It doesn t pay to have too many illusions about us, Imrana once told him soberly. Take the Black Folk out of the equation and we d probably still be a bunch of bloodthirsty horse tribes squabbling over turf.

The barber finished up his bladework, wiped Egar s face and neck down with a moist towel, and brought a burning taper to scorch away the hairs growing from his ears. It was a painful process set the hair on fire for a scant second, slap it out again with a cupped palm, repeat but Egar submitted with a stoic lack of protest. He was hitting close to forty now, and had no desire to be reminded of the fact every time he looked in a mirror. Ears sprouting hair, gray in the beard and pelt, creases in brow and jowls that eased but never fully faded as his expression changed; it was all starting to pile up in ways he didn t much like.

Nor did he like the space it was starting to rent in his head.

Back out on the steppe the last few years, he hadn t really noticed the changes, because outside of shamanry, reflective surfaces weren t something the Majak had a great deal of use for. But now, returned once more to the imperial city, Egar was forcibly reminded that Yhelteth prized fine mirrors as a sign of wealth and sophistication. Both homes and public buildings boasted a wide and ornate selection, lurking at unexpected locations in halls and reception rooms wherever he went. Imrana s house was particularly well supplied, as befit, he supposed, her position at court, and her need to maintain a polished outward beauty. In the end , she said, a little bitterly, facing him in warm perfumed bathwater one evening, despite wealth, despite wisdom, despite contacts and court alliances, I am still a woman. And I will be judged on all counts for that single fact, via the cursed fucking geometry of how pleasing I am to the eye. Cheekbones and arse cheeks are my destiny.