Despite the years since he'd last trod their labyrinthine ways, Slash was pleased to find he retained at least a serviceable recollection of the palace's corridors. Not that the Oracle's rooms were all that hard to locate. Given he occupied the highest level of the highest tower, all you really had to do was keep heading upwards.

"You're not actually going to waste your time with that old fruitcake, are you?"

At Carri's words, Slash and Hobe paused halfway up the first flight of stairs and turned to look back at the elf standing on the landing below, hands on her hips.

"Um," ventured the dragon, "yes?"

"The Nanny said to," added Hobe. His tone clearly indicated this was a 'case-closed' kind of point.

"Oh, right. Got it. So, as we embark on our borderline impossible mission to find the prince who doesn't want to be found so we can save the kingdom that just might be past saving, we're taking the advice of random little old ladies, are we?" Carri shook her head. "Sounds like a great way to kick things off."

"She might be little and she might be old," replied Slash, "but she's hardly random. She's practically a palace institution. If anyone should know how things work around here, it's her."

"Yeah? Well, if we assume that's true, didn't that same institution also just suggest we hightail it out of here before Lord Flatulence and his goons gets their mitts on us?"

While Slash had to admit she had a point, he wasn't about to do so—not out loud, at any rate. "Look, if we run into Hirschnopple, we'll just have to deal with it as best we can. After all, it's not like we've actually done anything wrong. Not yet, anyway. But given what we're up against, we can't pass up the chance to score some potential intel on Vazor's location, no matter how, uh...questionable the source. We need all the help we can get. And we'll make it quick, okay?"

Carri didn't budge. "Quick? Excuse me? This is the Oracle we're talking about, isn't it? Clearly you never had the misfortune of having to sit through one of his divining sessions with Queen Marise. They were, without a doubt, the most painful, drawn-out, interminable sessions of mumbling, rambling non-sequiturs and steaming nonsense I have ever endured in my entire life, before or since. And that's including all the divorce hearings I've testified at. I doubt that old charlatan could even spell quick."

"Ah, but you're thinking of Goonspongle," said Hobe. "He's retired, you see. I know, 'cause he's a regular down at Nifty Nell's these days. And word among the girls is, he actually is pretty quick—at least in some respects. But as to the Oracling side of things, they say his nephew's now taken up the crystal ball or the chicken gizzards or whatever it is their type take up."

"There you go, then," said Slash. "A younger oracle's bound to be that much faster. We'll be in and out in no time."

Hobe grinned. "Bit like Goonspongle, eh?"

Electing not to dignify this with a response, Carri glared at them for a moment longer before at last relenting. "Oh, fine," she grumbled, starting up the steps, "but when we get bored or dead or some really annoying combination of the two, don't come complaining to me."

Chicken gizzards were, thankfully, nowhere to be seen. The crystal ball, however, was present and accounted for. As were astrological charts, leatherbound grimoires, runestones and a seemingly every other accoutrement traditionally associated with the divinatory arts. Curiously, there was even a pall of smoke clouding the upper reaches of the chamber, which managed to give the otherwise cheery sunlight streaming through the windows a suitably occult tinge.

So far, so sorcerous. The one thing that didn't appear to fit, the single jarring note in the otherwise mystical scene, was the mystic himself. You expected a beard, thought Slash. You expected robes. You expected strange and exotic scents. What you didn't expect were the robes to be emblazoned with the image of a large, spiky green leaf, along with the slogan 'Fae Fern—Who Says You Have to Be a Fairy to Get High?' and you didn't expect that particular scent.

"Oh, wow." Blinking owlishly and brushing crumbs from his beard and the front of his robe, the Oracle rose unsteadily from the floral couch squeezed in between a cabinet of potions and a large planter-box, which was growing an abundant crop of what the generous-minded might decide were herbs. "I, like, didn't hear you dukes and dukettes come in."

"We did knock," said Hobe.

"You did?"

"We did," confirmed Slash. "For about five minutes. You must have been asleep."

"Yeah, right," muttered Carri. "Asleep." You could practically hear the air quotes.

The youngish man ran one hand through his mop of dark curls, while scratching his pudgy midriff with the other. "Asleep?" he repeated, peering at them in uncertainty. "I s'pose I might've been. Or maybe I was like, you know, travelling in the astral plane or communing with the spirit world or something. Yeah, that checks out. 'Cause, I mean, I am the Oracle, after all. Sounds like the kind of thing I might do."

Carri rolled her eyes. "Can we go now, please?"

Although tempted, Slash shook his head. "We're here now, so we might as well see what he has to say. What have we got to lose?"

"Our heads?" suggested Hobe.

The Oracle visibly perked up. "Hey, what's that?" A hint of animation entered his somewhat glazed eyes. "You guys wanna lose your heads? Blow your minds? Expand your consciousness into hitherto unexplored realms or reality?" With a slow grin, he gestured to either side of himself. "Because in that case, you lords and ladies have come to the right chambers."

"Look," replied Slash, waving away a waft of smoke that had drifted down from the ceiling, and trying hard not to breathe too deeply, "as tempting as that sounds, this reality's probably got enough going on to keep us occupied for the moment. So, if you could maybe just help us out with what we need, that would be great. Then we can be on our way and leave you to your, um...your, er...your thoughts."

"My thoughts?" The Oracle shuddered. "You think I did a dual-apprenticeship in pharmacology and herbology 'cause I wanna spend time with my thoughts? Yeah, I don't think so, man. I didn't ask to be an oracle, you know. It's not like it's a gig you apply for. Nah, that shit just gets passed down, whether you're up for it or not. And let me tell you, when you're just about to seal the deal with a likely lady or maybe sample the sweet harvest of your latest hybrid, there's nothing quite like some vision or random revelation crashing down on your consciousness to really crush the mood. Gets old fast, people. Particular when the market for a good bit of prognostication is not what it used to be."

Slash shared a glanced with the other two. This was not quite how he'd expected consulting an oracle to go. "But...but surely being able to see into the future is a good thing? Isn't it a wonderful gift?"

"Pfft. Oh, please. I mean, you'd think so, wouldn't you? And if I could conjure up, say, the winner of race six down at the Arena on demand, that would be pretty sweet. But there's the rub. Divination just don't work that way, my friend. Nah, even for the best of us, the mists of the future part but briefly and the hereafter is ever hazy. The fates are forever fickle with their favours. In other words, oracling can be handy for the big picture stuff, but it's crapola on the details. To tell you the truth, most of the time it's nothin' but a pain in my arse.

"So, it's like this. You know how they say the best defence is a good offence?" With a dreamy smile, the Oracle patted the side of his well-stocked cabinet. "Well, I find the best way to ward off an unwelcome presage is with a good dosage. And trust me, I've got some seriously good dosages in here."

"Hang on." Having opened one of the grimoires at random, Carri glanced down at its contents, pulled a face, and hurriedly stuffed the heavy volume back onto the shelf from whence it came. "I thought you seers and shamans and psychic-types took drugs to help with visions or accessing the other side or whatever nonsense it is you do."

"Yeah." Flopping onto the couch, the Oracle ferreted around under some cushions, looked mildly surprised to discover a half-eaten pastry, and with a shrug, sat back and took a healthy bite. "I mean, there is that side of the craft. And for the amateurs, it's pretty much the only way. You know, those fairground fortune-telling hacks and the weekend mystics with magic mushrooms in their backyard and the grandmas holding seances for their sewing circle in the front parlour. With the right combo of stuff, even losers like those can get a little glimpse of the beyond.

"For the naturals, on the other hand, like yours truly"—with a flourish of his pastry, he gave a little bow—"the pharmacology's just an optional extra. To, you know, give things a bit of a nudge along when the juices aren't quite flowing. But just like certain substances can crack a mind wide open, there are others that'll shut it down tighter than Archduke Amperland's purse strings come tax-time."

He took another hefty bite. "And that's the kind I like. I mean, revelations? Who needs 'em? The Manticores were always our main gig but now there ain't no Manticores, and the High Council is more into science and progress and corruption and embezzlement and all that other modern stuff. So, there just isn't a whole lot of oracling for a royal oracle to do these days. You guys are the first visitors I've had for months. Why do you think old Uncle Goons gave it away? He just didn't know what to do with himself."

"Yeah, well," said Hobe, "he seems to have sorted that out. But what about you?"

"Me?" The Oracle grinned. "Don't stress about me, man. I've embraced the futility. Trust me, when a job come with the fringe benefits this one does, futility's not so bad." Once again rummaging under the cushions, he this time produced a crumpled little paper cylinder, trailing flakes of dried greenery from each end. "Provided I imbibe enough of my special concoctions to keep the old second sight at a nice quiet simmer, and nobody comes pestering me for pesky predictions, life is pretty peachy."

"Yeah, well,"—there was a flash of movement from Carri—"guess who's in a pestering mood?"

With a blank look of incomprehension, the Oracle stared at his now empty fingers—and then turned to regard the liberated joint, pinned to the wall behind him by the elf's still quivering stiletto. He blinked.

"Er. Right. So, it's that kind of visit. Gotcha. Um, in that case, perhaps somebody could pass me one of the brownies in that jar over there." For the first time since their arrival, he appeared to take a proper look at his visitors. In particular, at Slash's sword and Hobe's axe. "Actually, better make it two." He glanced up at Carri's unsmiling face. "You know what? Just gimme the whole jar."

Beard now sporting both pastry and chocolate crumbs, eyes closed in seemingly serene repose, the Oracle sat motionless on the couch as the dwarf, the dragon and the elf watched on in impatient anticipation.

"How long will this take, do you think?" asked Carri.

Slash turned to look at her. "I'm sorry. How long do we think it will take to get a prophecy out of an oracle who apparently doesn't do prophesising any more and, judging by the amount of smog in this room, has done everything pharmacologically possible to ensure that remains the case, but who then, when threatened by a knife-wielding and possibly sociopathic elf, has attempted to reverse the aforementioned pharmacology by eating an industrial and quite possibly coma-inducing quantity of alleged brownies of unknown composition and concentration, in order to 'get the juices flowing'? Is that seriously what you're asking?"

Carri scowled at him. "Fine. Allow me to rephrase. How long are we prepared to draw out this ridiculous charade? Also"—the scowl faded a little—"do you think it might help if I punched him in the face? Just a bit?"

"Possibly," replied Hobe. "But I suspect there's no need. Look."

Eyes still shut, face still composed, the Oracle's mouth opened. Slowly, deeply, as the three spectators leaned forward in anticipation, he drew in a long, deep breath. Silence reigned in the room. And then, at last, their eyes growing wide in anticipation...he began to snore.

"Right." Slash drew himself upright. Straightening his jacket, he cleared his throat. "It would seem the Oracle might be bit of a bust. Let's get out of here." He glanced at Carri. "But feel free to punch him in the face first."

She considered for a moment. "Nah, on second thoughts, I'm not so sure I want my fist anywhere near that beard. Let's go."

"You know," she added, as they made their way towards the door, "I feel it's incumbent upon me to point out my generosity of spirit in managing not to say I told you so, given I quite clearly and repeatedly did tell you so."

"Yeah," replied Hobe, "that's big of you. But, by the same token, I can't help but notice that in pointing out you're not pointing it out, you kind of are pointing it out. Which, you know, makes your so-called generosity of spirit feel perhaps not quite as generous as it could be. What do you reckon, Slash?"

"Well—"

"The wandering lion in an iron cage left ajar,
His roar a whisper to those who stray far.
Paths will converge in the cloak of the night,
And daybreak reveal the secrets of twilight.
For when all is change and the river flows against the tide,
That which is found may not be what hides."

As one, they turned and stared at the Oracle, now sitting bolt upright on the couch, eyes wide open and alight with prophetic fervour. Breathlessly, they waited for more, but within seconds the glow faded, his ramrod straight back resumed its habitual slouch, and with a snuffling sigh the robed man toppled over sideways and lay full-length on the couch. He began to snore in earnest. It was quite clear his prophesising was over for the day. Possibly the week.

"Well," said Hobe, after a moment's contemplation, "I guess she did tell us so."