The garden received them the way it always received him.
Instantly aware.
The pleasure palace's garden — open to the sky, ringed by the palace's outer walls, the jade holders still burning their slow incense along the stone pathways, the lanterns lit in the trees even in daylight because the trees had learned to keep them lit — was not empty.
It was never empty.
The Amazonian women were nearest the garden's center path.
Dozen of them, thick-limbed, their tribal dresses doing what tribal dresses always did — covering the minimum with the maximum confidence, the fabric so tight across their chests that every nipple was outlined through it like something trying to make an argument, the skirts so short that standing still was already an invitation and bending forward was a declaration.
No panties.
This was not an oversight.
