The Devil's Garden Read Free

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