The barrel smelled like pickled decay. Cassandra crouched deeper inside, trying not to think about what had been in here before her.
"I saw her go this way!" someone shouted outside. "Check everything!"
The lid lifted. Daylight stabbed her eyes.
"Found her!" The man's sour breath smothered her. "Prophet! Someone has stolen my pickled goat!"
Oh. Cassandra tried to stand, failed, and tipped the barrel sideways. Now she was rolling into the street.
"Prophet's here!" someone else yelled. "She's in Stavros's goat barrel!"
They came from everywhere. Merchants, fishermen, someone's grandmother wielding a chicken.
"My wife's pregnant but we haven't fu—"
"These numbers just don't add up!"
Cassandra struggled to her pickled feet, trying not to think. At all. The brine in her eyes made it difficult.
"I need some space—"
"IS THAT A PROPHECY?"
More hands. More questions. Copper coins were shoved at her face. The chicken got involved somehow. Someone was definitely groping her.
"ENOUGH."
The voice cut through like expensive wine through a lifetime of savings. The crowd parted.
Philus stood there, wine jug in one hand, three days of stubble advertising his breakdown. His clothes suggested he'd been negotiating, badly, with the jug since her announcement.
"Prophet," he said. Not quite slurring. Yet. "My financial executioner."
The crowd went quiet. Philus was having another episode.
"Philus," Cassandra said blearily. "You look—"
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
"Like a man whose life ended three years ago?" He took a long pull from the jug. "Accurate. Very prophetic."
Someone in the crowd whispered, "He's been drinking since—"
"SINCE THE FIRST DAY." Philus wheeled on them. "Also accurate. Any other observations? Perhaps about how my daughter's dowry became my first debt payment?"
The crowd stepped back.
"No?" He turned back to Cassandra. "What about you, prophet? Want to observe my future?"
"The grain ships—"
"Might arrive. Might not." Another drink. "Just like last time. Remember last time?" He looked around wildly.
"That was diff—"
"Was it?" He laughed bitterly. "Different prophet, same desperate fools."
The crowd was getting uncomfortable. Bad for business, watching success pickle itself in public.
"Dinner," Philus announced suddenly. "Tonight. My house."
"I don't—"
"You'll come. Explain your... methods to my wife." His smile faded. "She loves patterns. Stares at the same spot on the wall every day."
"Philus—"
"Sunset. Bring that man who follows you around." He gestured vaguely. "Your... boy toy"
"He's not—"
"And dress nice. Look prophetic." He swayed. "Need my wife to think I'm consulting quality frauds this time."
He stumbled away, bouncing off a merchant who had been edging towards the barrel the entire time.
The fish had been staring at her for an hour. Or she'd been staring at it. The wine made it hard to tell who started it.
"Trade routes," Cassandra heard herself saying. "Very mathematical."
"Mathematical." Philus refilled her cup automatically. His arms had memorized the pattern well. "Tell me, prophet. What's the formula for losing everything?"
His wife sat motionless at the table's far end. Her years of practice showed.
"The grain ships follow predictable—"
"You know what else used to be predictable?" Philus drank directly from the pitcher now. "My life."
Damon's foot found hers under the table. Ungently.
The door creaked. Had it been open this whole time? Cassandra's divine perception said yes. The wine said who cares.
Athena's head appeared, followed by polite interest in unguarded fish.
"That's a donkey," Cassandra observed.
"That's a problem," Damon corrected.
"ATHENA!" Democritus tumbled through the doorway. "So sorry! She has strong feelings about dinner parties. Specifically that she wasn't invited."
The wife's head turned. Her dead eyes glinted.
"You."
"Me!" Democritus beamed. "You're speaking! How wonderful! The spirits must be—"
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The plate went first. Three years of planning showed in the aim.
"Excellent release!" Democritus dodged left. "The throat chakra—"
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The fish achieved flight. The pitcher followed.
Cassandra stood. The floor tilted. "I should explain—"
"No." Damon's arm found her waist. The world inverted. She was over his shoulder like a grain sack.
"So long, and thanks for all the fish!"
Democritus's voiced faded into the background.
Damon was through the doorway, evacuating through streets filling with gawkers.
"Nice ass," she mumbled into his back.
"What did we learn?"
"...don't help."
"Good girl."
