Ah. That.

Yes, that Knight Commander Saril Ashant, back from assignment in Demlarashan, where he steadfastly and selfishly didn t manage to get himself killed by the rebels he was putting down. Came home instead, covered in glory and claiming as rightful reward a couple of weeks furlough complete with nightly conjugal

Leave it alone, Eg.

Will there be anything else, my lord? The barber was down to a strictly unnecessary brushing off of collar and shoulders. A massage perhaps?

Egar reckoned the brutal handling his ears had just had was probably about his limit today. And the confines of the barbershop felt suddenly tight. He shook his head, made an effort to dump his brooding. He got up out of the chair and fumbled for his purse. Saw the big, freshly shaven man in the mirror do the same. It caught him out as ever shit, that s a lot of gray hair! For something to say while he dug out coins, he asked:

And you say these compatriots of mine come in here a lot?

Regularly, yes, my lord. The barber took the proffered payment. Any message for them?

The Dragonbane stared the mirror down, trying not to let a sudden weariness show through. What would he say? What message could he possibly pass on to young men possessed of all the idiotic, indestructible confidence he d owned himself when he rolled into town a couple of decades back?

Enjoy it while it lasts, it sure don t last long, maybe?

Get paid well for the years you give?

If they were getting Palace Quarter shaves on a regular basis, they d already learned that lesson better than he could teach it.

The man in the mirror frowned at him. The barber hovered. Behind the traitorous weariness, another sensation coiled, restless, like smoke; like something summoned but not yet called to tangible form. He tried to name it could not.

He shook it off instead.

No message, he said, and stepped back out into the sun-blasted brightness of the street.