Cang withdrew his hands.
He looked at the two men.
The merchant's son had lowered his hand from his face. He was staring at his mother with an expression that had left anger somewhere behind and was operating in unfamiliar country now—raw and young and stripped of its cultivation pride.
"You saw," Cang said. "I didn't even need to use anything else. Just hands." His tone was the mild, observational register of a physician noting a clinical outcome. "Consider what they become when I put effort in."
Neither man spoke.
"Your women," Cang continued, rising—slowly, unhurried—to his feet, adjusting the drape of his outer robe, "have been very accommodating. Very thorough. They worked hard. I respect that." He glanced down at them both, still kneeling, still recovering. "I'm going to keep them. Not all of the time. I have other arrangements. But regularly. Consistently." He looked at the merchant. "Your wife will have excellent care. Better than she's had."
