she expected. She struggled to support him while keeping the package of potions secure under her other arm. She had to lea
ve his bundle of silk behind.
“Thank you, sir,” Caleb muttered as they inched along. He didn’t seem fully aware of his surroundings. He hadn’t even blinked at the gruesome scars she wore on her face. She smoothed some of them away, resuming her usual soldier face.
“What were you doing in that alley?” she asked as she struggled along under his weight.
“Needed . . . help.” Caleb’s breathing sounded labored, and she was afraid he’d lose consciousness entirely. This might be her best chance to get answers. Though he was her lead suspect, she couldn’t help hoping he wasn’t involved in the disappearances.
“What did you need help with? Where have you been today?”
Caleb didn’t answer. Suddenly he pitched forward, and Mica went down with him, landing halfway on top of him and scraping her knee roughly on the cobblestones. They were in a busier street now, but none of the passersby stopped to help.
“Caleb? Caleb!” she shook him, and he uttered a faint groan. She tried to haul him up, but her body was tired from holding impersonations all day. She couldn’t move him.
His eyes drifted open, looking unfocused, and he mumbled something indistinct.
“What was that?”
“Ober,” he whispered.
“You want me to take you to Lord Ober?”
Caleb’s chin dipped into what could have been a nod or a faint. It sounded like a good idea to Mica. She’d deliver the incapacitated lord to his uncle’s quarters, if she could get him up to the palace. Lord Ober would know what to do.
She tried to get Caleb on his feet again, but he didn’t budge. She was aware of how vulnerable they were, falling down in the street where any thief could take advantage—or worse than a thief. Jewel Harbor had plenty of crime, and a mysterious Talent snatcher could be lurking nearby too.
“Caleb?” Mica slapped his cheek, eliciting another groan. “Stay with me a little longer. I need one more burst of . . .” Suddenly Mica remembered the package under her arm containing Jessamyn’s potions. What had Quinn said about that wine-red tonic? It gave an immediate boost of energy.
Knowing she might lose her job for this, Mica undid the package and searched through the bottles, squinting to read the labels in the light from the nearest windows. She found the correct one and popped it open, trying not to think about how much it probably cost. Jessamyn had claimed Caleb was her dearest friend. They were about to test that notion.
She pried open Caleb’s lips and poured in the wine-red potion. He swallowed reflexively. Once. Twice. Mica waited.
At first nothing happened. Then Caleb’s eyes flew open, and his body shuddered violently. For a second, Mica was afraid she’d killed him. Then his eyes focused on her, and he lifted a hand as if to touch her face. He seemed to be breathing more easily. Not wanting to waste a minute of the tonic’s effects, Mica hauled him to his feet again.
“Let’s go, Lord Caleb. We’re almost home.”
Caleb was clearly confused, but he let her pull his arm around her shoulders and guide him onward. He was able to support his own weight now, and they managed the perilously slow walk back to the palace without another fall. He didn’t speak to her, and Mica figured it would be better not to ask too many probing questions when she wasn’t sure how aware the potion had made him. She was fairly certain he couldn’t be an Obsidian Impersonator in disguise. She didn’t know many Mimics who could hold their shape through near delirium. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved in the plot—and he was apparently hiding a Talent of his own.
When they reached the palace, she used her best Master Kiev voice to order a passing footman to lead her straight to Lord Ober’s quarters in the west wing. Caleb lived in the west wing too, but she didn’t want to leave him alone in his own rooms in this state.
Lord Ober answered the door himself, his face going ashen at the sight of his half-conscious nephew.
“I found him in an alley,” Mica said. “Some thugs were using him as a punching bag.”
“Come in quickly.” Lord Ober wore a dressing gown, but his gray hair was neatly combed, as if he hadn’t been to bed yet. There was a thick book, a burning candle, and a cup of tea on the table in his antechamber. He lit a few more candles as Mica guided Caleb to a low couch piled with cushions. “I must ask you to be quiet, as my wife is sleeping.”
“Yes, sir,” Mica said. “I’ll be going if you—”
“Mimic,” Caleb said faintly. “He’s . . . Mimic.”
“Is he?” Lord Ober looked at Mica with renewed interest. “Thank you for bringing him here, sir. I don’t know what I’d do without this fine young man. Won’t you stay a minute?” He went to a side table to prepare two more cups of tea. “Do you impersonate for someone in the palace? I haven’t seen this face before.”
Mica hesitated. She didn’t like giving up her go-to faces. She was surprised Caleb had noticed her ability. He must have seen her smoothing away the worst of those scars. She was about to claim Lady Bellina as her employer when Caleb lifted his head from the cushion to look at her.
“Micathea?”
She spun toward him. “How did you know?”
“I remember. From the cliff.” Caleb shifted his elbows beneath him, propping himself up to look at her old soldier’s features. She let them morph back into her own face. He watched the transition, eyes slightly glassy.
“Well, Caleb, you look as though you are recovering much faster than last time,” Lord Ober said, approaching with the two cups of tea. He handed one to Mica, not looking remotely surprised to see a young woman where the old soldier had been, and gave the other to his nephew. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I could get up and dance,” Caleb said, still holding Mica’s gaze.
“Hmm.” Lord Ober slipped a small potion bottle out of his pocket and held it up. “Do you want a dose then?”
“Oh, I gave him something already,” Mica said quickly. She doubted it was a good idea to pump Caleb full of more potions than he needed. “I happened to have a health tonic, and he was in bad shape. I hope that was okay.”
“You seem to have done him a world of good,” Lord Ober said. “May I see this tonic?”
Mica set her package of potions on the table and extracted the half-empty bottle of Burst. Lord Ober examined the label closely then opened the potion and put a drop on his finger to taste.
“Exquisite,” he said. “I’m not surprised this potion was more effective than the usual brew. You should procure more as soon as possible, Caleb, though I don’t know this potioner’s mark.” He looked at Mica expectantly.
She hesitated, turning the warm porcelain teacup in her hands. She was supposed to be discreet about Quinn’s shop, and she wasn’t sure whether Lord Ober had connected her to the princess. But it sounded as though Caleb really needed the medicine Quinn could provide, and her new friend probably wouldn’t say no to additional business.
“It’s from Magic Q,” Mica said. “She has a shop by the big apothecary in Potioners Alley.”
“I’ve seen the place,” Lord Ober said, examining the mark again. “Does the princess buy all her potions from this Magic Q?”
Mica’s mouth opened.
“Oh, forgive me, Miss Micathea!” Lord Ober exclaimed before she could form a reply. “Where are my manners? You don’t need to reveal your lady’s secrets. As long as Caleb can get more of this fine health tonic, you needn’t say another word.”
Lord Ober ushered Mica into a chair and refilled her teacup. He seemed only mildly concerned his nephew had been found slumped over in an alley. This clearly wasn’t the first time it had happened. She remembered Caleb had been ill during the Assignment Ceremony too. Mica was terribly curious about what, exactly, was wrong with the young lord. Lord Ober treated her cordially, as if she were a friend or advisor, but he didn’t volunteer an explanation as he fussed over his nephew and rearranged his pillows.
Caleb himself said little. His condition seemed to be improving, and he even sat up to drink his ow
n tea. His hair looked more tousled than usual, almost boyish. As he blinked at her over his cup, the idea that he was involved in the disappearances began to seem unlikely. But that open, curious face of his was hiding secrets. Maybe he hadn’t been paying attention to her in order to ship her off to Obsidian—or drain her blood—but it seemed he was a Talent himself.
Eventually, Lord Ober bustled off to summon something to eat, leaving Caleb and Mica alone. She felt a little shy now. She had sort of saved his life. Did that mean they were friends? How much could she ask him?
Caleb smiled at her. “Are you going to say something or just stare at me?”
Mica started. “Are you a Blur?” she blurted out. Smooth. Nice espionage work, Mica.
Caleb sipped his tea calmly. “What makes you say that?”
“You moved very fast when those thugs kicked you.”
“It was dark.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’d be showing off my speed at every opportunity if I were a Blur.”
Mica frowned, aware he still hadn’t really answered. “If you’re not a Blur, then did you—never mind.”
“What?” Caleb leaned toward her, and she got the sense that he somehow saw more than she meant to reveal in her face. “Go on, you might as well ask.”
Mica spoke in a rush. “Did you drink a Blur’s blood to get their speed?”
Caleb gaped at her for a minute. Then he burst out laughing, the same explosive sound that had made the nobles look up back at the dancing lesson.
“No, I didn’t drink a Blur’s blood,” he said, his laugh seeming to shatter the tension that had lingered between them. “Any other questions?”
“Oh, well, if I can ask anything . . .” Mica shifted into a more comfortable position, feet curled beneath her. The idea that Caleb was the culprit seemed silly in the cozy confines of Lord Ober’s sitting room. “I was wondering about that bolt of silk you were carrying. Was that for you, or is some lady going to be disappointed you lost her gift?”
