The cabin smelled like the previous occupant had died in the bucket.

  "Could be worse," Damon said, testing the door. Locked, obviously.

  "How?"

  "Could be underwater." He sat heavily on the opposite bunk. "Give it time."

  The ship rolled. Cassandra's organs followed. The bucket in the corner began looking inevitable.

  "I refuse to..."

  Destiny won.

  "There we go," Damon encouraged.

  Mid-retch, the door exploded inward. Captain Anaktoria filled the frame like she had finished giving weather a bad day.

  "Prophet," she announced, then froze. Her brain processed: ethereal beauty, currently wearing a bucket like a helmet.

  Cassandra looked up. Hair plastered. Face green. Dignity gone.

  "Captain," she managed between internal heaves.

  Anaktoria's pupils swallowed the view. "You're... busy."

  "Temporarily."

  "Right. Good. Temporary." The captain averted her eyes to the ceiling. "Dinner. My cabin. When you're..." She gestured vaguely at Cassandra's entire situation. "Vertical."

  She backed out, denying physics.

  "She goes fast," Damon observed.

  The captain's cabin had real furniture and smelled like someone had murdered lavender trying to hide older murders. Fresh scrub marks suggested recent panic cleaning.

  "Wine?" Anaktoria had definitely changed clothes again.

  "Please."

  The captain poured while maintaining aggressive eye contact with Cassandra's left ear. The cup overflowed. Wine pooled across the table, dripped onto her boots, began its own journey toward the door.

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  "Shit." She lunged for a cloth, knocked over the pitcher. "The table's cursed."

  "Cursed?"

  "Makes me spill wine. Maritime... fuck." She was mopping desperately, making it worse. "Tell me about profitable ports before I flood us."

  Cassandra's divine education included comprehensive trade routes from before certain unfortunate wars. Every record, every seasonal fluctuation, perfectly preserved like things in amber that were about to ruin everyone's day.

  "Troy," she said, brain accessing familiar data. "Always Troy. Limited farmland, massive population. They pay triple for grain."

  Anaktoria stopped drowning the furniture. "Triple?"

  "Sometimes quadruple before harvest. Their merchant district consumes thirty shiploads monthly." The lectures flowed beautifully, untouched by recent events. "The dock system is magnificent. Six simultaneous berths, direct warehouse access—"

  "How far?"

  "Two days at most with current winds."

  Through the wall, someone screamed "TROY! WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO TROY!!"

  The cheer that followed suggested the crew understood: triple prices meant triple shares meant fewer knife fights over brunch.

  "You've made them happy." Anaktoria attempted sitting casually, missed the chair's general direction and started walking backwards. "Happy crews commit less recreational murder."

  "That's good?"

  "It is." The captain studied her wine like it contained answers. "Do you predict other things? Personal futures? In theory."

  "Such as?"

  "Nothing. Theoretical things. For example." She gripped the cup hard. "If someone wanted to pursue... maritime relations. With a person. A specific person who smells like fish but in a good way—"

  "Oh, courtship!" Cassandra relaxed, now solidly in lecture mode. "Practical demonstrations work best. Fixing things. Providing food. Violently dispatching enemies."

  "Noted." Anaktoria was now gripping the table for stability.

  "Also useful: complaining constantly but never leaving. Even when you accidentally destroy their livelihood." She took another sip. "Or start riots. Or get them kidnapped by pirates."

  "This person sounds... patient."

  "The fish smell probably helps. Lowers expectations."

  "Right. Fish. Good." Anaktoria stood abruptly, knee meeting table. The remaining wine joined its bretheren. "You should sleep. Big day tomorrow. Troy. Pirates. Maritime relations."

  She fled her own cabin.

  Cassandra stared at the abandoned space. The wine was warm, her stomach had finally settled, and the captain's bunk looked significantly cozier than her shared quarters.

  She'd just rest her eyes for a moment.

  Cassandra woke to sunlight and the horrible realization that nothing hurt.

  Her stomach was calm. The ship rolled gently. Through the walls, she could hear the crew singing about Troy's triple prices. Happy singing. Coordinated singing.

  She sat up in mounting dread. No one was screaming. Nothing was on fire. The smell suggested cleaning had occurred without casualties.

  "Oh no." She scrambled for the door. "Oh no no no."

  On deck, the crew worked with suspicious efficiency. Sails trimmed. Ropes coiled. Someone had even swabbed.

  Damon stood at the rail, looking concerningly refreshed. "Sleep well? You were out cold."

  "Everything's going perfectly!"

  "Is it?"

  "The ship's not sinking! No one's dying! I gave successful prophecy!" Her voice rose with each omen.

  "Ah." He nodded. "It was a good run."

  She gripped the rail. "When does the catastrophe arrive? When?"

  In the distance, Troy's walls glinted in the morning sun.

  "About two hours," Damon said. "Give or take."