Everyone stopped looking at the scales to stare at her. Kyros started clutching the weight like a shield.

  "I'm sorry," he said carefully. "You can what?"

  Cassandra's mind raced. She was committed, no backing out now. Around her, the crowd was growing larger as word spread that something interesting was happening.

  "The future," she repeated, trying to project confidence. "I have visions. Very accurate ones."

  "Visions," Kyros said flatly.

  "Oh yes. For instance..." She looked around desperately, then pointed at the bronze weight still in his hand. "I see deception in your scales. Someone has been... adjusting... the measurements."

  This sparked some discussion within the crowd. Kyros's knuckles went white around the weight.

  "That's a serious accusation," he said, his merchant's smile starting to show some serious grease dividends.

  "It's not an accusation. It's a vision." More words came, her mouth apparently in charge now. "The spirits show me truth that others cannot see."

  "Prove it," called out someone from the back of the crowd.

  "Yes," Kyros said, seizing the challenge. "If you can truly see the future, prove it. Tell us something that will happen."

  Cassandra felt sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool air. She needed more words, more confusion.

  "I..." She closed her eyes, looking mystical. "I see... I see..."

  She opened her eyes and pointed directly at Kyros. "Your own dishonesty will be your downfall. The very tools of your deception will expose you!"

  "My dishonesty?" Kyros's voice rose. "I've been feeding this village honestly for three years!"

  "Then you won't mind proving it," said a new voice from the crowd. The man with scary arms stepped forward. "If the girl's lying, your weights will show it. Put them on another scale, compare them to the temple standards."

  Kyros looked trapped. "That's... that's unnecessary. Everyone knows my scales are fair."

  "Then prove it," the man pressed. "Unless you have something to hide?"

  The crowd was talking now. Her bluff was somehow working.

  But then Kyros did something unexpected. He smiled.

  "Of course," he said loudly. "Nothing would please me more than to expose this foreign troublemaker for the fraud she is." He hefted the weight in his hand. "But first, let's test her powers. If she can truly see the future, she should be able to tell us exactly what this weighs."

  He held up the bronze disc. The false weight that was lighter than it should be.

  The crowd turned expectant eyes toward Cassandra. She stared at the weight, her mouth going dry. Penthesilea had never told her the specific measurements.

  "Well?" Kyros asked, his confidence returning. "What do your 'visions' tell you?"

  Cassandra stared at the bronze disc, her mind racing. She had no idea what it weighed, but she did know one crucial thing...

  "The spirits don't speak in numbers," she said slowly. "They speak in truth." She pointed at the weight. "That disc claims to be one thing, but it is another. The bronze has been hollowed and sealed to hide its deception."

  Kyros's smile opened in shock. He caught himself.

  "That's... that's ridiculous," he said. "My weights are solid. Everyone knows that."

  "Then break them open," Cassandra blurted. "If I'm wrong, you'll have exposed a false prophet. If I'm right..."

  "Break it?" Kyros pressed the weight to his chest. "Break my sweet bronze? My smoothness?" His fingers traced the disc. "These are expensive instruments. Very expensive. Very... precious."

  "Just show us the weight," the scary man said.

  "No! Tricksy prophets wants it! Wants to breaks it!" Kyros was backing away now. "Won't be extorted by some madwoman who—"

  who was currently reaching for the weight. Kyros jerked backward, clutching it protectively to his chest, but his sweaty hands betrayed him. The bronze disc slipped from his grip and hit the stone ground with a distinct hollow clunk.

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  The sound was wrong. Everyone heard it. Bronze weights should ring like bells when they hit stone, not sound like empty fucking pots.

  The crowd went dead silent.

  Kyros stared down at the weight, which had cracked along what was now obviously a seam. Through the crack, everyone could see the hollow interior.

  "Well," said Penthesilea's voice from somewhere in the crowd, sounding deeply amused. "Would you look at that."

  Kyros lunged for the weight, but the big man was faster. He scooped it up and held it high for everyone to see.

  "Hollow!" he announced. "The whole thing's been gutted and sealed back up!"

  The crowd's mood shifted. Someone spat at his feet.

  They moved in.

  Cassandra found herself pressed against someone's shoulder as the mob surged around Kyros's stall. She looked up to find Damon beside her, looking pale but mobile.

  "Not bad," he looked at the mob. "Maybe less magic girl next time."

  "Next time?" Cassandra watched as the villagers discovered more hollow weights. "You think there's going to be a next time?"

  "Probably soon," Damon replied grimly. "You're hard to forget."

  He was right. Even as the crowd focused on extracting their pound of flesh from Kyros, Cassandra could feel eyes turning toward her. Whispered conversations, pointing fingers, the kind of attention that made her skin crawl.

  "We should leave," she said.

  "Bit late for that." Damon nodded toward the edge of the crowd, where a small group was already forming around a woman in expensive robes. "Word travels fast in small places."

  The woman was pointing in Cassandra's direction and speaking rapidly to her companions. One of them, a young man with the soft hands of someone who only used them to talk, started pushing through the crowd toward them.

  "Prophet!" he called out, his voice carrying over the noise. "Holy woman! Please, we must speak with you!"

  Several heads turned. More people began moving in their direction.

  "Oh good," Damon muttered. "Customers."

  The young man reached them first, slightly out of breath and wide-eyed with excitement. "Is it true? Can you really see what's to come?"

  "I..." Cassandra looked around desperately. More people were approaching, their faces eager and expectant. "I don't think—"

  "My mother is dying," the young man continued, grabbing her arm. "The fever's been on her for days. Will she recover? Please, you have to tell me."

  Behind him, the woman in expensive robes had arrived with her entourage. "No, she'll speak to me first," the woman declared. "I can pay properly for a true prophecy."

  "Pay?" A third voice joined in, a desperate fisherman with hollow eyes. "I've got silver. Tell me when the storms will end. My boat's been beached for a week."

  "Silver?" The wealthy woman laughed harshly. "I'll offer gold for news of my husband's ship. It's three days overdue from the northern trade routes."

  More voices joined the chaos. Questions about harvests, about weather, about sick children and missing relatives and business ventures. The crowd around Cassandra grew thicker, more pressing, more desperate.

  "Please!" She tried to back away but found herself trapped against someone's shoulder. "I can't...this isn't..."

  "Prophesy!" someone shouted. "The spirits demand it!"

  "Yes! Show us the future!"

  The crowd was becoming a mob, and Cassandra realized with growing horror that she'd created exactly the kind of situation that got people burned alive as witches. Or ripped apart as false prophets.

  "Move!" Damon's voice cut through the noise. Suddenly his arm was around her waist, pulling her sideways through a gap in the crowd. "Now!"

  They pushed through grasping hands and shouted questions, Cassandra stumbling as people tried to grab her clothes, her hair, anything that might hold a blessing or curse.

  "Wait!" the young man called after them. "What about my mother?"

  "The gold still stands!" shouted the wealthy woman.

  But Damon was already dragging Cassandra away from the market square, down a narrow alley between two houses. Behind them, the crowd's voices grew louder, more frustrated.

  "Well," he said once they'd put some distance between themselves and the mob. "It's as bad as I thought."

  "It worked, didn't it?" Cassandra panted, leaning against a stone wall. "We exposed Kyros, proved I was useful—"

  "Half think you're a prophet. Or a witch." Damon winced as he adjusted his wounded shoulder. "Very subtle."

  The sound of voices echoed from the direction of the market. Someone was organizing a search.

  "They're coming this way," Cassandra said.

  "Course they are. Easy answers to hard problems right around the corner." He looked around, calculating. "We need to get out of the village. Today."

  "And go where? I don't exactly have a backup plan for this."

  "North. Trading post about a day's walk up the coast." He was already moving.

  They emerged from the alley into a small courtyard behind the village's main well. It should have been empty at midday, but a figure was already waiting for them.

  Penthesilea sat on the stone edge of the well, looking remarkably pleased with herself.

  "Took you long enough," she said. "I was starting to think the mob had torn you apart for false prophecy."

  "That's still on the table," Damon replied. "What are you doing here?"

  "Saving your lives, probably." She held up a leather traveling pack. "Food, water, some coin, and a few useful items. Consider it payment for the entertainment."

  "You're helping us leave?" Cassandra asked.

  "I'm helping you not get burned alive by religious fanatics. There's a difference." Penthesilea stood, brushing dust from her robes. "Word's already spreading to the other villages. By tonight, everyone from here to the northern ports will know about the foreign prophet who exposed Kyros the grain thief."

  "That's... bad?"

  "Depends on your perspective. Prophets tend to attract attention from people with more power than sense. Kings, priests, generals... the sort who think divine knowledge might give them an advantage over their enemies." She slung the pack over her shoulder. "Also the sort who kill prophets when the predictions don't go their way."

  The voices from the market were getting louder. Someone had clearly organized a proper search.

  "There's a path through the rocks behind my tent," Penthesilea continued. "Leads up to the coastal road without going through the village center. You can reach it if you move fast and keep quiet."

  "And then what?" Cassandra asked. "I can't actually predict the future. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure that out."

  Penthesilea grinned. "Then you better learn to fake it convincingly. Or find a way to make it real."

  "Make it real?"

  "You're a smart girl. Figure it out." She handed Damon the other pack. "Now go."