The Devil's Garden

by Jane Kindred

  “I told you my name. It wasn’t a lie.”

  “And would that be the name you’d tell me now if I asked? Say, if I approached you in the Garden?”

  “I wouldn’t speak to you in the Garden. I’m very exclusive.”

  “Cillian.”

  “Ume. The Maiden Ume Sky.”

  Cree’s cigar dropped from her open mouth into her hand. “You? Meeralyá!” She ground the cigar out on the table. “The Maiden Sky. And I lectured you about the veil. You must think I’m a proper fool.”

  Ume covered Cree’s hand with her own. “No. I was in a bind, and you were very kind to me. No one’s ever shown me such kindness.”

  Cree jerked back her hand. “I wasn’t being kind, for gods’ sake.”

  “You’re disappointed.” Ume made an attempt at a smile.

  “Damn right I am.” Cree pushed back her chair and stood. “Damn disappointed.”

  Cree’s look of betrayal haunted Ume later while she undressed in her apartments. The smeared Irises of Alya—blue, like the Meer’s eyes—mocked her from the mirror of her vanity as she applied a lavender cream to her face and rubbed almost violently until the rich honey color was a blushing pink. After rinsing with the day-old water in the basin, she patted a fresh flannel against her skin, peeking over the top as though it were a veil. Were these amber eyes Ume’s, or were they Cillian’s?

  She released the ribbons and pins from the chignon, and her hair fell forward against her cheeks, as bright as the alyani that had been tossed at her in the pub.

  What had Cree seen in Cillian? Was he materially different from the high-priced whore who was Ume? Was it Ume’s status that angered Cree, or was it her appearance? Naked and unadorned before the mirror, there was only a person: slight and petite for a man; narrow-hipped and flat-chested for a woman. Cillian sighed and picked up his dressing robe. He was long overdue for a bath.

  The following evening Ume’s dress was understated. Above a simple gold sheath, she draped a sheer black veil decorated with tiny amber beads, and used single drops of gold-dust paint to form the Irises of Alya. When she arrived in the Garden, Templar Nesre waited on the terrace of the Salver & Chalice, raising a glass of pelia to her. An involuntary shudder gripped her at the sight.

  “The lovely Maiden Sky.”

  She took the offered cordial but didn’t drink.

  “Did you have a repeat engagement with our mutual acquaintance last evening? I didn’t see you here.”

  “No, in fact. My engagement ended last evening.”

  “Indeed?” Nesre’s eyes widened with interest. “He must have been well satisfied. Perhaps you’ll join me and share the highlights.”

  Ume ran a lace-gloved finger along the rim of her glass. “Have I not joined you?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Maiden Sky. It doesn’t become you.” Nesre sipped his cordial. “I’ve gone out of my way to secure you the most prestigious engagement of your career, despite your unfortunate incident. I should think you might show a little gratitude. Have you forgotten our arrangement?”

  “I have not, Your Excellency.” Ume set down the cordial and rose. “Shall we?”

  She might be beholden to him, but she had no interest in drawing out the pleasantries.

  Inside the carriage, Nesre lifted her skirt with his slipper and pressed the toe between her thighs. The pressure was not unpleasant, and Ume permitted him to massage her to arousal.

  When they arrived at his room, she bent over the foot of his bed, holding her skirt above her waist while he stroked himself on the settee behind her. It was his pleasure to watch Ume bring herself to climax without using her hands, allowing the motion of her body and friction against the silk coverlet to do the job. It was a coverlet frequently replaced.

  Nesre disrobed and finished after her, pressed against her while he worked himself. It was rare he touched her so closely; the idea of what the Meer might have done with her must have whet his appetite.

  He reclined against the pillows afterward, fondling his soft phallus while Ume freshened up. “So per our agreement, Ume dear, what did your patron require of you?”

  Clad only in her veil, she curled up beside him and tucked her feet beneath her. “He wanted to sketch me.”

  “Sketch you?” Nesre stared at her as if she’d told him the Meer had set her hair on fire. “With a pen?”

  “With a piece of graphite, actually. He said he preferred to create with his hands.”

  “That’s it?” Nesre sputtered like an overheated steam engine. “He sketched you for twenty-four hours without touching you?”

  Ume shrugged. “He sketched me for perhaps an hour. Then I fell asleep.” She didn’t volunteer that the Meer had held her in his lap. Of that, for some reason, she was almost ashamed.

  “You fell asleep.” He clearly took her for a liar.

  “Asleep, Templar Nesre. He spoke of sleep, and I slept. I believe it was his intent that I do so.”

  “Perhaps he took advantage of you while you were unconscious.”

  “I have no reason to think so.”

  “Very peculiar.” Nesre thumbed his beard. “Do you believe he means to ask for you again?”

  “He mentioned he might. I assume you’ll act as his ambassador if he does.” Ume played with the beads on the edge of her veil. “How did he come to ask for me in the first place?”

  The templar rolled over and reached for the evening’s purse. “During his reign MeerAlya has taken a number of concubines who matched your type. I thought it would be interesting to provide him with one myself, and the occasion recently arose.” He set the purse in her hand. “I trust you’ll let me know if you see him again.”

  “As you wish.” At his cue, she rose and donned her clothing.

  “Ume.”

  She turned back as she was about to depart, and Nesre gave her a paternal smile.

  “I hope your mind has been set at ease about the other unfortunate matter. As long as I can trust in your loyalties, there is no reason anyone should suspect you.”

  Ume mulled the implied threat on the ride back to the Garden. Her loyalties… Whether he questioned that they lay with the temple in general or with Templar Nesre himself was unclear, but his interest in the Meer’s activities was notable.

  As she alighted from the carriage, she was surprised to find Cree waiting before the Salver & Chalice, formally dressed in a high-collared black frock coat and a brown brimmed cap.

  At Ume’s approach Cree removed the cap and ran her fingers through her dark curls. “Maiden Sky.” She bowed with the cap against her chest. “Master Sylva.”

  Ume offered her hand. “Master Sylva.”

  Cree took it and kissed it through the long golden sleeve. “I realize I’m not apt to qualify as a patron. But I hoped you might join me at supper.”

  Ume inclined her head in the formal manner and took Cree’s offered arm.

  “I don’t have a carriage. I don’t know if you mind the walk.”

  In her understated mood Ume had worn a plain pair of slippers with a sturdy sole, intending to walk back to her apartments. “I’d be delighted, Master Sylva.”

  As they headed away from the Garden, Cree stopped and removed her coat to place it around Ume’s shoulders. The night was mild, but it was a touching gesture.

  “You are a gentleman,” said Ume as Cree took her arm again.

  “Cillian, I’m sorry. I mean, Ume. I was very rude to you last night.”

  “It’s forgotten.”

  “I was just so disappointed when you disappeared. I thought I’d done something wrong, offended you somehow.”

  “I’m sorry, Cree. I was hiding from a patron I’d quarreled with. Then I met him in the market, and we made up our differences.” Ume pressed Cree’s arm. “But I had a wonderful time with you.”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” She creased her brow in anger. “He isn’t making you do something against your will?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Ume settle
d against Cree’s shoulder, and Cree closed a comforting arm around her waist.

  At the boardinghouse, Cree laid her coat on the floor before the couch for Ume to sit on. Cold veal from her larder had been set out on the table beside them with berries and biscuits, warm from the oven. Her landlady must have brought them up just before they arrived.

  Cree started to eat but paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. Ume still sat primly, wrapped in her veil.

  “My, but you are a proper girl.” Cree fingered the edge of the fabric. “May I?”

  Ume lowered her eyes in assent, and Cree unwound the veil and draped it over the arm of the couch.

  “It’s lovely.” Cree ran her fingers over the beads. She paused and kissed Ume’s bare neck beneath the chignon. “You’re lovely. But I seem to be repeating myself again.” She flashed her teeth. “I suppose you’re hungry.”

  “Not in the least.”

  Cree was almost blushing. Ume unfastened her gown, and it fell from her shoulders as she crawled toward Cree.

  “Is that better? You see, I’m only Cillian.”

  Chapter Five

  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.”