The crowd hums with curiosity.
“Cornwall. Never heard of it.” He eyes my outfit with doubt. That I’m gnawing on this pretzel probably doesn’t scream nobility either. Perhaps I should temper that.
“It’s near Hawkrest. And it’s safer to travel like this in these parts, with those marauders in the hills. Even with my skilled guard”—I gesture at Elisaf, whose expression is the flattest I’ve ever seen—“you can never be too careful.”
The keeper’s eyes narrow on Elisaf’s polished breastplate. “Yes … well, Lady Diana of Cornwall, I don’t see what business it is of an easterner what a keeper in the west does with those tryin’ to kill him.”
“Oh, no business of mine at all, really. I just missed the first part of your big reveal. How did he”—I lean forward, closer to the boy—“sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Pan, my lady. My name’s Pan.” His voice trembles.
“Nice to meet you, Pan.” I smile. “How did Pan try to murder you?”
The blacksmith gives me an exasperated look. “He took the poison.”
I gasp, pressing my free hand to my chest. “Oh my goodness, I heard rumor of that. I wasn’t sure it was true. How does it work? How do they take it?”
“They ingest it.”
“But how? Do they swallow it? Put it in their drinks? How much do they need to take?”
“You’d have to ask Pan. He didn’t take it in front of me.”
“No?”
“Of course not. He’s no fool, but I know he did. I watched him throw the vial into the river—”
“And what did the vial look like?”
The blacksmith falters on the question. “Like a vial.”
“But we should know what to look out for. Was it black, white, clear—”
“I didn’t get a look at it.” He’s losing patience with me.
“So, it could have been a coin, like Pan says.”
His eyes narrow. “Except it wasn’t.”
“Or it was, and you’re ready to put an innocent boy to death.”
“Except he ain’t innocent!” the blacksmith roars, finally seeing through my act.
“Except you have no proof!” I raise my voice to match.
Pan watches us lob retorts back and forth, his eyes wide.
Steel rings in the air. Elisaf has drawn his sword.
I raise my hand to stall him. This blacksmith can’t be foolish enough to stab Lady Diana of Cornwall with his dagger, especially not with an entire square of witnesses. Even the fiddler has stopped her recital.
“And how do you suggest I obtain that proof?”
“You could feed off Pan.”
“You wish me to prove my claim with my corpse?” He bellows with hollow laughter and gestures toward Pan. “Please, be my guest. As his keeper, I will grant you access to his vein so you can get the proof yourself.”
I hold up my half-eaten pretzel. “I’m still digesting. Thanks.”