The Devil's Garden (5 page)

Their supper went uneaten. Cree still seemed awed by him, hesitant in her touch, as if afraid he might break or perhaps fly away. Cillian danced a delicate balance between leading and following, pulling her down to straddle him and slipping his fingers expertly through the knots of her cravat and the buttons of the stiff, starched shirt to expose her in the moonlight that reflected off the Anamnesis.

With lace-gloved hands, he traced her contours, so exotic to him, and Cree shivered, rising onto her knees to let him unbuckle her belt and bare the rest of her. All hesitancy was forgotten when he slipped a gloved finger inside her to explore, learning what constituted a woman’s desire. She gasped and squirmed in his hands until they tumbled together, exhausting themselves in a race for each to please the other.

Cree woke him late in the morning and presented him with a paper of pastries to make up for the forgotten dinner.

“Oh, look at you.” She hopped onto the bed and gave him a kiss as he unfolded the paper around a sticky bun. “That gold paint on your eyes is even more striking when you’re naked.”

“They’re the Irises of Alya.” He offered her half of the pastry, but she shook her head. “His eyes look upon you when you partake of the sacrament.”

“The sacrament?”

“My body bestows his
vetma
upon you.” Cillian grinned and popped a piece of sticky bun into his mouth.

“Really.” Cree frowned. “I had no idea you were so religious. You said you weren’t a Meerist.”

“Cree.”
He quickly swallowed the piece. “For gods’ sakes, I’m not religious. I’m a temple courtesan of the highest order, and I am damned good at my art.”

Cree wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I guess I’m a bit touchy about the mention of the Meer. I was up early this morning for a meeting with the core group from the capital. People are talking of organizing a protest.”

“A protest?” A shiver of misgiving ran up Cillian’s spine.

“Cillian, I can trust you, can’t I?” She pulled her legs onto the couch and tucked her hands around the ankles of her boots. “I mean, what I say to you—it doesn’t reach the ears of anyone at the temple?”

“Of course not.” He was a bit offended. “Discretion is part of my oath as a courtesan. And even if it weren’t, I would never betray your confidence.”

“Even if it bordered on treason?”

“Cree, what is this about? What on earth are you planning to do?”

“A public protest against the Meerarchy. Thousands of people in the streets, all across the Delta. The expurgation movement has been gathering for a while. We’re going to demand a representative government. No more petitions. No more
vetmas.
The only blessings MeerAlya delivers are handouts to the rich for more bribes to fill his coffers. People are tired of working their fingers to the bone to pay tribute to rich men playing gods, and getting nothing in return.”

Cillian chewed at his lip, thinking of the plum sprig on the vanity at home. He’d believed it was nonsense—the whole concept of divine creation, the myth of the Meeric magic. But he’d seen the sprig grow from nothing. He had held it in his hand.

“How do you know they’re playing?”

Cree opened her mouth to answer, but the bell rang from below, and she jumped up and tossed a pair of pants at him. “I’m putting up one of the expurgists from the capital. I was about to tell you about it. But she’s here now, and at some risk. Please promise me—”

“I already have.” He stepped into the pants and buttoned them as she put a linen shirt around his shoulders. She and Cillian were almost of a size; Cree’s hips were just a trifle wider than his own, and there was only an extra inch of fabric in the length of the pants.

As Cillian slipped his arms into the sleeves, Cree went to the door to admit her guest. The Rhymani was a young, dark-haired woman in a plain gauze veil that offset eyes of a deep, unusual blue. Though quite different from the blue of MeerAlya’s, it brought him to mind just the same.

“Maiden Azhra of Rhyman.” Cree nodded toward Cillian. “Azhra, this is Cillian, my lover.”

Cillian blushed at the familiarity, finishing the buttons with his left hand as he extended his right to Azhra. There was an awkward moment while she waited for him to draw her hand forward for the perfunctory kiss, and Cillian forgot himself as he waited for her to do the same. He remembered just in time for it to seem that only buttoning the shirt had made him pause.

“Honored to meet you, Maiden Azhra. How do you find
Soth
In’La?”

“Strange.” Azhra lowered her head covering so that the veil fell against her shoulders. “So many go against custom here. And the contraptions are astounding. I swear I saw a carriage propelled with no horse, billowing steam like a riverboat.”

Cree nodded. “I’ve seen that on Bank Street. Must be a wealthy eccentric.”

“MeerAlya is experimenting with steam locomotion.” The words were out before he could think.

Azhra paused in straightening her head cloth. “Are you employed at the temple?”

“I…” He looked to Cree.

Cree made a slight bow in his direction. “You are speaking with the Maiden Ume Sky. A very influential temple courtesan.”

Azhra’s ocean-blue eyes seemed to swallow him up. “I see. That would explain your…decorations, I suppose.”

Cillian lowered his eyes, emphasizing the Irises of Alya while inclining his head in acknowledgment.

“How old are you?” she asked abruptly.

Cillian flicked his eyes to Cree’s and back to the demanding blue ones before him. “Seventeen summers.” At Cree’s soft groan of dismay he added, “I’m a veteran in my art.”

“I was fourteen,” said Azhra. “Twelve years ago, when I was consort to the Meer of Rhyman.”

“Meeralyá.”
Cree turned and pushed the low table out of the way. “I think we should all sit down.” She sank onto the couch, and Cillian remembered to wait for Azhra to sit before joining them.

She perched gingerly on the edge of a cushion as if she might leap up at any moment. “I’ve told no one else in the movement and I’d like it to stay that way.”

Cree nodded. “Of course. But I thought the Meer were impotent.”

“Celibate,” Cillian corrected.

Azhra laughed bitterly. “How I wish either were so.” She gave Cillian a knowing look. “I’m sure you would agree.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re a temple courtesan, and the Meer has not asked for you?”

Cree came to his rescue when he didn’t answer. “It’s against the law for a Meer to consort with a commoner. Even if the Meer aren’t impotent.”

“What do Meer care for the law?” Azhra turned to Cillian again. “So he hasn’t asked for you?”

Cillian sighed. “He has.”

Cree narrowed her eyes, but he ignored her.

“But you don’t know if he’s virile.”

“No, I don’t. I have many patrons whose preferences do not run to intercourse.” Cree was practically burning a hole in his head with her eyes. “Cree, I haven’t lied to you. I’m not a Meerist. I do what I am paid to do. That’s all.”

She studied him a moment, chewing on a thumbnail, her expression wavering between anger and something else he couldn’t define. “But if you were paid to break the law…” She left the sentence unfinished.

“You mean if he bedded me.”

Cree flinched at the words but didn’t back down.

“He
hasn’t.
”

“But if he did—” she picked up his hand and traced the tattooed lines, “—it might be useful information to the movement. If the templars saw the Meer cared so little for the precepts they’ve spent their lives in service to, they might be persuaded that the time for gods is past. It might be the thing to turn them to our point of view. It might end the Meerarchy.”

“You’re asking me to break the courtesan’s vow.” It was the second time in two days someone had asked him to spy on the Meer.

“I’m not suggesting you discuss the details of your assignations. Only, should it come up, to confirm whether you’ve been intimate with a patron. Does that break the oath if the patron is already known to have paid for your services?”

He frowned, not liking the turn of the conversation.

“Don’t answer me now. Just consider it. And if someone should ask you sometime down the road, well, use your own judgment then. Perhaps future events will make the answer easier.”

Cillian tucked back the hair slipping forward from his slept-on chignon. Ume had already agreed without question to report on her activities with the Meer. Did she owe more to a patron than she did to a lover?

Cree wove her fingers between Cillian’s in reassurance and turned to Azhra. “Was it common knowledge when you were the Meer’s consort? Did the templars know?”

Azhra was quiet for a moment, fingering the fabric of her veil. “I didn’t think so at the time. But after…” She paused, color rising in her olive complexion as if she hadn’t meant to elaborate but was now compelled to. “It was never made public. But somehow they knew. They knew, and they covered it up.” She glanced from Cillian to Cree, a silent plea in her eyes. “I’ve told no one else,” she repeated and took a deep breath, going pale. “I am the mother of the Meer’s child.”

“MeerRana of Rhyman is your
daughter?
” Cree let out a low whistle.
“Meeralyá!”

Azhra gave her a strained smile. “It comes so easily to the tongue, doesn’t it? Taking their names as imprecations.”

“But she’s Meer? I mean, can she speak things into being?”

“How would I know?” Azhra gave her a defiant look that seemed to mask more fragile emotion. “It was a dozen years ago. I barely knew the child. They took her to her father as soon as I delivered an heir, declaring it a miracle, as if she just sprang from his hip. Now she lives inside the golden walls of the temple and lives off the blood and sweat of the people, the same as he.” Azhra reddened. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t spoken of her in…” She sighed and glanced around the room as if the rest of the words might be there somewhere.

Cillian had never been in such a tense and awkward conversation, even with the most socially inept patron.
“Well.”
He released Cree’s hand and slapped his palms against his thighs. “Thank the gods that’s not a matter I shall have to worry about. Now who’s up for a drink?”

Cree cornered him in her bedroom later when he was preparing to go out. “Why don’t you stay tonight? Azhra’s taking the couch, but we’ll have privacy in here. There’s an important meeting, and I’d really like you to see what we’re about.” Cree kissed his neck as he cleaned off his eye paint before her mirror. “And I have purely selfish reasons too, of course.” She paused and looked at his reflection. “Cillian, you told me you were of age that first night.”

“Actually that was in the morning, after you’d had your way with me.” He flashed her a wicked grin.

“Cillian.”

“You didn’t specify what age you wanted me to be
of,
Cree. I’m well past the age of marriage. My older sisters married at thirteen.”

Cree’s eyes darkened. “The age of marriage for a woman, you mean. The age our fathers sell us off. You’d still be sowing your wild oats if you were a man.” Despite her glowering looks, he was pleased she seemed to have forgotten that technically he was one.

“Besides, I told you, I’ve been a working girl since I was twelve. You could hardly take advantage of me. How much less innocence were you looking for?”

Cree made a face at him the mirror. “Maybe Ume Sky is beyond corruption, but you, dear Cillian, aren’t quite as worldly as all that. I have an overwhelming urge to take care of you.”

“Well, Master Sylva—” Cillian loosened what remained of the chignon, “—there’s no charge for that.”

He took his leave of Cree and Azhra before midday, his dress and veil from the previous evening bundled together in brown paper tied with string.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Maiden Azhra.” He kissed her hand in parting.

She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. “We should talk before I return to Rhyman.”

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again, then.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Cree lingered for a parting kiss before opening the door to the street. “If I don’t see you soon, I’ll come looking for you again in the Garden.” She gave him a wink.

“I look forward to it, Master Sylva.” Cillian dropped a slight curtsy before turning to head upriver.

At Ume’s apartments, a note from Templar Nesre was waiting. MeerAlya had requested her presence at the temple, and she was already late. He was certainly a man of odd hours.

After a quick bath Ume slipped into a sleeveless black sheath with red ribbon closures up the bodice and open sides. Beneath, a pair of crimson silk pants with veiled insets of a red matte gave the billowy effect of a skirt. Slippers embroidered with damselflies in red and gold and a veil in bloodred satin completed the outfit, with a dyed rivercock-feather comb to hold her chignon in place. There was little time for cosmetics; a sweep of pomegranate stain dotted with black river sand sufficed for the Irises of Alya. Ume ran the juice over her lips and rubbed a bit into her cheeks as well before hurrying down to the carriage waiting in the Garden.

It was a relief not to find Nesre in it. His warning about her loyalties still disturbed her, especially after the tone the morning with Cree had taken.

MeerAlya waited for her in his studio, seated before a pedestal with his hands white with clay, and greeted her warmly with no mention of her tardiness. “I thought you might like to see what I’m working on.”

On the pedestal, a half-formed bust was emerging from the clay. Ume stepped closer and saw it bore her likeness. He had sculpted her face with eyes downcast and to the side, a brooding coquette.

“Does it please you?”

She nodded. “It does, my liege. I’m honored you consider me a worthy subject.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Have you done many courtesans?”

The Meer laughed richly. “You delight me, Maiden Sky. You wish to know who has captured my eye before you. A fair question. I am quite old by ordinary standards, though but an infant Meer.” He rose and lifted Ume’s chin with a clay-powdered hand. “I will not deny I have looked on other beauties, but time is a very inconsequential thing to a Meer, and I have been in no hurry to partake of them. Among the Meer, when my ancestors were still feracious, a man of my years might have been considered to be coming of age.”