by Jon Sprunk
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 Caim'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
Caim 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 Caim'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.”
Caim reached out with his arm to hold Josey back, fearful she might rush into the waiting blades in her rage, but she stood her ground and glared at Markus with tears running down her face.
“You're nothing but a coward,” she said. “You're not worthy of Anastasia, or any woman. You should be whipped through the streets and cast out into the wilderness.”
Markus's chuckle filled the chamber as his men edged farther into the room. Caim balanced on the balls of his feet while he studied his adversaries. A sheen of sweat glistened on the brow of the Brother on his far left. That was his first target. After that, the tall one with the bruised eye. Caim shifted his weight by a fraction. They would rush him at any moment. He'd only have a split second to react.
Josey pressed against Caim's back. “Let us go, Markus. You're not an evil man.”
“No, not like the man beside you,” Markus replied. “But I've chosen my side. You both hav
e to die. Those are my orders.”
“The electors are nothing but a band of traitors!”
The prefect laughed. “Oh, this is rich! You think I'm here under the Council's orders? Josey, nothing could be further from the truth. I answer to a higher calling now.”
“Money, you mean.”
“That's right, bitch. Not that you'd know anything about that, what with your ball gowns and pretty baubles.”
“Don't”—Caim turned his injured side away from the soldiers—“call her that.”
Markus smiled behind the point of his sword. “You seem a bit stiff, friend. Not as nimble as you were on the pier, or upstairs for that matter. So the bolt found its mark. It stings, eh?”
“Come a little closer and find out.”
Markus clicked his tongue. Caim beat their rush by a fraction of a heartbeat. He jumped just before the Brothers advanced. Pain ripped through his side, but he shoved it to the back of his mind as he rolled on his left shoulder and came up inside the guard of his first target. The clammy soldier fell to the floor, bleeding from a gouge in his belly and a slash across the face.
There was nothing fancy in Caim's technique. He shifted and lunged, ducked and riposted. His left-hand knife cut a jagged furrow along the tall Brother's arm while the right-hand blade beat aside a sword thrust and drove its author back. The tall soldier whipped his sword up into a guard position, but Caim sunk underneath and drove both points into the man's upper thigh where the artery pulsed. The Brother shouted and dropped to the floor.
As Caim moved to engage the others, a vicious spasm pulsed in his chest like his heart was trying to burst out of his rib cage. Steel flashed all around him in the lamplight. He retreated under a slashing sword stroke and slid away from a swipe at his head, but hampered by his wound he couldn't move fast enough. A boot stomped on his knee and almost spilled him to the floor. A sword gashed the sleeve of his shirt. In desperation, he launched a whirlwind of stop-thrusts to keep the Sacred Brothers at bay.
A bulky missile soared over his shoulder, accompanied by a dainty grunt. The oil lamp shattered on the floor behind the Brothers, and a wall of burning oil erupted at their backs. By a stroke of good fortune, Markus was stranded on the far side of the inferno.
Caim saw his chance. He darted in close, switching to the offensive. The suete knives cut through gabardine and flesh. Blood spattered the flagstones. A Sacred Brother screamed as his sword fell to the floor, his hand still attached to the hilt.
Caim was pressing the last two Brothers when another blade flashed at him from the darkness. He pivoted as Markus, his boots wreathed in flame, launched a barrage of furious attacks. Caim evaded the wild swings, but the action forced him back a step. He made two swipes with his knives to gain more maneuvering room, but the prefect's arrival had tipped the scales. Caim couldn't defend both himself and Josey. He retreated with a sinking feeling in his gut. He had lost the advantage. In a moment they would regroup and overwhelm him.
He risked a glance over his shoulder at Josey, backed against the wall with the ceremonial pike clutched across her chest. They were both going to die in this stinking cellar. The flash of her warm green eyes inflamed him. A tingle in his chest was the only warning before the chamber plunged into absolute night.
Icy sweat broke out all over Caim's body as he fell back against the stone wall. Even knowing what was happening didn't prevent the tendrils of fear from sliding through his veins. The shadows had come.
But he hadn't called them.
There was no mistaking the screams that echoed through the chamber. He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, just for an instant, but it was enough to melt his insides. Sleek and powerful, it prowled the darkness, and the fall of its massive paws made no sound on the chamber floor. Caim's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't move; his muscles had turned to jelly.
Josey's cry shook him from the stupor. He felt along the wall until he found her, huddled against a bookcase. She shuddered at his touch and tried to slap him away.
“It's me!” he hissed in her ear. “We have to get out of here.”
She buried her face against his shoulder. Careful of his aching side, he cradled her as tenderly as he could. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. The oil fire was burning down. Flashes of metal near the center of the room showed him where the surviving Brothers were making their stand. There was no sign of the shadow beast, but Caim could feel its presence like a great, black wave rolling through a midnight sea. He only hoped the creature would focus on the soldiers, leave him and Josey alone.
With an arm around her shoulders, Caim steered Josey along the periphery of the chamber. He kept the knife in his free hand ready, but the soldiers were focused on the greater threat. A gurgling squeal rose beyond the range of human vocals.
Josey gasped as they approached the burning pool. The heat of the fire was intense enough to warm him through tunic and cloak.
“Trust me.” He picked her up. Her arms encircled his neck.
Caim carried her along a narrow path between the fire and the wall. The heat climbed up his boots. They were almost through when a shape appeared before them in the gloom to cut off their escape. For a moment, Caim feared the shadow beast had turned on them. Then, Markus's face emerged from the shadows. His sword rose into the smoky air.
Caim lowered his shoulder and charged ahead. He slammed into Markus. The momentum of the blow sent Markus hurtling into the greedy flames. Spurred by the prefect's screams, Caim raced up the stairs as if the lords of hell were on his heels. But halfway up the uneven steps, the pain in his side forced him to put Josey down. They crawled through the secret door, and Caim slammed it shut behind them. The Brothers’ screams died away to ominous silence below.
As he staggered out of the niche, Josey pulled him close in a fierce embrace. Her soft lips mashed against his so hard he feared she might bruise herself. In the midst of this passionate display, he collapsed in her arms.
Somehow she half carried him down the dusty hallway. The rest of the mansion was empty, which was good, as he was in no condition to fight. The sickness was worse than ever before. He ached over every inch of his body. While he waited for the effects to leach out of his system, disturbing thoughts caromed through his head. The truth about Josey's identity hadn't struck him yet, not fully, but he could already feel his attitude changing toward her. He stood a little straighter beside her, then scowled when he noticed this and deliberately slouched.
They left the mansion by the back door and crossed the yard. Every step jarred Caim's side. Scaling the wall was a brutal experience, but he survived it. As they stole away, a jarring crash from the mouth of an alleyway caused him to raise his knives, until a small, furry shape darted away. He squeezed his fingers around the hilts. He was getting jumpy. It was Josey's fault. He had been a successful, self-possessed professional before he met her. Now, he was a mess.
Perhaps guessing his mood, Josey asked, “What do we do now?”
The foggy street stretched before them into the gloom. “Back to Low Town.”
“The brothel again?”
The note of indignation in her voice made him smile despite the fierce throbbing in his side. Already acting the part of a princess.
“Not yet. I want to stop by my place first and pick up some things, a change of clothes.”
“Wait.” She stopped, which forced him to halt as well or leave her behind, something he wasn't willing to do.
“I need your help.” She straightened her shoulders and faced him. “I want you to help me track down those responsible for the death of my father…and my real family. I need you to help me punish them.”
Determination burned in her gaze. So much like his own, it gave him pause.
“You mean kill them.”
“I mean do whatever it takes. Whoever is behind this has taken everything from me. My father. My home. My whole life. I want them dead. Help me, and all I have is yours.”
He forced a
laugh, although it came out as more of a croak. “You're wearing borrowed clothes under a borrowed jacket. Any wealth your father possessed has probably been seized by the city. You're poorer than me.”
“What do you want?”
He stepped closer. A look of uncertainty crept into her highborn features, but she held her ground. His mouth remembered the taste of her kiss. “How about a full pardon?”
Her smile returned. “We can negotiate that.”
“It's negotiable?”
She took his arm as he steered her toward Low Town. “Everything's negotiable, Caim. But you know what this means, right?”
“What?” he asked, suddenly wary.
“It means you're fighting for a cause.”
Caim didn't reply, but let those words drift inside his skull for a while. Neither of them spoke on the long walk out of High Town. He figured they both had enough to occupy their minds. Gods knew he did. The thing in the cellar prowled through his mind like a bad dream. What the hell was it, and why did it keep appearing to him? More important, how could he get rid of it? The questions dogged him all the way back across the Processional.
Caim smelled trouble before they reached the Gutters. It smelled like smoke, and blood. A commotion stirred in the streets ahead. He pushed ahead of Josey as a throng of men poured out of a side street. Brandishing lanterns and makeshift weapons, they vanished down another lane. Their shouts echoed off the house fronts and rose into the night.
“Death to the prelate!”
“Swords rise for freedom!”
The crowd took up the chant as they marched off into the night. Caim started forward, but Josey dragged him to a stop. “What if we went to the palace instead?”
“Are you crazy?”
“If I announce myself, who I am, the people may rally behind my claim. A lot of bloodshed could be avoided.”
“Or you might be seized and bundled away before anyone hears your claim. It's suicide. Look, you said it yourself. The ones in power don't play by any rules but their own. We've got to be smart about this. I don't know much about politics, but even if the prelate and the Elector Council vanish overnight, someone else will seize the reins. And they aren't likely to hand them over to anyone without a fight.”