"Not for this. What it needs is cardamom."
Shuka was a soft-spoken girl; no one had ever heard her raise her voice, and she hated it when others seemed angry with her. But she knew her culinary arts. They were the only thing that gave her confidence.
Mrabko frowned, then shrugged and reached for the clay pot.
The figure stirred and moaned, straining uselessly against the wire that bound him to the slow-turning spit. Shuka smashed him in the temple again with her rock.
Consciousness meant fear - and that would only spoil the meat.
