Ashan's blade moved with increasing confidence across the membrane, each stroke a lesson learned from the ones that had come before. Fat and mucus yielded to the edge with the particular satisfaction of things that had been resisting and were now, at last, giving way. The meat in his hands transformed, layer by layer, until it achieved the desired state: thin, pliable, almost translucent in the lamplight.
"Pass another offal meat."
Toric jolted from his spiraling thoughts. "Yes, Captain!" He reached into the bucket, his hand emerging with a fresh slab.
"Give three."
Now Ashan's movements accelerated. His hands, trained by hours of charm inscription, had found their rhythm. The blunt blade danced across each membrane, clearing away what needed clearing, preserving what needed preserving. In minutes, four thin, semi-transparent sheets lay arranged before him.
He lifted the first, rinsing it in the clean water bucket. Then the second. The third. The fourth. Each emerged clearer, cleaner, ready for the next stage.
Toric's eyes had not blinked once. The silence stretched, grew heavy, pressed against the walls. Finally it cracked under the weight of his unspoken questions.
"Captain..." His voice was low, careful. "I don't mean to question your methods. Truly." He paused. "But shouldn't we... move? Lie low for a while?" His hands began their frantic choreography. "We wiped out an entire market. An entire market. News has spread—every person on this island knows by now. The Master wants us dead. The Mistress is probably furious about us using her name. We're sitting in a tavern like nothing happened!"
Ashan did not react. His focus remained absolute as he took up the salt bottle, unscrewed its lid, and began sprinkling fine crystals across each membrane. The salt fell like winter's first snow.
Toric's hands fell still. His mouth closed. He had learned—was learning—that when the Captain worked, the Captain did not welcome interruption.
Ashan finished salting each piece, then carefully arranged them on the stretched goat hide. He sat back, surveyed his work, and allowed himself a small nod.
"First step complete." He stretched—neck rolling, arms extending—the posture of a craftsman satisfied with his labor.
Toric blinked. "What now?"
"We wait." Ashan considered. "Half a day. Maybe a full day." His gaze shifted to the materials. "Oh, right. Take these downstairs. Find that old man under the staircase—tell him we need storage space. Keep everything safe."
Toric wanted to ask more. He did not. He simply gathered the buckets and materials and headed for the door.
.....
"Hey! You!" Toric's shout rattled the sleeping old man from his doze. The old man's head snapped up, his eyes unfocused.
"Ah... wha...?" His voice was thin, reedy. "Storage? Back. Take left, then straight down. Stairs at the end."
Toric hauled his burden through the indicated passage, down creaking steps, into a cool darkness that smelled of earth and age. Two massive slabs dominated the space—ice slabs, by the cold radiating from them. Thick. Impossibly cold.
These two slabs must cost a fortune. He set down his buckets. At least the meat will stay fresh. For a few days anyway.
He paused, a thought striking him. If the Captain needs fresh meat again... are we going to have to wipe out another market?
The thought came and went in a heartbeat, but it left him shaking his head violently.
"What in the nine hells am I thinking?"
He fled back upstairs.
.....
When Toric re-entered the room, Ashan had assumed a new posture—seated on the goat-hide bed, legs crossed, back straight, fingers interlaced in a specific configuration. The four salted membranes were arranged beside him like offerings on an altar.
"Sit in front of me." Ashan's voice was calm, meditative.
Toric obeyed, lowering himself to the floor. "Captain, should I also close my eyes and—"
"You have doubts about my methods."
The statement cut through Toric's rambling like a blade through fog. Ashan's eyes—those terrible, knowing eyes—fixed on him with an intensity that made speech feel optional.
"If you led a faction," Ashan continued, "and woke tomorrow to find your entire market district wiped out, your people dead, your goods stolen—what would you do?"
Toric didn't hesitate. "I'd hunt those bastards down. Kill them slow."
"And if you knew nothing about them? Their abilities, their motives, their backing? Would you still charge in blind?"
Toric's brow furrowed. "Well... no. But—"
"But the Master has a problem." Ashan's voice cut through his words. "His authority has been challenged publicly. His people expect blood. But he's survived long enough to lead because he's cautious. He watches. He waits. He learns." His fingers shifted. "And while he watches, another question gnaws at him: why did the Mistress's people do this? And why does she now claim no connection?"
Toric's eyes widened. "You think she'll... let him come after us? As payment for using her name?"
"What would you do, in her position?" Ashan's voice was light, almost casual. "Two unknown factors appear, use your name to commit violence, and offer you a share of future profits. If they win against your rival, you gain. If they lose, you've lost nothing—and you can honestly say you never endorsed them." His smile was thin, cold. "It's a perfect strategic position."
"And the Master?"
"Watches. Waits. Learns." Ashan leaned forward slightly. "But his followers? The men who lost friends, family, income in that market? They don't want to watch. They want action. The longer he waits, the more his authority erodes from within."
Toric's breath caught. The pieces were slotting together, forming a picture he hadn't seen.
"Meanwhile, we sit here. In a tavern. In plain sight." Ashan gestured at their modest surroundings. "Making ourselves an easy target. A tempting target. But one that requires effort to reach—effort that must be coordinated, planned, approved."
He let the silence stretch.
"The Master's faction will fracture. The impulsive ones will break away, come for us early. They'll die. The cautious ones will wait, watch, learn—and learn nothing useful, because we'll give them nothing. And the Master himself will be caught between his people's bloodlust and his own survival instinct."
Toric stared, his mouth open, his thoughts scattered. He finally whispered, "How far ahead... are you thinking?"
Ashan's only answer was a quiet chuckle. He returned to his meditative posture, his eyes closing, his presence receding.
Toric sat in the growing dark, surrounded by salted membranes and the echo of a strategy so layered it made his head spin. The candles flickered, the shadows danced, and in the silence, he could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Outside, the night deepened. Somewhere across the island, factions stirred and schemed. And in a small room above a tavern, a twelve-year-old boy sat calmly, waiting for meat to cure, playing a game that no one else at the table even knew had begun.