The bronze disc hit the clay jar. Amber liquid spread.

  Penthesilea stopped moving."Three months of work."

  The puddle crept toward their feet.

  "Continue," she ordered.

  Cassandra gathered the scattered weights. The tent flap opened.

  Damon entered wrong. Shoulders forward, fingers counting invisible coins, smile gone oily. Every merchant who'd ever weighted scales or sold fakes.

  "Ah, my favorite customer!"

  Cassandra stepped backward. Her heel found the puddle.

  "I need grain."

  "Grain!" He leaned in, fish-oil beard preceding him. "What quantity?"

  "Big grain."

  "Big grain," he repeated slowly.

  "...thanks?"

  Damon sighed, then glanced at Penthesilea the Resigned. "Try the weights."

  Cassandra approached the practice stall. Simple. Reach, switch, done.

  She caught herself musing on her success. She'd nearly made the swap without dropping anything.

  Her elbow caught a green bottle.

  It shattered. Fumes rose.

  "That's pure silphium extract," Penthesilea mentioned.

  The tent sharpened. Everything became impossibly clear. Cassandra's hands accelerated, grabbing with purpose.

  She dropped them even faster than before.

  "Better!" Her words tumbled out. "I'm doing this so much faster now!"

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It sounded like hammering. She scrubbed at the amber puddle between drops. The fumes doubled.

  "How concentrated?" Damon asked, dodging a flying disc.

  "Strong enough to break a three-year silence." Penthesilea stepped back from the practice arena. "Small doses loosen the tongue."

  "And large doses?"

  Cassandra had already dropped seven weights in the time it took him to ask.

  "That," Penthesilea said.

  By the next day, Cassandra had developed into her final form. The stimulant abandoned her mid-reach. She froze, arm extended, then toppled sideways.

  "Twenty-three straight hours of dropping things," Damon observed. "Good set. Wake up, it's time to shine."

  Market day ran down Cassandra's face. It was wet and miserable. Her hands were raw, veins bulging. She'd managed exactly seventeen thousand drops during the previous day.

  "Stop frowning so hard," Penthesilea muttered as they made their way toward the market square. "You look like you're about to murder someone."

  "I might be," Cassandra replied, fumbling with the replacement weight in her sleeve. "This is insane."

  "Most good plans are."

  The market was already bustling despite the weather. Fishermen displayed their catch on wooden planks, women hawked clay pots and woven baskets, and children darted between stalls like veteran thieves. At the center of it all stood Kyros, a prosperous-looking man with a carefully oiled beard and an elaborate bronze scale. An open wooden box sat on the left side of his table.

  "There," Penthesilea whispered. "Just like your training."

  Cassandra could see it clearly. Too clearly. Along with the dozen people already clustered around Kyros's stall, waiting for their grain.

  "How am I supposed to get close enough without anyone noticing?"

  "You're not. That's the point." Penthesilea nudged her forward. "Go buy something. Act like a normal customer. When the moment's right, you'll know."

  This was, Cassandra reflected as she approached the crowd, terrible advice. She had no idea what a normal customer acted like, and even less idea what "the moment" would look like when it arrived.

  Cassandra squeezed into the crowd. The bronze weight in her sleeve immediately clinked against someone's best belt buckle.

  "Watch it," the man grunted.

  "Sorry." She tried to hold her arm naturally. The weight slid toward her wrist.

  "And what can I do for you, young lady?" Kyros's attention suddenly focused on her, sensing something valuable hidden in her sleeve. "Looking for quality grain? You won't find better in the whole village. I've made sure of it."

  "I..." Cassandra's mind went blank. She scrambled for words she'd practiced. "Yes. Grain. I need big grain."

  Several people turned to look at her. She realized, with growing horror, that she'd practiced wrong.

  "Visiting family?" Kyros asked, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

  "Something like that," she managed through all the emotional damage.

  "Well then." He hefted a large bronze disc that gleamed off his face. "Let's see what we can do you for."

  No one laughed.

  Crap! The weight was going onto the scale. When did that happen? She had already failed. She needed a distraction. Something big enough to make everyone look away from the systematic commercial fraud happening right in front of them.

  Aw, fuck it. Cassandra took a deep breath, reached for her crowd voice, and announced:

  "I can predict the future, I'm a prophet!"