"This looks like a code."

Josey broke her gaze away from the picture. "You don't read Old Nimean?"

"No. What does it say?"

"It's a journal. It looks like my father's hand. The title says 'Revolution Day."' She ran a finger across the page. "`In the eleven hundred and twenty-sixth year of the empire, a coalition of ministers and nobles from the outlying provinces gathered in secret. Dissatisfied with the influence held by the imperial court, and further motivated by liens against their properties and titles, these individuals plotted to depose the emperor. Key legionary commanders were involved by a variety of means, including bribery, blackmail, and at least one known murder of a state official. This inaugural meeting was held at the Basilica of St. Andros in the free city of Mecantia."'

She glanced at him. "The presiding minister was Praetor Terentius Vassili, count of Leimond."

"Archpriest Vassili?"

"Before his ascension to the Elector Council, it seems, and before Mecantia was annexed by primal decree. It goes on to say that the coup succeeded. The coalition armies defeated the imperial garrison and seized control of Othir."

Caim set the lantern on the table. "I thought it was the Church that led the uprising against the emperor."

"That's what we were taught," Josey said. "Since then, the prelate has held temporal power over Nimea in addition to his spiritual authority."

"For the good of the people, no doubt."

She frowned as she bent over the text. "Listen to this. After the usurpation, elements of the Sacred Brotherhood took the palace. The coalition leaders were tried by an ecclesiastic court and executed. Thereafter, select churchmen were put in important positions in a government imposed by the Council and supported by the Brotherhood. Any who voiced dissent were imprisoned, or killed outright, and their lands forfeited. There's a list of nobles who switched allegiance to the new regime and were allowed to retain their titles."

She read off the roll of names. The muscles in Calm's jaws bulged at the mention of a familiar name: Reinard, duke of Ostergoth.

He cursed behind clenched teeth. Mathias had vetted every detail of the Ostergoth mission because of the high-profile nature of the target. He had convinced Caim everything was in the clear, but it was too convenient to be coincidence. They had been played like fools.

Mat, what did we get ourselves into?

A thought struck him. "What was the date of this Revolution Day?"

She flipped back to the beginning. "The fifteen of Maises, 1126."

Seventeen years ago. That would be the spring before his father's estate was attacked. Another coincidence, or were the two events related? As the Church consolidated its power, chaos would have run rampart through the rest of the empire, alliances between neighbors forgotten in the rush to address old grudges, small estates swallowed by more powerful landowners pushing to extend their borders without fear of imperial intervention. Caim bit down on his tongue as a chilling touch tickled the base of his spine. He was more invested in this struggle than he'd known. His rage bubbled to the surface.

"Vassili set them up," he said. "He convinced those nobles to rebel, and then sold them out when the deed was done. After they were gone, the Church was poised to take over."

Josey straightened, her features pallid in the lamplight. "It's ghastly. I remember hearing stories about those days. The emperor and empress were convicted of heresy and burned for their crimes, along with their children. There's a horrible painting of it in the Lyceum."

"Is there anything else?

"It says the extermination of the imperial line was not as complete as the Church wanted everyone to believe. One child, the youngest, escaped with the help of a loyalist faction. The emperor's daughter..

"What?"

Josey's lips trembled. Wetness gathered in her eyes and threatened to spill over.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head as the first tear ran down her cheek, to be followed by a choked sob. Caim clenched his jaws. He wanted to shake her. Instead, he placed a hand on her arm.

"It's all right. Just tell me what's wrong."

With a halting voice, she read, "`The emperor's daughter, Josephine, was removed from the city by Artur Frenig, earl of Highavon, who thereafter raised the child as his own daughter, to be kept until the date of her majority.

Caim looked at her. He had felt there was something special about her, something beyond her beauty and wit. Now it made sense. He marveled at the boldness of the man who had raised her as his own.

"Parmian was right," he said. "If this gets out, it will shake the Church to its foundation."

"No," Josey said. Tears cracked her halting voice. "He's my father. He is.

Caim reached out, but dropped his hand before he touched her. Why would she want his comfort? She shocked him by rushing into his arms. He patted her on the back, unsure of what to do but keenly aware of the firm body pressing against him.

"It makes sense," he said. "Frenig claimed you as his daughter to protect your identity. He remained loyal to the old empire, but when the politics became too hot he retired from public life and returned to Othir to start this secret society. He was waiting."

"For what?" The question was squeezed between choking sobs.

"For you to become old enough to claim your birthright."

Josey looked up. Her eyes were red, but warm and glowing beneath the pain. The smell of lavender soap swirled in his head. He bent down over her until their faces were inches apart. Then, as if realizing where she was, Josey extricated herself from his embrace and stepped back.

"So," she said, "you're saying you believe all this?"

"It all fits, Josey. Or should I call you `Your Highness' or `Your Majesty?' I always forget."

"Stop that!" Her face turned vermilion.

He glanced around the chamber and took in the stacks of documents, the pictures, the pike with a golden griffon headpiece leaning next to a faded banner.

"There's no denying it. This is what Frenig died to protect. You are the lost heir of the imperial family."

"That is interesting."

A raspy voice echoed through the chamber. Caim spun around as heavy footsteps descended the stairs. His knives came up in a defensive posture.

"Yes. Very interesting indeed."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

aim pushed Josey behind him as a squad of men came down the steps. Swords and axes gleamed in their hands. Mail armor rustled beneath surcoats of the Sacred Brotherhood.

A familiar face appeared behind the soldiers. Markus had shed his uniform for a coat of boiled leather armor. He strutted into the chamber, holding his sword aloft like he was leading a holyday parade, but his men meant business. They fanned out in a half-moon formation.

Caim sunk into an open stance. Six-to-one were long odds even for him, especially when hampered by Josey and the wound in his side. He took a step to put himself more firmly between her and the Brothers, but she moved with him.

"We've been waiting for you to show up," Markus said. "I have to tell you, Caim. It is Caim, isn't it? I'm not impressed. I mean, for such a dangerous killer, you're not terribly imaginative."

"Is that so? How's your throat feeling?"

The prefect's face darkened. He pointed his sword at Calm's chest. "You'll be begging me for a quick end before this is through."

"Markus," Josey said. "This is madness. Did you have something to do with my father's death?"

Markus chuckled from behind the wall of his men. "Something? I was the one who engineered it, my dear Josephine. My only regret is that I didn't cut his throat myself. I'll have to be satisfied with killing your paramour here."