The Devil's Garden (2 page)

Cillian steadied a wave of dizziness, deliberately avoiding Zedei’s lifeless body as he crossed to the arch.

“Boy.”

The word stopped him in his tracks as he stepped into the passageway. No one had called him that since he was twelve. Cillian turned his head.

“I need your name, to send word.” Nesre’s eyes held flat disinterest, dismissing any evidence of Ume Sky’s existence.

“It’s Cillian. Cillian Rede.”

Cillian wandered the riverbank as the predawn sky took on a dull gray hue. Until today, he hadn’t spoken his given name in five years. It grated on his tongue, the leading consonant hard and unyielding like the wild, western wastes of the
falend.
Perhaps he belonged to an ungoverned tribe of
falenden
barbarians and, as an infant, had been secreted into the cradle of a proper Deltan boy. He’d always liked to imagine so; it would have explained much. He’d also secretly envied the proper Deltan boy whose place he might have taken. Being kidnapped by barbarians had sounded much more exciting than being the disappointing son of a minor merchant.

His feet ached on the cobbles, and shock gave way to humiliation and despair. He hadn’t felt so outcast or alone since his father caught him in a virgin’s veil and tossed him out onto the streets. Cut off from his rooms, he had no money and nowhere to sleep. Nesre hadn’t given him his purse, and he’d damned well earned it and more.

Ume would have known what to do.

He stopped for a moment behind a carriage house at the dock’s edge and leaned back against the wall to stare out at the softly moving river.
Anamnesis.
It meant
remembering.
He’d give anything to forget this entire night. Cillian slid down between two crates on the pier, wrapped his arms about his knees and closed his eyes.

Just a few minutes’ sleep. Just a few.

“Unless you plan to be loaded onto the barge, I suggest you get on your feet, sir.”

Cillian opened his eyes on the midday glare from the bustling river. A handsome dockhand with tousled, close-cut curls stood over him with his arms crossed and his lips curled in amusement.

Leaping to his feet, Cillian ran an unsteady hand through his own shorn hair. “I fell asleep. I was—”

“No need for excuses, but I could use a hand getting the last of these crates onto that barge.” He rolled up his flaxen sleeves. “Help me with these two, and I’ll buy you a pint and a peck.”

Cillian needed no encouragement; his stomach growled audibly at the mention of breakfast. While the dockhand took one side of a crate, he took the other, and after carting it the few feet to the waiting plank, they made quick work of the second.

“Cree,” the dockhand said, holding out his hand.

“Cillian.”

After a firm handshake Cree took out a tin of slim cigars and offered him one, but Cillian shook his head. With a shrug, Cree struck a match on the tin and took a few puffs before nodding upriver.

“Time for that pint, then?”

The pub to which Cree took him was not one Ume frequented. Cillian huddled over a plate of spiced
karri,
intent on his meal, and only after he’d finished most of it did he realize Cree wasn’t eating.

Cree rolled the cigar between his broad white teeth and tapped the back of Cillian’s hand with his forefinger. “That’s unusual.”

The henna tattoos of the temple courtesan still adorned Cillian’s skin. He couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation.

“I like the unusual.” Cree paused for a few good puffs. “So, Master Cillian, I gather you’re in need of a place to stay.”

“Temporarily.”

“Naturally.” Cree grinned. “Nothing lasts forever.”

Cree roomed in a boardinghouse a half mile north of the docks. His rooms were simple but spacious, and a comfortable couch was Cillian’s for as long as he needed.

“I can pay you,” Cillian said. “As soon as—”

“Think nothing of it. If you’re here at the end of the week, we’ll talk.”

After Cree went out again, Cillian curled up in the window seat. Through the glass, the mild afternoon light caught damselflies darting and hovering on the gilt-edged surface of the Anamnesis and herons stalking fish at the river’s edge.

Nothing had changed but him. Like the damselflies, the uneven ends of his hair flashed in the sunlight, swinging in short, tangled waves as he hung his head. The shorn locks were evidence of a violation, as though he’d been assaulted and left defiled for all to see, his sex stolen from him.

But a man was dead. Ume had stabbed a man in the heart.

Trying to piece the night together made his head hurt. Nesre might have left him desexed, but he was also going to great pains to protect him. Cillian was in his debt. He pulled Cree’s patchwork quilt around his shoulders, wishing he could wake up in his own bed among the silks and velvets.

When Cree returned after dusk, Cillian hadn’t moved.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Cree lit the oil lamp on the table and sat beside him. “Listen. Something has come up.”

Cillian swung his feet to the ground. “You need me to go.”

“No, no. It’s not that. At least—Cill, how do you feel about the Meerarchy?” Cillian cringed at the unfortunate sound of the nickname, but Cree didn’t seem to notice.

“How should I feel? How does anyone feel about it? If you believe the templars, the Meer have ruled the
soths
for a thousand years. What’s that to me?”

“You’re not a loyalist, then.”

“You mean do I turn cartwheels at the sight of MeerAlya’s procession? If you’ve a problem with nonbelievers, perhaps I really should go. I’m not big on prayers and obeisance.”

Cree flashed him a grin. “No problem at all. In fact, a small group of
nonbelievers
will be coming up this evening. We share a mutual distrust of the Meeric system. The meeting was to be at the pub, but temple priests were seen in the area, and we didn’t want to take any chances.” Cree stood and raised the lamp in the window. “Could you hold this here a moment? Just cover the brazier a second, then open it again before the flame dies completely. It’s the signal for the others to come up.”

Cree opened a cabinet and pulled out a half dozen glasses while Cillian signaled. “My friend Jin has a fine flask of
pelia
for us. Tonight we toast the evening like templars.”

Cillian set down the lamp with a grimace as Cree brought the glasses to the table. “I don’t have much of a head for
pelia.
I think I’ll pass.”

When the bell announced Cree’s guests, Cillian jumped up and folded the quilt.

“We don’t stand on ceremony.” Cree went to the door. “All men are created equal.”

Cillian laughed, to Cree’s bemusement.

A hearty round of hellos and quick-flowing
pelia
followed the introductions. Jin, a light-skinned man like Cree, had his arm around a young woman named Zea who wore neither a veil nor a matron’s head covering. They were obviously a couple, but there was a certain intimacy in the way the other two men stood together that suggested they might be, as well. Sylus’s warm smile when he lingered on shaking Cillian’s hand, and Dehr’s unfriendly one when he noticed the pause, made Cillian sure of it. The notion surprised him. Outside of bartered encounters, such liaisons were unheard-of, and even bartered sex between two men was punishable by whipping in the public square. Only in the sacrament of a courtesan’s offering was gender immaterial.

“This is the boy I told you about.” Cree brought him forward as Cillian flinched involuntarily. “Cill’s a day laborer at the docks. He assures me he’s just as fond of the temple as we are.”

“Did you hear what happened there today?” Zea sat cross-legged on the floor and held out her glass. “Someone’s murdered a templar.”

Careful not to look at her, Cillian held his breath, certain his pounding heart must be visible through his tunic.

“Murdered?” Cree repeated.

“Not one of us.” Zea laughed as Jin filled her glass. “Though the damned Meerist won’t be missed. He patronized the girls who work the pubs downriver of the Garden, and they say he had a mean streak.”

So Ume wasn’t the first Zedei had been rough with. And pub girls, who undoubtedly had the parts he’d expected. It was small comfort.

Cree took a healthy shot of
pelia.
“Do they know who killed him?”

Sylus shrugged. “One of the girls probably.”

Inhaling sharply, Cillian choked on his own spittle and was seized by a coughing fit. Cree slapped him on the back and offered his glass of
pelia,
and to avoid drawing more attention to himself, Cillian took it. By that point the burn of the liqueur in his throat was welcome.

“This isn’t our usual meeting,” Cree said as Cillian’s fit passed. “Generally it’s a bit more businesslike, but then, we’re generally a larger number, as well.”

“No offense intended,” said Dehr, “but perhaps we should keep business for another time. We don’t really know Master Cillian.”

Cree laughed. “What, you think he’s a spy?”

“I just think we should leave business talk for later.”

“I think it’s time for a bit of a smoke, myself.” Sylus took a pouch from his pocket.

“Excellent idea.” Cree leaped up to rummage through his cabinet and pulled out a slender glass pipe.

Though Ume’s patrons smoked spirit leaf on occasion, she preferred to remain in control during her engagements. When it was passed to Cillian, however, he took the pipe with a certain grim resignation. Things were already well beyond his control; a little spirit leaf couldn’t hurt.

He breathed in the fine smoke and coughed again as he leaned back against the cushions. The leaf produced a pleasant sense of lightness from the worry and despair that had weighed on him since last night.

After taking a hit from the pipe and passing it to Zea, Cree leaned back beside him. “That’s better.” He smiled and patted Cillian’s knee. “You look more relaxed. You’ve had a hard time, I guess.”

Cillian closed his eyes. “You have no idea.” His mind drifted as he listened to the quiet conversation. Zea and Jin were murmuring at the foot of the couch, and Cillian opened one eye to find that Sylus and Dehr had retreated to a corner.

“Again,” said Cree with a grin, “not our usual meeting.” He stroked Cillian’s knee, and Cillian rested his hand over Cree’s. After a moment he realized Cree was tracing the lines of his tattoo. “This is lovely.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Cree stopped him with his fingertips and replaced them with his lips when Cillian didn’t retreat.

“Oh, that
is
lovely,” whispered Cree when he released him. “
You’re
quite lovely.”

Jin and Zea were locked in an embrace, and Sylus was perched in Dehr’s lap, speaking quietly at his ear.

Cree stood and took Cillian’s hand. “Come with me.”

In no mood to refuse, Cillian followed him to the bedroom, where Cree pulled him close and nipped at his mouth, his hands on Cillian’s narrow hips. Cillian pulled the tunic over his head and helped Cree with his buttons as he pushed Cillian onto the bed and climbed over him, but when he laid open the garment, Cillian stopped short. Cree had a small but definite pair of breasts.

With the shirt half-off, Cree hesitated. “You’re disappointed.” The sentiment was all too familiar.

Cillian moved closer and nudged the shirt from Cree’s shoulders. “No.” He brushed his fingers over the unfamiliar territory. “Just surprised.” He was even more surprised at his arousal. He’d never had a woman before. It had never occurred to him that he could.

It was endearing how mortified Cree was to find him in her bed in the morning.
“Meeralyá!”
she groaned with her hands over her eyes. “
Ai,
Cillian, tell me you’re of age. Tell me I haven’t taken advantage of an innocent. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Cillian laughed. “I’ve not been called innocent in several years, Maiden Cree.”

She shuddered. “Don’t call me that.” She spoke in the same deep contralto Cillian had first taken for the timbre of a man.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. You prefer to be referred to in the masculine.”

“Oh, it’s not that. Truly, I don’t care one way or the other. I just hate that term. As if once touched, a woman were spoiled like yesterday’s milk.”

“I’ve always thought of it as a compliment.” He sat up and drew his knees to his chest. “A term of respect.”

“Trust me. You wouldn’t like it if it were applied to you. Be thankful you don’t belong to the caste of the veil.”

“What’s wrong with the veil?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

“Are you serious?” She propped up on one elbow. “Being forced to hide yourself like something shameful because you’re a woman? What’s
not
wrong with that?”

“That’s not what it’s about. It sets the feminine apart as sacred, something to be revered.”

“Until it’s spoiled like bad milk.”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

Cree rolled onto her back and put her arms behind her head as she stared up at the ceiling. “Do you know that in the
falend
there are communities without rulers? Without any restrictions. A woman can be a farmer or a smith. No veils. No skirts.”

Cillian grimaced at the thought. Being kidnapped by barbarian nomads was one thing, but farming voluntarily was quite another.

Cree rolled over and kissed him before hopping out of bed. “You have a divine face, Cillian. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“A time or two.”

Standing in the light of the bedroom window, Cree pulled on her dockworker’s clothing, the tip of one breast brushed by the early-morning rays before the work shirt swallowed it into sexual anonymity.

“Have you always dressed like that?”

She glanced up as she fastened the top two buttons. “Does it bother you?”

Cillian smiled. “Not in the least.”

“I wanted to work. This was the only way to be taken seriously.” Cree pulled a boot over one rough twill pant leg and propped her heel on the bed to lace it. “My parents died when I was a kid. The only livelihood available to me under the veil was begging or selling my body. I did a bit of both, and when I went without the veil, I paid for it.” A shadow darkened her eyes and was gone. “I decided I had just as much right to honest work as anyone with a cock. People make assumptions based on close-trimmed hair and a pair of pants. Someone says
sir
to me, and I get work. It’s fine by me. And as long as no one’s wise to me—” Cree shrugged, “—I’ll stay out of the stocks.”