Page 3 of Dhampira

If he’d come from Nocta…

Mama’s voice rose in my memory. You must never speak to creatures from over the line, Corinthe. They aren’t as easily fooled as humans. And if they suspect you’re one of their own, they’ll either kill you or take you.

I forced myself to hold the peddler’s stare. “Who was manning the wall when you entered the town?”

“You call that picket fence a wall? No offense, but my grandmother has better fortifications around her vegetable garden.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He tilted his head. “Tall fellow. Shock of red hair. You’ll forgive me that I didn’t catch his name. Gatekeepers aren’t usually the chatty sort.”

My apprehension faded. His description of Tom Tweedle was accurate. “Are you from Sausberg?”

Indignation crossed his features. He gestured at his tunic and trousers. “You’ve never seen royal livery before?”

I shook my head.

“I suppose that makes me feel better,” the peddler mumbled. With a flourish of his hands, he offered a low, formal bow that exposed the shiny crown of his head. When he straightened, he swept an arm toward the cart. “Young lady, not only am I a proud son of Sausberg, I am Cyprio Kormaz, official cookware supplier to the royal kitchens.”

I looked at the rows of frying pans.

Cyprio frowned. “You’re still not impressed.”

“No, I am,” I said quickly. “I’ve never met anyone from Sausberg before. Well, the town dressmaker lived there for a bit, but he was born in Derryton.”

“Uh-huh.” Cyprio walked to the cart and plucked a pan from one of the hooks. He flipped it over and pointed to a crest stamped on the bottom. “See that boar? It’s King Hubert’s seal. A little pedestrian, if you ask me, but no one did, so there you go.” Cyprio flipped the frying pan right side up. “You do any cooking?”

“A little. If you’re the king’s official cookware supplier, why do you have a peddler’s cart?”

“Even kings only need so many pans. And I like money.” Cyprio’s expression turned thoughtful. “If you’re not interested in a frying pan, I guess I’ll have to offer you something else.”

Surprise jolted me. I looked at the cart’s wonders, a thread of excitement snaking through my veins. “Why would you offer me something?”

He jerked a beringed thumb toward the forest. “My horse bolted. I need a new one.”

“It got spooked?”

“No, it’s a lazy son of a harlot, and it took off at the first opportunity.” Cyprio huffed. “Trust me, Miss Willdoo, the beast is probably across the Feyline by now.” He leaned around the cart and shouted into the forest. “And good riddance! Don’t come crying to me when a troll tries to put you in a stew!”

Laughter bubbled in my throat, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stave off a smile.

Cyprio waved a hand at the cart. “I can’t leave all this unattended. Pick an item. Large or small, whatever you want. Go into the village and ask the stable master if he has any horses for sale. I’ll give you the gold to negotiate a purchase. When you return, you can take your item from the cart. No strings attached.”

A diamond-encrusted tiara wrought from delicate gold filigree winked from one of the lower shelves. Probably paste. But it was beautiful. I faced Cyprio. “Shouldn’t you make me bring the stable master to you? I could steal your gold and leave you stranded in the road.”

“I suppose you could. But I don’t think you will. A man in my business learns to read people.”

“And you think I’m a good person?”

He rolled his eyes. “Everyone sees it that way, don’t they? Black and white. Good versus evil. Human nature is much more nuanced, Miss Willdoo. Here’s a secret I’ve learned selling frying pans to kings and peasants.” He leaned toward me, and the studs in his ears caught the sunlight. “No one is good or bad. They’re a hundred other things. Impatient. Charming. Violent.” He straightened. “They’re curious…like you.”

My breath caught.

“You want the tiara.” He slanted a look at the cart before returning his gaze to me. “Or perhaps it’s a new dress you’re after?”

Once again, awareness shivered over my skin. He couldn’t possibly know I’d admired the gowns in Horace Alderson’s windows. Most young women longed for fancy clothes. It was a lucky guess. Nothing more.

But I couldn’t take any risks. I’d been foolish to approach him.