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you went to the Choosing.
    Odd, how people can believe two things at once. Everyone knew that it was the children of the rich and influential who got Chosen; more often than not, someone from the family of whichever temple priest was doing the Choosing. And yet the story was that anyone might be Chosen. There were legends hundreds of years old, of simple peasants who went on to become High Priests.
    No-one knew anyone it had actually happened to, of course.
    It’s a good way to make people behave. Promise them that if they keep worshipping they, or their son, or their granddaughter, may be one of the gods’ Chosen, and kept in luxury.
    Promise them if they help some merchant fatten on their sweat, one day everyone’ll be rich.
    Promise them paradise after a life of toil.
    Promise them that if they just keep betting, one day, they’ll beat the house.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    I HAVE MY own private bathroom; boss’s privilege. I always like to bathe before I take clients.
    I put my rings on the side of the bath and sank back. Hot scented water, decent alcohol, and food someone else has cooked – the three basics of civilization, if you ask me. I can cook for myself, if I have to, though it’s likely to be soldier’s cooking (whatever I can find, raw or shoved on a spit and scorched) or courtesan’s cooking; which tends to be small expensive items bought ready-made, not too heavy on the stomach, and without need of cutlery.
    There were a few people waiting in the Punter’s Parlour when I went down. Some people prefer to make such arrangements in private, and we have waiting rooms for them; others are quite happy to sit around and chat while they make their choice or wait for their choice to become available.
    There was Maritel Lothley, a warm-blooded, loud, jolly woman who ran half the crockery stalls in the Upper South. She’s handsome and generous, but something of a thug between the sheets and besides, generally I prefer men. Next to her was a thin, nervous young man who looked the type to take his pleasure fast and worry about it for a week.
    Then there was a genteel commotion at the door and someone said, “Babylon. Princess of the pleasures.”
    A bald, high-nosed chap strode up to me in a rustle of scarlet silks, and bowed over my hand.
    “My lord Antheran, how lovely to see you.”
    Antheran had gone from impoverished younger son of a fading noble line, to a merchant prince who provided the nobility of the Empire with the finest of jewelled fripperies to hang upon themselves, their favourites and their pets. He always popped in to see us when he was in Scalentine.
    “My son, Antheranis,” he said, with a flourish, drawing forward a younger, softer version of himself.
    My heart sank. The boy was about fifteen, pretty but with a pouty look. I didn’t want to offend the prince, but I wasn’t in the mood to soothe a sulky lad out of a bad temper.
    Antheran gestured the boy back to his seat, and whispered in my ear. “I think, for his first time, you would be a little strong for his blood. Could you recommend someone?”
    “Of course,” I said, and sent for Essie.
    Antheran gave me the ghost of a wink. “Perhaps you would do me the honour?”
    “I would be delighted,” I said.
    I would, too. Antheran was courteous, responsive, and always clean; not one of those clients who one has to persuade to wash first. We insist, or they leave. It’s simple courtesy.
    Antheran liked to be undressed, slowly, and to be stroked and massaged. He was smoothly and completely hairless, with neat, expert fingers and an odd aversion to having his neck touched.
    He had a thing for silk, perhaps because it was the first stuff he’d made serious money with. Or maybe he’d made money dealing it because he loved it. I kept some scarves for his visits, but as I was taking them out of the chest, he said, “No, look, I have some new ones.” He drew out the first from his bag. It was very handsome – pink embroidered with gold