An Imposter with a Crown

by Jordan Rivet

  “Jessa, you look radiant, as always.” Caleb bowed, an easy smile on his face. The young nobleman had skipped the blues, blacks, and silvers many of the others had chosen to match the starry-night theme. He wore a deep-green waistcoat and a white silk blouse. His brown hair was as unruly as ever, falling around his slightly pointed ears and square face. He somehow looked earthier and more real than anyone else here.

  “You . . . you look good too,” Mica said.

  “Careful, or I’ll let your extravagant compliments go to my head.”

  Mica jutted out her lip in her best Jessamyn pout. “You shouldn’t tease your favorite princess.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Caleb said. “Apologies for not coming by for tea the other day. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s the same old story.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug and went on in a lighter tone. “Listen, I have a favor to ask you. Fritz is working up the nerve to propose to Lady Lorna this evening. I was hoping you could reassure him that she’s definitely going to say yes.”

  Mica grinned. “Where is he?”

  “Hiding on the promenade. Shall we?” Caleb offered his arm, and she hesitated for a second before taking it. He was on Jessamyn’s list of people Mica was supposed to pay attention to tonight, but she had avoided dancing with him so far. In truth, she’d avoided him as much as possible over the past two months. Maintaining the impersonation around him was difficult when a huge part of her still wanted him to realize who she really was. It had been a mistake to allow her feelings for him to grow.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t change her feelings as easily as she could change her face.

  They climbed a stone staircase to the promenade overlooking the ballroom, passing the spot where Mica had learned Caleb’s name—and lordly title—so many months ago. The first time they’d met, she had thought he was a commoner like her. He had always treated her as an equal despite his noble status, but now that she was acting as the princess, there were more barriers between them than ever.

  “Fritz is over here,” Caleb said as he escorted her along the promenade.

  Deep plush cushions had been piled along the balcony railings, creating large couches where guests could lounge when they wanted a break from dancing. Serving men and women traversed the promenade, carrying trays of spiced wine and chocolates. A single musician strolled behind them, offering to perform violin solos for the couples perched on the cushions.

  Lord Fritz slumped on one such pile of cushions, a dark-green bottle clutched in his hands. The young lord had sandy-blond hair and a youthful face marred by a scar on one side. He had been hit by a burning piece of wood at the disastrous harbor cruise a few months ago, giving him a slightly debonair new look. Fritz’s scar wasn’t as bad as Jessamyn’s, but it didn’t seem fair to Mica that his social clout had improved with the imperfection while Jessamyn felt the need to stay hidden in her room.

  “Had enough liquid courage yet, Fritz?” Caleb asked, dropping onto the pillows beside his friend.

  “I’m not going through with it.” Fritz’s voice slurred slightly.

  “Yes, you are,” Caleb said.

  “What if she says no?”

  “She won’t.” Mica pried the bottle out of Fritz’s hands and set it aside. “You know good and well what Lady Lorna’s answer will be. Now pull yourself together, my lord.”

  “But what if her father objects? Or my mother! Silverfell is far away. She might not want me to marry a lady from way out there.”

  “Silverfell isn’t that far away,” Caleb said.

  “You both spend all your time here anyway,” Mica said. “You can continue to live right next door to your mother.”

  “Lorna will love that,” Caleb said.

  Mica shot him a look, and he grinned. Lord Fritz’s mother was formidable, and she coddled him worse than ever since his injury.

  “I can see Lorna right now,” Mica said, glancing over the balcony at the dance floor below. A buxom young woman with pouting lips and curly dark hair was bouncing on the balls of her feet as a serving girl attempted to fill her wine goblet without spilling. “She’s looking for you.”

  “How do you know it’s me she—”

  “Are you questioning me, my lord?” Mica gave a longsuffering sigh. “I’ve had quite enough of this foolishness. Get down there and propose to that pretty lady before I do it for you.”

  Fritz looked up hopefully. “Could you—?”

  “Go!”

  “Yes, Princess.”

  Lord Fritz leapt to his feet and hurried toward the stairs, forgetting to bow as he took his leave. Mica couldn’t help smiling. Fritz and Lorna were two of the nobles she actually liked, and she was starting to think of them as friends.

  They’re Jessamyn’s friends, not yours, she reminded herself. They would never look twice at the real you.

  “Care to join me, Jessa?” Caleb took a swig from the bottle Fritz had abandoned and patted the cushion beside him. “I know you have people to see, but I bet your feet could use a break.”

  Mica hesitated. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard around Caleb right now, but he and Jessamyn were real friends. He would notice if she kept avoiding him.

  “I guess I can stay for a minute.” Mica sat beside him—not too near—and arranged her velvet skirts exactly as Jessamyn would if she ever allowed herself a moment’s rest.

  “Tell me, darling,” she said, fiddling with her skirt and not quite meeting Caleb’s eyes. “Have you made any progress on your mystery lately?”

  “Afraid not. I’ve been interviewing potioners now that I know my extra abilities came from an experimental potion, but they haven’t been as much help as I’d hoped.”

  “You’re still having frequent . . . episodes?”

  “Same as ever,” Caleb said. “I’ve been training with Stievson and my men more often to work on control. I’m not sure if it’s helping.”

  “If Mimics can learn control, so can you.”

  “Maybe, but it’s dangerous to carry on like this,” Caleb said. “It’s only a matter of time before one of my Talents manifests at the wrong moment and I hurt someone.”

  Mica looked up. “Don’t they come through when you need them most?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not how it works.” Caleb rubbed a hand through his hair, a shadow falling over his eyes. “I’d rather not have the abilities at all. I’m starting to wonder if another one of my uncle’s potions might get rid of them.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him to pour me a glass of wine,” Mica said fiercely.

  Caleb chuckled. “I don’t trust him either. I wouldn’t seek him out without an exit strategy.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “Maybe.” Caleb looked a little closer at her, a frown wrinkling his brow. “You’re awfully serious this evening.”

  Mica’s stomach lurched as he leaned toward her. Why did he have to be so handsome? He even smelled nice. Her gaze dropped to his lips.

  Stop.

  Mica vaulted to her feet. “Whatever makes you say that, darling?” she sang. “I’d better return to my guests. Lots of people to see. I do love a good party.” She smoothed her skirt over her hips and checked that her assumed face had stayed in place. “We shall talk later. May you thrive.”

  She started to walk away when Caleb called out, “Do you have your new Impersonator yet?”

  She froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Since Mica—excuse me—Miss Micathea left. Shouldn’t the Academy have assigned you a new Impersonator by now?”

  “I certainly think so,” Mica said airily. “I must send a Blur to see what’s keeping them.”

  “I could always ride up there for you,” Caleb said. “I was thinking of visiting her.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “It’s nothing. Sorry to keep you.”

  Mica didn’t move. She desperately wanted to know what Caleb had to say about he
r—the real her. As far as he knew, Mica had quit her job as the princess’s Impersonator and left Jewel Harbor without saying goodbye. And that was after they had rescued dozens of captive Talents together, she had saved his life, and he had kissed her. She wished she could talk to him about it, but the princess didn’t know about the kiss—or about the connection that had been growing between her Impersonator and her best friend.

  “Jessa? Is something wro—”

  “Don’t go anywhere without talking to me first, darling,” she said a little too cheerfully. “I’m sure Micathea is busy with her next assignment by now.”

  Caleb frowned. “If that’s what you—”

  Screams erupted from the dance floor, startling them both.

  Chapter Two

  “What is that thing?”

  “Oh, it’s grotesque!”

  “Someone make it stop!”

  “But what is it?”

  The dance music ceased as the shouts reverberated around the ballroom. Mica and Caleb exchanged fleeting glances and hurried to the balcony together. The stone railing was cold under Mica’s hands as she leaned over it to see what was happening below.

  The dance floor was in chaos. People surged backward from a single point, as if a stone had been dropped in a pond and the guests were the ripples. Ladies stumbled over the hems of their gowns, and lords dropped wine goblets in their haste to retreat. All wore expressions of fear and disgust.

  At the center of the tumult stood a solitary figure. Mica couldn’t tell if it was a man or a beast. The figure was morphing and writhing in nightmarish forms, like a wax statue dropped into a fire. For one horrible moment, Mica had feared that Jessamyn had arrived at the ball and everyone reacted exceptionally badly to her condition. But this figure was male and far larger than the princess. He had to be a Mimic. No other human could change like that.

  The figure barely looked human now, though. His skin slipped and surged, roiling like oil. His hair shifted through varying shades of blue, from a midnight shade that matched Mica’s dress all the way to the pale sky-blue of an Obsidian’s eyes. The figure was obviously in pain, and his screams were bloodcurdling in their intensity. But his words were coherent.

  “You striking criminals!” he shrieked. “You live in luxury, growing fat with the spoils of your people. You ignore the suffering you cause. Dine and dance while you can, for a reckoning is coming!”

  Shield guards were moving forward, approaching the writhing figure cautiously, as if afraid to catch a disease. The strange man was unarmed, and he wore the livery of a palace servant.

  “You have become traitors to your own,” he wailed as his limbs grew longer and thinner, flailing like the antennae of some demented sea creature. “An abomination grows in the empire, and you are blind to it.”

  Some of the nobles were fleeing the ballroom now, trampling each other to get away from the disturbing display. Many of the ladies were crying, and the lords seemed split between their own fear and a desire to impress the ladies by coming to their defense. They settled for stepping back slowly, mouths agape, dessert plates raised like weapons.

  “I came to warn you, but your vanities know no bounds. The danger growing in the West will destroy you all!”

  The first of the Shield guards reached the madman, but when they attempted to grab him, he threw them off as easily as if they were little children.

  “He’s a Muscle,” Caleb said.

  “A Mimic too,” Mica said. “But he can’t control it.”

  The man’s features and coloring continued to change as he lurched around the ballroom, shouting reproaches at the gathered nobles. The light of a thousand candles flickered grotesquely in his mad eyes.

  “The suffering has become too great!” he wailed. “It started in the barren fortress, festering in the abominable cesspit. But it will end in the silver halls of Jewel Harbor itself!”

  Agony drenched the man’s voice, and his contortions looked torturous, uncontrollable. He held off the palace guards with unnatural strength, and tears leaked from his ever-changing eyes. The scene was alarming, but it was pity rather than fear that filled Mica at the man’s cries.

  “Torment!” he howled. “Misery and lies! The Windfast claims to protect us, but you nobles refuse to listen. You would not help us, and soon it will be too late.”

  The Shields renewed their approach, this time waving for Muscle guards to assist them. They attempted to wrestle the figure into submission, making no effort to be gentle despite his distress. Mica winced. They should be trying to alleviate his suffering somehow, not fighting him. She had to help.

  But as Mica turned for the stairs, a guard raised a truncheon and slammed the end into the man’s head. A sickening crack echoed through the ballroom.

  “Stop!” Anger flashed through Mica like lightning. This man needs help, not a beating!

  “Wait, Jessa.” Caleb seized her arm before she could take off running. “There might be more of them.”

  “He’s ill,” Mica said. “They can’t treat him that way.”

  Another crack sounded, and the man’s cries faltered.

  “Release me.”

  “Have you forgotten you’re the future empress?” Caleb’s eyes were wide with surprise, but he kept a firm grip on her arm. “Stay here until it’s safe, Jessa. The Shields will handle it.”

  “Have you forgotten I’m the future empress?” Mica hissed. “I’ll go where I please.”

  She wrenched her arm free and raced for the stairs leading down to the main dance floor. Caleb followed close on her heels, but he didn’t try to stop her again. He drew a knife from his coat sleeve as they plunged down the steps. Mica had a knife hidden in her velvet sleeve too, but she left it alone.

  Neither one needed their weapons. The strange figure lay unconscious on the polished wooden dance floor by the time they reached the lower level. Even though he was no longer a threat, the palace guards were tying him up tight enough for three Muscles. More guards gathered in close, as if they still expected him to leap up and start attacking the lords and ladies.

  “Out of my way!” Mica snapped.

  “Princess!” said one of the Shields. “Are you injured? This madman—”

  “I am fine, thank you.” Mica waved him aside. “Let me see him.”

  She approached the man on the floor. His face had stopped shifting, and he’d been left with a strange amalgam of features, none of them correctly proportioned: flat nose, huge eyes with lashes long enough to brush his cheeks, skin that seemed to be a different shade on every visible body part, tiny ears, and aquamarine hair. His arms were different lengths, and his legs were roped with excessive musculature. It was as if his body couldn’t stay in a single shape long enough for a full impersonation to form.

  Mica had heard of Impersonators completely losing control before, especially if they tried to stretch themselves beyond their abilities. The students at the Academy had whispered about such things to scare each other. This man’s contortions weren’t far off from the worst of the stories. But impersonations didn’t usually remain when people had been knocked unconscious. Something was very wrong here.

  The guards had tied the bonds on their prisoner so tight his skin puckered, and a deep cut on his forehead was spreading blood down his mottled face. Mica turned to the nearest Shield, too angry to see his features clearly.

  “In the future,” she said, her voice stiff with fury, “you will refrain from unnecessary force when dealing with the ill and unstable.”

  “But, Princess, he was—”

  “He was ill. Not dangerous.”

  The Shield bowed deeply.

  Mica waved him away and studied the unconscious stranger. The cut on his forehead meant he didn’t have a Shield’s impervious skin. Shields weren’t completely invulnerable, and they could be killed with poison and suffocation, among other methods, but they couldn’t be cut. This man had displayed both Muscle strength and a Mimic’s impersonation abilities, though, which made h
im the second person she had met with more than one Talent.

  She addressed the nobles, who had emerged from behind candelabras and dessert tables to gather in a wide circle around the dance floor. “Does anyone know where this man came from?”

  Shocked faces stared back at her.

  “Did anyone see him start to change?”

  “I did, my princess.”

  The lord governor of Silverfell, whom Mica had met earlier that evening, stepped out from the crowd. Corpulent, with shiny hair and flushed cheeks, he wore a rich coat embroidered with heavy silver thread. She searched her memory for his first name.

  “Please tell me what you saw, Lord Bont.”

  “He poured a drink for me, Your Eminent Majesty. He said he hoped this was the last fine wine I ever tasted. That’s when his face started changing. Before I knew it, he was screaming about a cesspit of abomination and corruption.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd. Corruption was hardly the type of accusation a room full of nobles and wealthy merchants liked to hear, especially when draped in their most fabulous jewels and silks. They hadn’t all come by their wealth honestly.

  “What did he look like at first?”

  “I can’t say I noticed, Your Most Excellent Highness,” Lord Bont said. “He was pouring me a drink. I didn’t look too closely at him until his face started twisting like that.”

  “Did anyone see the face he wore to get in here?”

  The lords and ladies looked at each other blankly. Mica bit the inside of her mouth to keep from chastising them. She shouldn’t be surprised that the nobles hadn’t given a man in a servant’s garb a second look. She’d taken advantage of that habit more than once to pass unnoticed among them.

  “Take him to a cell, and have a healer see to his head,” Mica said. “Notify me the moment he is awake. I must speak with him.”

  “That will not be necessary.” The voice that spoke from behind her was crystal clear and as deep as a mountain lake.

  His Imperial Majesty Emperor Styl was striding across the ballroom, the nobles parting to make way for him. He had white skin, black hair, and a visage as grave as a stone gargoyle.